The Pulse between Dimensions and the Desert (4 page)

CHURCH BUSH

Sex advice filtered into my cranium from hidden Cosmo magazines. Men compared their balls to baby birds and licked spaghetti sauce off of nipples when they got home from work. There were thousands of manners in pleasing a man. I wasn’t interested in making men moan. I read through the magazines because I knew I wasn’t supposed to. I licked the perfume samples. I circled the faces that struck me. I cut out these faces and stuffed them into my pillow in hopes of seeing them when I fell into sleep. Wet dreams delivered themselves to me in black and white. I avoided living with the sensation between my legs at all costs. I crossed my legs and took in deep breaths until I thought about something else.

The Baptist church provided me with pamphlets of sexual defiance. You are a piece of tape. The more times you stick yourself to others, the less you will stick to your soul mate. You are a piece of candy. If some random man sucks on the candy, then stuffs you back into the wrapper, you become a sticky mess for your perfect gem of a future husband. Don’t get sucked on and don’t tape yourself to boys in class. You don’t sin on Saturday and then get forgiveness on Sundays. Jesus has no time for a promiscuous and pious dichotomy. I was neither pious nor promiscuous. The Sunday school teacher still made us all sign an oath and stuff it into a box called the Virginity Package. She claimed she would deliver it to God in the coming weeks.

Puberty created enchantment for older men with ramen noodle hair and teeth made for the gods. Puberty established shame. My period allowed me to draw the curtains for drama and made me feel like shit. Pads like diapers stuck to the bridge of my panties because I was petrified of tampons getting stuck inside me. This signifier of a fertile womb gushed out and sexuality remained sequestered in the deeper parts of my teenage brain. In public, my mom would shout at me when she saw a viejita who was slouching down to her knees. In her boxers and chanclas with socks, she yelled that my frame would hunch over like that if I didn’t straighten my back. No man would love my slouch or my sloppiness. Brush your hair and smile. When we got home, she apologized. Her mom used to say those words to her. She regretted saying them to me.

I trembled when I heard songs about fucking on the radio. Church created a safety barrier from having to think about sex in a gratifying manner. Waiting until marriage was key. The concept of two virgins creating magical bodily connections on their wedding night was a prominent conversation at Sunday school. No one said anything about the messiness and malfunctions. No one described the odors or fart noises. Most of the time, I didn’t care about my sexuality, but I had my moments. I cared when I saw Kate Winslet naked in
Titanic
at the Dollar Theater on Paisano. I cared when I settled a couple of fingers inside myself during winter time to warm my hands at first, only to wake up to pruned fingers after a nap. I cared when I kissed Laura as a dare at a church retreat. I cared when Rosa laughed and pointed at my crotch during a sermon.

My underwear was too big and the skirt I had on was too tight. My bush overcame the tightness of my skirt and created a puffy cloud over my pubic mound. I tried to press it down before we had to shake hands with new members of the church. Pat, pat, pat. I was frantic and continued to smack the fluff. The cloud remained. When I got home, I shut the blinds and combed through it. I gooped hair gel on it and tried to flatten it out. I sat in my purple fold-out chair with no calcones on and a cool breeze whispering to my crotch from the air-conditioner. Mom walked in and yelled something like “Ay, mija, this isn’t the Panocha Monologues. You can’t just sit with your legs open like that.” My face burned and mom handed my underwear over to me.

“Mamá, I don’t think I’m normal.”

“Why not, mija?”

I couldn’t bring myself to mutter a word. She sat with me in silence and patted my head when she was done braiding my hair.

“Take a warmth bath. Wash the gel out of her or him or whatever gender kids are giving their panochas these days. I’ll bring you some tea and I will turn on the
X-Files
for you okay?”

Sunday school became fun because of Laura. We sat next to each other in the second story of the church and documented the number of women with anti-gravity hair. The average number being seventy-two. There was one Sunday where we both brought a bottle of hairspray and tried to give each other anti-gravity hair. Her hair was curly like mine so I decided to make her head into a nest instead. She braided my hair up and sprayed it to a crisp. We ran to the second story of the church and tried to hold back laughter as the pastor discussed white lies becoming habitual.

“Do you ever lie to people?”

Laura asked me this while tracing the curls in her nest with her finger. I told her I wasn’t sure what I would have to lie about. She took out her notebook and jotted down the number of people with gray hair below us. She counted the redheads. She surveyed for anti-gravity hair last. When the sermon was done, she handed me a piece of paper and told me not to read it until I got home. I couldn’t wait to get home. I ran up to my room and opened her note. It said “I like you.” Mom knocked on the door and asked me what I wanted for lunch. I held the note between my hands. I asked her to come in.

“Mamá, someone left me a note. It says ‘I like you’.”

She smiled and snatched the note from my hand.

“Do you like them back?”

My heart was thumping louder and louder. I tell her yes, but it’s a girl. Mom, it’s a girl who likes me and I like her back.

“Okay then. You both like each other. That’s very sweet. What do you want for lunch?”

I hugged my mom and my belly growled with butterflies and hunger.

The next Sunday, I saw Laura and she looked away when I waved at her. I asked her to sit with me upstairs. I remember sprinting up the steps. I got there before she did and once she made it to the bench I simply said “YES.” I wrote “I like you too” into her notebook and erased it so the people above us could not see it. I motioned for a high-five and she smiled and we high-fived. I smiled through the sermon, although I can’t remember what the pastor was saying. The church felt comfortable and safe for once. It was because of the church that I met Laura.

LA LOBA

Darkness has shifted the desert air. I watch. The distance is enough. She cannot hear me. She’s wearing a red gown that drags behind her as she inspects the environment. She starts a fire. She’s wearing the mask of a quetzal with iridescent green feathers and a tiny yellow beak. She mixes mescaline powder and water into a bowl. She stirs with her hand and rolls orbs of green, lifts her mask and swallows. She waits in silence.

She is not afraid of the creatures burrowed underneath the terrain. She has not looked over her shoulder to gaze at me. Women find me in their deepest moments. I form into wolf and let them pet me or hold me. When I first appear, I have no facial features. My face is a dark oval with silver hair lining where my head begins and where my hips end. I have frightened some into tears. I have terrified others because they thought of me as a monster. I am locked into a code. I can only transform for those who are truly lost. Otherwise, Las Manos in the desert erupt from beneath the earth and take them under. Fingers stretch up and petrichor invades the atmosphere. Todos los animales scurry away. Stars fade out of the sky and the eyes of my ancestors glow red as they watch these final moments. Las Manos are merciful. The captured are lulled to sleep before they disappear. I have seen Las Manos cradle those who expired.

The bird woman has collapsed beside the fire. She’s digging into stubborn dirt. She isn’t here for anything spectacular. These are the things she says to me. She’s here because of her job and because of a man. She is here because she has floated between identities for years and years. She’s fucking exhausted. She cleans up after families who pigeonhole her. She forgot to clean one of the bathrooms. She forgot to dust the trophies accumulated by cushioned children. She forgot to respond as though her entirety was dependent on them. Then, there’s this man. She didn’t apologize for calling him in the middle of the night while he fucked around. He said it out loud. She was not important to him. Infidelity wasn’t the final line. He told her she was nothing. She doesn’t feel sorry for herself. She is just tired. She is going to nap with the nopales and La Loba looking after her. She is going to let the sun wake her up as the drugs wear off.

Dust devils collect the whispers and final thoughts belonging to women and children of the sun. I lead the lost away from the depths of the desolation to an interstate or close to a horizon with twinkling grids. This is as much as I can do.

LADY MESCALINE

Via destiny, you sat next to your best friend, Laura, in the back of science class. Prior to text messages and social media, passing notes on college ruled paper sufficed. She scribbled fast and slid a corner of torn lines to you. It said, “YOU ARE XENA.” It was caps lock serious. You looked up to Xena and could not fathom someone looking up to you. Laura smiled. Dimples left craters in her cheeks.

The first time you saw a crater, it was a tourist trap and the silence magnified as you stepped further toward the bottom. There were no conversations between your family members. Settled into a picnic booth, you looked into the crater and felt heavy.

In moments of panic, you lash out. Pillows are the casualties. You were settled into bed with the love of your life and the cartoon you usually laughed at made you cry. Tu amor let you be. He knew the story. The story of the step-father who showed you no mercy. The father of your brother and sisters. You were his target. You remember every feature of his face.

Your two days off came with perfect timing. This gave you enough time to plot revenge. One time your sister called to ask him why you hated him. He told her he didn’t know. Hate is simplistic. You have dragged him along with you. He is chewed gum in your hair or chewed gum that you shit out after seven years. He is the filament of hair on your head that grows silver and brown, silver and brown. The moment you notice it, you rip it out. Sometimes, family members slip and talk about him. He’s created more children and you pray to an echo that he leaves them alone since they are biologically his. You are crystal on why you weren’t the exception.

Under the influence of mescaline, you looked into a mirror and saw accuracy in the depiction of your being. Your hair strands extended above you, glowing and vibrating. Your eyes traveled through your timeline and grabbed those moments when people were kind. Laura was there with her notebook paper. Your cousin Omar was there with a water pistol. The bruja Letty, who told you anger was a valid emotion, was there too. They sat at the picnic table in silence as you caressed the bottom of the crater with the hands that crawled away from a man who could never understand why you refuse to forgive him.

ESMAI

Discs shift beneath the earth. Your dog is cautious, her eye on the photographs swaying from side to side, tapping louder and louder against the hollow wall. She whimpers, so you hold onto her. You pet her lightly and scratch behind her floppy ears. You kiss her head. Your back is throbbing from a 12 hour shift the day before. If everything crumbles, you hope you can dig your way out and find pain killers before your crushed softness sees the light at the end of a hollow tube. You run to the kitchen and swallow a pill dry. The dog is still watching the picture frames slow dance. Multiple family photos. Three of you and your mom. One of you, Great Grandma, Abuela, Mom and your sister. Four generations with crowns of flowers on their heads.

Mom calls and tells you Great Grandma has passed. She was surrounded by her Chihuahuas. They barked and howled as her breathing slowed. The three of them jumped off of the bed and woke your Tía. Tía ran to your bisabuela’s room and the Matriarch of the family was gone. Her name was Martha Velo. She represented the stubborn and resilient lineage you belong to. You ask Mom if she’s okay. She says yes, but she wishes she hugged her grandma harder the last time she saw her. She tells you to take care of your plants. You hang up and make sure your plants are still living.

The earth doesn’t stop, but your apartment stops shaking. An apocalypse means wearing a quality pair of combat boots, underwear, pants, plus, a reliable sense of direction, hydration and packing vitamin-filled foods. You step outside. The air smells like skunk. The clouds expand into wisps in the yellow sky. The upstairs neighbors are sucking madly on their cigarettes. The brunette looks down at you and sends you an eyebrow. If this were the end of the planet, you’d kill them. There’s no way they wouldn’t kill you and Spatula and then eat her. You look at the sky and whisper to Great Grandma that you are just kidding.

Spatula is on her hind legs, watching you and wishing she could use her mouth to say thank you for making the shaking room stop. Spatula thinks about her squirrel toy, sniffs it out and shakes the squirrel by the neck. Spatula’s a good girl. Her tail wags when those words pop into her head. She gallops into the room and finds a spot on the bed. Stuffing as confetti settles into the carpet. Spatula huffs. The ground vibrates for five, four, three, two, one. You run inside and inspect the apartment. The living room and kitchen look okay. You look into your room and grab your chest. Red splotches start forming on your neck. There’s a napping astronaut beside Spatula. Or maybe the astronaut is dead? You’re not sure. Spatula doesn’t seem to mind. Her head is nuzzled on the astronaut’s thigh. You knock on the helmet and clear your throat.

“Excuse me. Excuse me, astronaut person… hopefully a person… you’re in my apartment and I would appreciate it if you left…please?”

You shake their shoulder and tap on the helmet once again. The astronaut springs up and turns toward you. A green button on the neck of the suit opens the helmet and it’s your own face looking at you. You jump back.

“Hello, Esmai. I know this is fucked up.”

Spatula’s tail thumps against the bed and she goes over to lick the astronaut’s face.

“I don’t understand.”

“Who’s a good girl? You are such a pretty puppy!”

The astronaut is captivated by Spatula. She grabs Spatula’s ears and makes them dance. She kisses Spatula on the head. This makes the situation more palatable, but your gut still feels uneasy. She turns to you.

“Hello, I’m Maribel. I’m a time travel agent from portal Q2786 and I am here as a fugitive of sorts.”

You rub your forehead. Purple and gold spots begin to form in your line of vision. Sitting is your best option and it’s a relief on your back.

“Explain.”

“Of course. You are the first version of myself that I have found, by the way. This is really neat.”

She presses a blue button on the wrist of the suit and it starts disappearing from her body. A tiny cube forms and she places it into a case attached to a silver belt around her waist.

“As a travel agent, I was part of an agency that searched for lost kids from other portals and dimensions that started on this version of earth. Kids go missing everyday right? Well, my department investigated disappearances that were never solved. Most times, the kids were deceased, but sometimes we found lost kids stuck in between time portals. If we got there in a reasonable amount of time, we could rehabilitate the child and send them to a foster family in a different version from their earth of origin. People can’t survive long in between time portals so, if we were too late, they’d be deceased.”

Maribel’s hair is silver. You notice that even the hair on her arm is silver. Her speech patterns are similar to your own. Are you really in your own room? Are you locked up somewhere with this dream sequence looping through you?

“So, how does that make you a fugitive? What’s the point of finding me…you?”

“There’s a political campaign against multi-dimensional travel. They are marketing through xenophobia, claiming the kids my department has rescued should be left for dead. They claim the kids should not be allowed on an earth from which they were not born. The government is killing agents from my department off in secret, one by one. I’m not the only agent in trouble. There are others looking for multidimensional versions of themselves, too. I don’t know how many of us are left, but I know they killed one of us off. They got to her before I could.”

Your palms are soaking and the pain in your back is reaching up toward your shoulders. Is this the apocalypse you dreamed about? You dreamed of zombies and a bright emerald gun as your weapon of choice. You dreamed of sinkholes swallowing earthlings’ whole. The only way to fight back was to build a net connected to the sky. A little moleskine with the list of apocalyptic dreams is sitting on the lavender dresser next to your bed.

“Okay, are you here to take me with you? Can I have a cool shrinking cube thing?”

“I have extra suits, yes. I brought enough for six others. I figured I would give my spiel and see where we go from there.”

Overwhelming pain is settling in your head. Would you be able to leave your mom alone? She just lost Great Grandma.

“Maribel, I need to take a bath first.”

The water stings against your skin. Tired bones against the yellow tub. With your head back, your hair spreads out and the earth is mute. You are considering traveling with yourself into other dimensions to find more versions of yourself so you can all hang out and survive together. You have scraps of paper hanging in front of the toilet in case you are taking a shit when the apocalypse comes. Push it out. Pull up your pants. Possibly use the shit as a weapon or a distraction.

Maribel might read your other apocalypse tips as she paces in your apartment. This brings you comfort and it makes you cringe at the same time. When you step out of the tub you look above you. There are red X’s that you drew for every apocalyptic dream you were a part of. There are over one hundred markings.

“Maribel? I want to know more. I am someone with two jobs, a dog and a pile of debt. That’s about all I have and I’m not sure I could make your trip easier. I am in a strange place.”

Maribel digs through a rectangular navy bag, which jingles and dings as she shuffles through it. A quaint sky blue lizard crawls up Maribel’s arm and leaps into her silver curls.

“That’s Nebula. I received her as a gift for entering puberty. She’s a feisty lizard queen. I think she’s seven years old at this point.”

“Is she your Spatula?”

“I guess so.”

“Wait, so you got gifts for starting your period? I just got a box of giant pads and my mom warning me that tampons would take my virginity.”

Maribel laughs and brings her hand out in a fist.

“I want to show you how we can survive.”

She places a cube in your hand. This one is much smaller than the suit cube. A light emerges from its center.

“What’s your favorite piece of art?”

“Right now, it’s the
Space Empress
comics. I just finished reading
Interstellar Romance
and I haven’t cried like that in a long time.”

“Bring me the comic.”

You shuffle through the piles of single issues on your floor and find it. She places the cube in your hand. You find the last page of
Interstellar Romance
and stare down at it.

“Hold my hand. Look at the pages and then look into the light.”

You do. You are light. Maribel is waves of reds and blues. You can see yourself burst into atoms. You become rainbow particles and specks before you transform back into yourself. Maribel looks like swirls of glitter particles before her body puts itself back together. You see the Space Empress (Evangeline). She has been stuck on the planet Nexon for 10 years. Her lover (Benicio) just exploded into dust. He was a hologram, but Evangeline loved him as hard as she could. Evangeline speaks into an electronic journal. She tells the journal the date of Benicio’s passing (January 22
^nd
, 2410). She explains the details of their relationship from beginning to end. Once she’s done recording their moments together, there are eight panels concentrating on Evangeline’s face. She looks to the dark horizon and you see the red veins crossing paths in the whites of her eyes. Her mouth is open. She does not move. 90 years pass and an unfamiliar species (Hexaborgs) find Evangeline. The Hexaborgs cannot understand Evangeline’s mother tongue. She cannot tell them about Benicio. The Hexaborgs scan Evangeline and place her in a sterile cell because her immune system is fragile. None of them seem to notice you and Maribel. You’re terrified the Hexaborgs will inspect and isolate you both if they find out you are watching them. You know how this story finishes. You want to warn Maribel. You know what happens to Evangeline. She dies alone on this spaceship. In three pages, a Hexaborg finds her curled up under her bed surrounded by potted mini cacti and succulents. She becomes space dust and her particles float out of the cracks in the spacecraft. You are getting closer and closer to that last page. Your throat is tight and your eyes rumble with stinging tears. Maribel sees your tears and wipes them with her thumb. You get to the last page and she’s right in front of you. Evangeline is thinking about her final moments with Benicio. With enthusiasm, Benicio explained some of the fruit available on his home planet. Fruits shaped like galaxy spirals that tasted so sweet, your gums ached and your belly danced. Fruits shaped like canoes with pink seeds inside that made you grow strands of pink hair on your head. Benicio’s favorite fruit was called an atomic root. It was a miniscule sphere that glowed at night. The tiny roots on the orb attached themselves to your taste buds and injected refreshing citrus flavors into them. Evangeline is sitting on Nexon with Benicio and she caresses through the hologram in front of her. Benicio kisses Evangeline and for a moment his face disappears into hers. The panel shifts back into her sterile cell. You and Maribel approach the panel and she looks up. You run toward her and hold her. You can really feel this tiny woman in your arms. She embraces you back and you bring her head toward your chest so she can hear the organs inside you vibrating and keeping you alive. You kiss her head, help her into bed and tell her “Good night, Evangeline.” You and Maribel arrange potted plants around her bed.

You are light and Maribel is green and red waves again. You pop into your room where Spatula and Nebula are napping on the bed. They both perk up and start running around the apartment, frantic and excited.

“That was amazing! We saw the Hexaborgs and Evangeline! Is this how you’re going to keep running from the government?”

Maribel nods her head.

“I helped create the devices with my team. This is another reason the government wants us found. They want restricted access placed on our invention.”

Maribel could be a powerful ally in an apocalypse. Maybe she’s the version of you who is actually ready to endure the inevitable. She is made to survive. You leave the room to call your mom. You ask her if she’s okay and she says yes, but you know she’s lying. You get dizzy from the sadness you can hear in her voice. You tell her you love her and that you will talk to her tomorrow. You call your boss at job 1 and then job 2. You aren’t going in this weekend.

Maribel stretches and yawns. She takes a note out of her pocket. It is one of your notes from the living room wall. She smiles as she reads the list.

“‘In case of emergency do not call loved ones. Do not call them. DO NOT CALL THEM. Only call them if you want to say a quick goodbye and never contact them again.’ Esmai, what is this obsession with an apocalypse?”

You blush. Your ears burn.

“I’m not blood moon apocalypse crazy. When it comes to the end of the world, I can only trust myself. I call myself apocalypse-lite”

Maribel laughs. You can’t because you are serious.

“One night in October, I went to bed. I thought I was having a dream. I saw a hole in the side of my bedroom wall. I could see constellations and pulsating stars. I wanted to touch outer space. I walked through and couldn’t breathe. I stopped thinking. I stopped existing. I disappeared from my home planet. Space people found me. They were special agents. I became enamored with making that my career.”