Airweight – James Nulick
September 14, 2018
I washed a girl’s hair on Tuesday and now I am considering pink-gripped murder… Her name is Phantasy and she was marched into my office – a tightlipped suitcase – by her young teacher, a woman whose look said you deal with it. My desk – metal body and legs, Formica inlay top, was older than me, a tanker desk from the 1950s, when Mother was still a girl. Phantasy sat on the other side of it in a red Virco 9016 school chair, functional, institutional, mid 1990s… if they were larger they’d be perfect for the mobile, three-slot back with slightly pebbled texture that made for easy cleanup. Her hands were tucked tight against her sides, partially hidden in the cheap fabric gathered at her elbows. Her hair was pulled away from her scalp, black taffy twisted in anger. You don’t want to talk? Phantasy sat poker-faced, cold, a tiny version of Mother. We don’t have to talk. In my first life as a teacher I had a boy – Benjamin Martinez – who refused to talk during class, inkjet black hair piled high on his head, beautiful, Satanic. Quiet people – the cliché holds – are dangerous. I had nothing in common with this girl, the only thing we shared was a common anatomy… a vagina, two breasts, legs open to the rape of the world. I opened a spiral calendar on my desk, pulled the desk drawer open, removed a ballpoint… I don’t write in pencil… pencil is cheap, impermanent, grey dust gathered around nebulous thoughts – if something changes, I can cross it out, strikethrough, my pinky finger smudged black with its memory…
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My head hurts. I got up, thighed around my desk, gently placed my fingers on her scalp. I parted black and saw more black, small dots, barely moving, indiscernible amongst the strands. Then, toward the base of the hair, clear egg cases – nits… an alien world on the human head. Let’s go see the nurse, I said to her. Phantasy was breast-height, fifty-two inches tall, though my breasts are only vestigial placeholders – I am a small-breasted woman – that’s the only thing small on you, Mother says. The school nurse, Ms. Drassler, a youngish woman in her early thirties, has a boy on the table, his shirt sleeve rolled up, a hypodermic in her hand. He glances at me lazily, a saucy eleven-year-old in a DC Comics shirt. I’ll be with you in a minute, the nurse says, not turning to look at me. I sit next to Phantasy in an impossibly small chair. The boy, inoculated by the State, slides off the table, rolls down his sleeve and heads toward the door, an air of confidence about him that one is born with – not all things are learned. – And how can I help this young woman? Do you mind if I wash her hair in the sink? Do you have her mother’s permission? I couldn’t reach her mother by telephone – I tried, no answer. Nits? Yes – use conditioner, that will get rid of them, but it has to be done more than once. You may use the sink today / I have Herbal Essences conditioner – however I don’t want you doing it here again without the mother’s permission. Their hair can be difficult, and I don’t need an angry mother on my back. I understand. What’re you gonna do? Phantasy asked – I need to wash your hair, honey, – you have head lice, and I can’t have the other children getting it. Why is she in school? Ms. Drassler asked, more to herself, shaking her head – unbelievable. I just want to take care of the problem – Have at it, she said.
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The sink – porcelain, mid 1950s, was pink, and chipped along the top rim, a sink found in a laundromat, and suddenly I am terrorized as I work my hands deliberately through Phantasy’s hair, with Mother in a glass-windowed laundromat in Río Seco, eight years old as Mother smokes while she figure-eights a cap of greenish liquid on a load, and drops the metal lid in anger. I can’t recall the house we lived in – was it a stick house? A mobile? A grubby apartment on the north side of town, where I have always lived, a cheap stucco shoebox without a laundry room? I was already heavy, and invisible – Mother thin as ever, a twisted wraith with dark hair and black eyes, a Pall Mall dangling from her mouth, before she quit… A black boy, maybe eight or nine, walked up to me as I sat in a chair, Mother reading a smudged magazine several chairs away, and fingered open a hole in his pants, exposing his small but hard penis, walking toward me in a weird dance, his mother nowhere in the laundromat, another latchkey kid, supervised only by the ancient television hanging in the corner, The Young and the Restless hovering over the entire scene. He walked away as quickly as he’d walked toward me, his penis still exposed, walking through the warmth of the humming machines, the adults oblivious. I worked my fingers from the base of her scalp to the tip of the strands, the nits small beads of soft sand against my fingerpads. Phantasy was lost in the action, her back loose, her anger quelled.
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Once more, I asked her – to make sure the bugs (a child’s word) are gone? Ok, she said – her back still loose, her legs dangling over a district chair, Ms. Drassler attending to paperwork at her desk. The pink of Phantasy’s shirt folded into the half-moon of her buttocks, a coordinate that likely cost five dollars off the rack at Walmart, her mother a late evening shopper. The thought of twisting her head from her neck as one would uncork a champagne bottle came to me, saving her the misery of a miserable life, a humanitarian act, my fingers large, white and freckled against her caramel skin, not fully black, blacks having absorbed the worst of the white world in America, including the pigmentation of rape… You’ll need to finish up soon, Ms. Drassler said flatly. I have another student coming in and it’s upsetting for them to see that. I’m finished, I said – taking a towel from a cheap MDF cabinet and patting Phantasy’s hair dry. My face sweaty with the effort – freckled, El Paso Hispanic, as if someone had taken a flyswatter, held it three inches from my face and sprayed pumpkin Krylon against the flesh, then deciding never mind, this isn’t working, this will only confuse them. You can pass, Mother said – the only good thing about you. But your weight, mija – you’re going to be the death of us. I violently threw the used towel in a hamper, blotting my face with it before doing so, then quickly remembering, with horror, the sandy nits, the head lice, my anger at the clean pure and somehow unmarried Ms. Drassler – a bigoted, closeted lesbian? – likely backfiring, and without her noticing, as she continued scribbling out a report, an untouched laptop at her desk, public schools being one of the last few entities that still required reports on paper, which I found fitting, indicative of the malaise the entire educational system had been suffering since the 1990s, when multiculturalism – white guilt – crept into the curriculum and squelched any remaining joy from the classroom.
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Who gave you permission to wash my child’s hair, bitch? Phantasy’s mother – Mrs. Markham, though no husband was a hundred miles in sight – at my desk on Wednesday afternoon, after school hours, the door closed, the wired slit of institutional glass in the metal door a six by twenty-four peek into incubated madness, and the horror of her standing at my door, smothering the light, reminded me of my days in the classroom, surrounded by thirty thugs in a size three, where things happen that most parents wouldn’t believe – the death of the mind before ten a.m., a boy masturbating against the rounded corner of a desk, rubbed smooth by a thousand hands, girls passing hateful, sexualized notes to each other, threatening death – Phantasy in the corner of my office, sitting on a beanbag, staring at but not reading Where the Sidewalk Ends – she can neither read nor write, her rote memorization of the text a trick taught by her mother – I was going to test my suspicion and have her read the book from the end instead of the beginning, but I hadn’t yet tested my hypothesis, there is never enough time in the day… and now an angry black woman in my face. She had head lice, Mrs. Markham – You’re a goddamned liar – Mrs. Markham, please. I work, bitch, I don’t have time for this. I spent an hour fixing her hair last night. I can appreciate your – You don’t know a goddamned thing, bitch. Mrs. Markham – Just watch yourself. You better watch yourself when you’re in that parking lot… Are you threatening me, Mrs. Markham? Just watch yourself… If she came at me, the marble nameplate on my desk was only a few inches away –
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I was genuinely frightened for two days, my inability to sleep undetected by Mother. We are so close and yet so far apart, I hear her in her bedroom, after ten p.m., fidgeting in the closet, is she getting her clothes ready for work in the morning? Her little job – she doesn’t understand the processes, the stifling paperwork, I encounter each day, the emaciated hens at the school, the pecking order. Even well into their thirties, forties and fifties, people still chasing gold stars. Life is meaningless – why bother? I refuse. After school, on a Friday afternoon, I drove to Río Seco Firearms, fifteen miles from campus. I felt free, untethered by Mother, her not knowing my whereabouts somehow making me even more invisible, a non-entity. I could get into my car and drive forever, until the gas ran out, the engine choking itself to death on the side of the expressway. Stoplights, intersections, a ragged teddy bear tucked between the satanic arms of a walkingstick cactus, a child’s life taken violently at an anonymous intersection, finger lakes blood on asphalt. My car looked ridiculous in the parking lot, a silver Beetle among the four by fours, the pickups, the Toyota with a set of testicles hanging from the bumper. Viva Bush, McCain Palin, don’t tread on me, not an Obama bumper sticker in sight… I pushed open the heavy glass door, a digital chime announcing my presence. There were only men in the store. I looked for a female clerk but I could not find one. A laptop on the glass counter served as a cash register, and finally, under the laptop, on a glass display case, a singular Obama bumper sticker… OBAMA – One Big Ass Mistake America. What brings you in here today, young lady? I was too old for flattery, too familiar with the world to buy its lies. The man looked to be about sixty – old enough to know better. I need personal protection – You’ve come to the right place. Anything particular in mind? Well it needs to be concealed. I have to be able to hide it in my purse. How big is your purse? That’s legal, right? – You don’t need a concealed permit to carry a firearm in Río Seco. This is my purse – I placed it on the countertop. What caliber are you interested in? Is this for self-protection? Yes. Well I’d like something small. He walked to the end of the counter, about twenty steps, the fingers of his right hand lightly playing atop the glass case, as if knowing he already had a sale… I was too tired to follow him along the walk. The man – his shirt said his name was Leslie – came back with two firearms on a tray, the objects fanned out much like the diamonds on a tray taken from a jewelry case.
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Leslie carefully placed the weapons in front of me, as if he were inviting me to a corsageless dance. Now these are two entirely different weapons. This here is a Glock 43 – just came out earlier this year. Beautifully compact, semi-automatic fits nicely in the hand. What is it? 9mm. It’ll stop whatever’s coming at you. And this is a Ladysmith 642 .38 Special, a completely different animal from the Glock. Why is that? Well it’s a revolver, so the action won’t be as fast as the Glock, but some women prefer revolvers to semi-autos. The revolver will definitely stop whatever’s ruining your day. I also have this – Leslie had a tray carefully stowed under the first tray, as if it were fine silverware tucked between folds of crushed velvet, which he now removed for viewing. This here is a Smith & Wesson 642 Airweight, a fabulous piece for self-protection. Fits nicely in the hand, also a .38 Special. The third firearm had a pink grip. How much are they? Both the Smith & Wessons are 499, the Glock 43 is 520. We also offer shooting lessons, as well – should you be interested. May I hold the gun with the pink grip? Sure, Leslie said. I laid out my hand and Leslie placed the 642 Airweight in it… it was the first time in my life I’d ever held a firearm. First time holding a firearm? Leslie asked. Yes – well it looks just fine in your hand – how does it feel? Whaddayou think of that grip? I felt the weight in my stomach disappear, my shoulders rolling slightly forward, the tension in them slowly loosening, my head filled with gauze, the feeling reminiscent of one of the few nights I had a date in high school, so long ago, the boy’s name unspoken in twenty-five years but not forgotten… How much does it weigh? – 14.4 ounces, Leslie said – less than a pound. I turned the gun – the firearm, over in my hand, pointing the barrel toward the glass case. Do you take credit cards?
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Río Seco gun control laws are among the least restrictive in the United States. I purchased the Airweight on a Friday and carried it in my purse for the next five days, trying to look casual as I crossed the parking lot to my small office, which is situated at the far end of the media center, a cluster of afterthought offices housing counseling, speech therapy, ESL, multisensory impaired, and Mr. Gordiano, our computer resources paraprofessional. My door is across the hall from Ms. Valenzuela, the ESL teacher. I briefly wondered – what if the students or teachers had X-ray vision, could see through my purse… would they be horrified? Certainly I would be terminated, and would likely lose my certification. Would I go quietly, Miss Fisher, my building principal, pounding her meaty fist upon my desktop, or would I be escorted off the grounds by police? Would I use the Airweight on Miss Fisher if I had the chance, a few rounds through her pagan heart, my final act of defiance? I shook the thought from my mind – it was only a weekday. We commit small crimes each day, every one of us, sometimes during waking hours, when the Sun is in high Amber Alert, its unforgiving rays exposing the sins of all. Mother has never visited my office – I don’t believe in it, she said… Kids don’t need counseling, they need discipline. You all have them doped up on so many pills… this is what you went to school for?
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The United States flag was quickly becoming the barometer of the depleted American psyche, another national tragedy marked by every rise and fall. When I walked on campus the flag, impaled in front of the administrative office, was at half-mast… had someone important died? Or was it just another school shooting? Students happily greeting me – Hello Ms. Salas! as I made my way toward the door, fidgeting for the keys in my purse, my knuckles brushing against the firearm – Leslie’s word – as one of the students, Luis Galas, approached me. Luis, a nice-looking but not very bright boy, had been in my office on several occasions for most of the school year, mentioning my weight on more than one occasion, becoming too familiar, and at times, too quiet, his self-assured quietness perhaps the most unsettling thing about him, and for a brief moment I pictured his head disappearing, instantly vaporized by the Airweight. I went easy on Luis because we have similar surnames, share a common but unspoken ethnicity (does he know this? Is he aware at all?) and, why fight it – beauty always wins over reason. We live in a world ruled by the retina, and there was nothing I could do, despite my advanced degree and quiet demeanor, to change this.
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My office is seven by nine, the size of a janitor’s closet. Inside it, my desk, two red Virco 9016s for students, an MDF cabinet I purchased at Target that took two hours to assemble, a small table for games, and a pink bean bag for lounging. Each time I see the pink bean bag in the corner it reminds me of a terribly funny joke Mr. Goldhagen once told me over peach bellinis at a bar tucked into an orange grove, their blossoms crushed summer… what do you call an old Mexican woman? Oh, Jeffrey – a bean bag! A bookshelf filled with brightly-colored books with ridiculous titles, most of them poorly-written garbage, two yardsticks taped to the wall behind my desk, one on top of the other, so curious students can measure their height (several pencil marks and names rubbed to obscurity by curled pinkies and small palms), a Steelcase two drawer filing cabinet in grey metal, likely older than me, a waste can, my degrees and my NCC certificate on the wall. A small knock at the door, then a tiny brown head full of hair peeping through – Can I come in? What is it, Luis? Yes, please, can I come in? – Is someone bothering you, Luis? Luis looked around nervously. A sixth grade boy. He said he’s going to kick my ass… Please mind your language. Yes Ms. Salas – he says he’s going to kick my butt. What’s his name? Oh no, I don’t want to tell… I didn’t press Luis. So we share the same issue – violence on the horizon. He suddenly became human to me, no longer a child. Ok Luis, but you mustn’t make any noise while I’m working, I have a lot of paperwork to do. I won’t – I promise. Well, come in. Luis opened the door, all fifty-one inches of him, and gravitated toward a small shelf in the corner, where the games were stored. Can I play Jenga Ms. Salas? Do you mean May I play Jenga, Ms. Salas? May I play Jenga, Ms. Salas? What did I say about quiet, Luis? I won’t make any noise, I promise… Please – Ok, Luis, but please be quiet. I surreptitiously watched Luis as he quietly coaxed the wooden pieces from the box, moving individual blocks with ease, as if they were girls’ hearts, his adroit fingers nearly lulling me into a trance. A week later he would call me fat again, forgetting our brief moment of shared agony. When one looks like Luis, things come easily, misery is postponed. How quickly the brain becomes an Etch A Sketch.
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Like most things in life, Mrs. Markham’s threat of violence was all build-up and no payoff, but if there was one promise, this was it – I would not be afraid anymore, was tired of being afraid. Mother had been a bully my entire life – I was familiar with the patterns, though unlike Mrs. Markham, Mother usually came through on her promises. Mrs. Markham’s terrible anger, followed by a few sullen moments of sudden quiet, perhaps only seconds – were more of a display for her daughter than any threat of real violence, though it took days to ascertain this… The five hundred dollars I spent on the Airweight – plus tax – was in vain, and, seeing the charges on my paperless credit card statement online, a bit excessive. But it felt good, the extra weight in my purse, knowing it was there, the heavy, assured bounce against my hip, the pull of it against my shoulder.
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A boy sat in my office, on the bean bag, reading aloud. I allow students to sit on the bean bag during informal discussions, rather than the stiff-backed Virco, the bean bag comfortable, allowing for a certain degree of ease, and therefore, trust. The boy was hypersexualized, likely a budding rapist, and had touched a girl in class. His teacher sent him to me, a young woman in her mid-twenties, who had a difficult time administering discipline in her classroom. A transplant from Middle America, she was filled with onionskin brimstone and bright plans for her future, a dumb innocence that would likely end before May, the final month of the school year, and contract’s end. She had the delicate, bony figure of a loveless cashier, much too thin to be a teacher. I can’t believe it, she’d said quietly in faux shock, while the boy waited inside my office… He touched her vagina. – I’ll call his mother, I said, and then I thanked her, opened my door, and closed it behind me, leaving her on the sidewalk, four hours of the school day still in front of her. My purse sat on my desk. I removed it from the Formica surface and placed it under the desk, near my leg. Read aloud, please. I, I, he stuttered. – You what? Go on. As the boy drifted into the uncorrected meaninglessness of a misread sentence, I found myself staring at my purse, its bulk reassuring, death within arm’s reach should Phantasy’s mother walk through my office door.
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I quietly observed Phantasy in her homeroom class for the next few days. I sat in the back of the room, invisible, as always, a steno pad opened at the end of my fingers, my feet neatly tucked under a Virco, my weight gathered around me like nacre. Phantasy continued showing up for class each day, her attendance regular. She sat on the floor with two girls and a boy, her hair pulled back in a tight crimp, no visible nits in her hair, playing at paying attention, at understanding, as a white boy commanded her to give something back to him. She leaned forward, acquiescing, pushing the toy toward him, and in the movement of her back I suddenly saw her future, a future spent leaning in cars, negotiating prices, the bounce between customer and provider, the nightly ritual. Phantasy pulls her hair back, her fist tight around a pink scrunchie. Take me around the block, she says, her hips a champagne flute, as the car disappears into the night.