new story intro

© 2012 by Mica D'Orléans

a blank look void of personality spoke unchained words. I walked away. there was nothing to add. first, if I may, let me turn back to the start. my childhood friend, leona x moved to syracuse with her family. at fifteen the choice was not hers. so we had a tearful separation. the problem child that I was made it hard to find a replacement, thus began my solo act. red jersey short sleeved t-shirt with zippered collar over purple short shorts with two inch cuffs and little abner boots, no socks, completed with a four inch ivory and jade filter holding my eve cigarette as I walked down junction boulevard allowed me to remain on my own.

“hey little black bitch.”

“your mother."  though she was columbian, that was my response to david, the man who gave me my first tongue kiss at the tender age of eleven. unable to cope with my outgrowing his four year older ass, he’s resorted to petty taunts.

I never cared what people thought of me. I began smoking at eight, but did it on my own because I wanted to feel like malene dietrich or a 1940’s femme fatale. though I lived it for real, it was all in my mind. my mother lost control of me. fuck it, I lost control of myself and began to hang out with the bad boys. a year later I left home and moved into a south bronx abandoned building. in our squat loom we danced to the boombox, making love like some of joan didion’s lost children. I was always ready for the game.

somewhere in between I began to get excited about the thrill. there was something dangerous about my way of life. it became so unpredictable that I couldn’t guess it’s outcome. that boredom I constantly felt began to dissipate. it was like a 16mm bolex film that showed every frame in fast and slow motion. my racoon eye-shadow, torn jeans and sleepless nights kept me in a perpetual sleep-deprived state that caused the type of hallucinations that turned life into the color of chance.

I can say that I was truly happy with who I was at those moments. imagine, to be 16 or 17, and be the master of your own person. nothing could stand on your way. hip-hop, punk, goth, they all merged. it’s not like locker room, coke, methane and quaaludes were my choice of drugs, but they did open my mind to fearless notions that I would otherwise not dip into.

“say, iawa...”

there weren’t many places I would run to when I was in trouble, iawa syr’s was the most likely corner I would seek. short and round, only nineteen, yet carried herself like a 24 year old five foot eleven model. she was the person I tried to model myself after.

“what would you do if you were knocked up?”

iawa took a long drag from her malboro while studying my face. that was her way. taking her time. pouring herself some bitter tea. bringing an extra cup for me as well. placing it in front of me. sitting so close our skin touched.

 “if I were you...”  she sipped on her tea. thought a bit more, “if my name was lisa, I would go to the women’s center and have an abortion. that is what I would do.” her senegalese accent coolly soothed some common sense into my head. I mean, what was I thinking of...

it took a few months for that listless feeling to go away. not that I regretted anything, but I would be a liar to say a string of remorse did not linger. taking time off to reflect brought me to the conclusion that life is a puzzle that holds a special objective for each given piece. my time to take on responsibilities for someone else hadn’t come yet. for one thing, playtime began at night. holding a part time job and having a kid was not the perfect match. that was what I concluded.

(this is the intro to a new story i'm working on.)