Chesire Cat
by Jenne Hirschman
June 27, 1995
   I looked at you, and you were beautiful.
   Your hair was short and sweaty and brown beneath your hat. The hat
smelled, oh so familiar. The scent was the scent of all those nights I spent
sitting on the floor at the head shop Manda and Chrissy worked at. Talking
and talking until there were no more words. Then we would walk home, down the
block with the blue street lights shining on our ruddy skin and smiles to
steal the Cheshire Cat's heart on our faces.
    It was almost strange to see you standing there, just like you were out
of a dream and coming to catch me up in that web again. Your jeans were dirty,
covered in grass and mud stains, and your shirt was pretty with that strange
Indian cloth work I remember running my hands over with fascination. It
always smelled so good, so sweet and natural. After all that time, you
walked in, smelling and acting and holding yourself like it was old times
and I was sitting on the floor staring at you with my half grin and my
mouth hanging wide open at the same time.
   I was sitting there, all alone, wearing all black and being morose to a
new crowd of strangers who would soon loose interest. They always did. For a
while they would cling to me, and then eventually they would realize that
 there was nothing they could do. They couldn't be the light of my life;
they couldn't be anything but another faceless shoulder to cry on, another
one night stand.
    You wandered over, a joint in your hand, and asked if you could sit
with us. Smoke was floating around you, making your entrance like the Devil's
--full of smoke and mist. You sat down and said nothing as I continued listing
the reasons why dying was fun; and proceeded to tell about all the illegal
things I'd done and tell people how to do them and that they would find them
fun, because they would. I hadn't. But they would. Slowly, one by one, or in
small groups, they excused themselves with vaguely covered disgust on their
faces.
   Something about growing up made me morose. They weren't adults, even
though some of them were older than me, they'd never grown up. And I had, a
long long time ago. Maybe the whole goal of life is not to grow up, and
 that's why so many people spend so much time ignorant and innocent; they
can't grow up without losing their minds. I wish I'd known before I made
the mistake and went and did it.
    I missed that head shop, where they sold tie-dye Liquid Blue t-shirts,
and Indian dresses from that one company. Where it always smelled like fire
 and dope and incense and we all sat around on the floor sometimes. I
wanted the old record player we inherited from our parents and the
Hershey's kisses that were left over from Easter or Christmas or New Years
or whatever holiday had just passed.
   When they were all gone, you moved from the end of the couch to next to
me, and I kept on talking.
   "You see, if you live for dreaming, whenever your dreams come true, you
just get new ones and you want them. And life is just miserable. I want to 
live in a dream and NOT want more, not wait for the next dream to come around
and sweep me off my feet again. If everything came true, all that stuff I
dreamed about, I wouldn't want it anymore. I want to be strong and real and--"
   You rested a hand on my arm and squeezed very gently, and cut me off,
saying, "Shh. It's okay."
   People had said that to me before, but never quite the same way. You
made me remember the before, even more. I was never really happy. I never
really knew what I wanted--something to cling to. I had things to cling too,
but I held on too tight and killed them. The way you said it was all okay
 made me stop and stare right at you.
   You had great big eyes. The white parts were a little red from the
smoke, but the rest was golden brown, just because they were. They were
shinny.
   I looked at you, closely, but I didn't ask you to move your hand, and
you didn't offer. You looked straight at me, into my eyes, and then I finally
understood that beneath all these lies and games and black clothes, I was
wearing what you were wearing and I was frowning up from my seat on the
floor, and my friends were leaning on the counter above me, and I
was terrified because someone had shut out the lights and started telling
a scary story. And the story was my life.
    Without a word, in a familiar silence, you pulled me from where I was
sitting right up against you. Your joint was almost gone, and you dropped it
on the rug into a pile of smoldering cigarettes and gum wrappers and beer
 cans.
     I almost said something, but I just looked at your hands and I didn't.
I had nothing to say, I curled up with you and you held on to me like some
 kind of protector, and you said nothing, asked no questions.
     And then I knew you.

9 responses total.

READ THIS YOU LAZY PEOPLE!!! IT IS GOOD

Yes, it is.

That's really good Darklass.
Extremely good.

why is it the minute there is one response 2 more show up even
though i have been telling people to read it for weeks
and it has just sat here alone...
?

Guilt.  :)

(Oh, and by the way, don't fret about it -- I've had a number of
what I consider decent efforts on my part go nearly or totally
unresponded to.  Look back through this conference, or the enigma
conference, for examples.  I just shrug it off, figuring that
everybody is simply struck speechless with awe.)

well i simply keep on bitching til i get my responses :}
and i kill all negative responses

The way everything you describe fits so perfectly is great, Jenna.  Like the
allusion to a dream catcher in the line "coming to catch me in that web
again". I didn't like the fragmented sentences in some parts, but it quickly
drew me in rather than turning me off; it was like the pieces of a puzzle that
came together as I read. I LUV the paragraph about growing up. And the word
"morose" is appropriate in every way. (= (One question: how autobiographical
is this story?)

Non-whatsoever. This never happened. Except my parents are hippies.
there is a nice smelling headshop that sells indian cloth too...
that's all. just a thought, a wish, perhaps

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