Girl in Tub.

All right. True story. I am leaving out half of it. But, when I was nineteen, I came into the means of being able to have a big party. You know the kind with a keg and all. My first keg. I remember we had a fancy spread of hors d’oeuvres just like at my mother’s outlandish parties. I might have hired a band, but I cannot for the life of me recall that part. At any rate someone came and got me and said there was a problem in the bathroom. I went upstairs and there was a group of boys crowding into it. I edged a path through the middle and looked down in horror at a naked girl passed out in the bathtub. Her own vomit floated in about the two inches of water that surrounded her. It didn’t seem like enough to drown her, but if she had rolled over without the audience…. A large bruise eddied up on her forehead. It was an image, I never forgot.

“All right,” I cried, “Everybody out, except Steven.”

Someone said, “We’re just trying to sober her up.”

“Yeah right,” I thought, “by taking off her clothes?” But I didn’t have time to deal with them. Everybody obeyed in part because I had honored Steven by asking him to stay, which he did. Now, I shudder when I think of him, but then he garnered some respect with us neighborhood kids. Let me paint you a picture. Steven was a skinny, straight haired goon that hung around the clubhouse and played pool all day, after he decided not to go to school anymore. A Camel cigarette forever hung out of his mouth and we all knew he carried around a Zippo lighter in his front pocket along with a small pipe for marijuana. If Steven had been a cartoon, he would have resembled a big beaked bird with a turkey gullet sprouting from a Levi shirt. His loose blue jeans would be cinched above his skinny butt with a wide leather belt. And even though he was neat as a pin, except for his oily hair, I sometimes imagine him with a red rag in the back pocket of his pants because the only job I could ever imagine him getting is in a garage, if he didn’t end up in something shadier. We, kids, attributed too much intelligence and power to him simply because he smoked marijuana and didn’t say much.

At any rate, at that moment in the bathroom, I was in charge. I told Steven to get a sheet from one of the beds. I drained the water and cleaned the girl up; it seems like I turned the shower on at one point to rinse the vomit from her. She didn’t wake up, but I could see she was breathing. I probably checked her eyes to see if they were dilated. I am sure I checked her eyes. In those days, there was no 911, but one could call the operator, although I am not sure what she would have done for us, called an ambulance, given us the number of a hospital? I made the decision that the girl would be all right. Steven and I wrapped her in a dry sheet and carried her to a bed in one of the upstairs bedrooms. I have some memory of having checked on her off and on until I felt satisfied. In fact, I was rather pleased with myself, I felt like a mother.

As a backward looking adult, I know that the girl should have had immediate medical attention. She might have had a concussion or worse. Half a dozen boys should have been charged with sexual assault. At the very least, I should have been charged with under-aged drinking. My boyfriend’s sister, the owner of the house, could have been held responsible for all of the above and more. But none of these things happened. The next day, the girl woke up. She didn’t ask about the bruise on her forehead or waking up naked in a sheet, and she seemed surprisingly cheery. I’m sure she wondered though. Or maybe she didn’t and this incident was just the beginning of a long slide. I’ve always wondered what she thought. I know I feel lucky. This, as I said, was only half of the story.

New Science

Last Friday, I went the basement planetarium’s free show. Beats Bingo at the VFW or the Charity Knitting Circle, the natural lineups in The Star Press’s community calendar. The program boasted about the birth of the planets: Jupiter, Mars, and of course Uranus, which roots out a ruckus no matter how it’s pronounced. A small thrill flapped in the crowd too when it came to Pluto, having fallen from grace and all, not being a planet. Reminds me about all those sinners who ate meat on Fridays. What happened to’em? The pope just taps that ring on his finger, pretty as you please, and the schools dish up fish sticks on Thursdays or Tuesdays or any other blessed day. No disrespect intended. Anyway as the dome lights dimmed, this machine sittin’ in the middle, big as Paul Bunyan’s barbell—or maybe Orion’s, just to keep in the spirit of things—started rotating. Pin-pricks cast a close up of stars on the ceiling, near as the face of God as Ronald Reagan used to say. I don’t mean to be rude, but then they showed this pink, gaseous cloud slidin’ along in front of the constellations. It looked just like an upside down uterus! Sorta like a cornucopia with the skinny end at the top. The bottom end big enough to swallow oranges and apples of planets, like we used to use in science class. As I was sayin’, this whoppin’ pink scoop was mindin’ its own business, when it picked something up. I can’t remember what it gulped down, but it made sense—this gassy nebula hovering out so large and wide like some love-thirsty, old lady--then bang! Our sun came into bein’, ugly as a swaddling, but turnin’ out just fine. Sounds like some man’s dream alright, a giant floating vagina, but I like how they didn’t apologize to the Bible or anything. They just came right out and said it, In the beginning…