rosemary and david

Rosemary is in the stairwell on the seventh floor of some downtown parking garage. She's gazing out the window -- a frozen witness to the bustling street below. The high-priced whores are wearing miniskirts and displaying flesh; their lips are painted red and glow like the streaming tail lights of passing cars. Methamphetamine beauty queens scratch their arms and ache for a black market remedy. And the men ... the men are wearing cheap gold necklaces and K-Mart cologne ... the men searching for one-night stands and easy pussy.

Flashing neon signs and passing headlights illuminate the sidewalk souls like some bizarre holy pageant -- a carnival of creeps and down-and-outers, desperate spirits searching for a momentary taste of deliverance.

All those people, those creatures ... they look so beautiful, Rosemary thinks to herself. I wonder what it's like to be someone else, something different.

Rosemary reaches into her pocket for her stash of stolen pharmaceuticals. She pinches three of the solid white snowflakes until they become powder and sprinkles the particles on her tongue. She swallows, ingesting the pixels for pain.

\\\\\_/////

It's an August midnight and my bedroom is boiling. My skin sticks to the cotton sheets and I wonder where that girl is. The girl I met two nights ago on the 14 bus. Her pupils were two giant black holes swallowing light and shadow. And she said her name was Rosemary.

"That's a nice name," I told her. Indifference absorbed my petty compliment.

Rosemary. Rosemary's face was unmarred, clean of makeup and her black hair was tangled -- a beautiful mess. She got off at 17th and Kingston, but before she left she scribbled her telephone number on a bus schedule and said, "Here. Give me a call sometime. You know, if you're, like, bored or somethin'."

Her dilated pupils. Her jittery movements and jumbled speech. Her somber solitude. She was obviously under the influence of some chemical, but, nonetheless, Rosemary intrigued me. Behind those eyes and trapped inside her ribcage was a story. A story of pain, regret and irretrievable love.

I crawl out of bed and search my cluttered desk for that bus schedule.

"Here it is. Rosemary -- 555-0661."

I pause and ponder: she was such a fucking wreck, will she even remember me?

"Fuck it," I say and dial the number.

\\\\\_/////

Rosemary is in the stairwell on the seventh floor of some downtown parking garage waiting. Waiting for the chemicals to infiltrate her bloodstream. Rosemary is waiting to become something else. Her eyes are closed and she's waiting to shed her skin and slip away when her cell phone rings. She slowly opens her eyes.

"Mother fuck. Who the hell is this?"

She doesn't recognize the number, but she recognizes the feeling creeping into her bones. The feeling of home. The feeling of comfort. Numbness.

"H-Hello?"

\\\\\_/////

After several rings Rosemary finally answers my phone call. Her speech is slow, unsteady.

"Rosemary? Um, is this Rosemary?"

"Yes ... yes ... yeah, this is Rosemary. Who ... who is this?"

"Hey, it's me, David. You know, we met a couple nights ago on bus 14? I'm sorry, did I wake you?"

\\\\\_/////

David. David. Bus 14. Who the fuck is David? she thinks to herself.

"Uh, David. Yeah yeah, David. What ... what's goin' on?"

\\\\\_/////

Christ, she doesn't remember me. I knew this phone call was a mistake.

"Oh, nothing much. Just thought I'd give you a call, you know, see what you're up to. So ... what are you doing?"

\\\\\_/////

"What am I doing. What ... am ... I ... doing," the words trickle slowly from her lips. "Just hangin' out downtown. Watching the royal parade of freaks and shit."

\\\\\_/////

"Oh, OK. I don't know, you want to get a drink or something?" I ask. A shot in the dark. An act of desperation.

"Um, yeah. Sure. Why not. I'll be ... I'll be outside, next to the Empty Caboose. I'll ... I'll be waiting for you there. The Empty Caboose. OK, David?"

"Yeah yeah, that's cool. The Caboose sounds good. Any bands playing tonight?"

\\\\\_/////

Rosemary can't feel the cell phone in her cold hand. Rosemary can't feel the stifling heat in the stairwell.

"Um ... you know, I don't even know if a band is playing. I'm ... I'm kinda out of it. It's been a rough week, you know? "

Poor Rosemary. She's a tattered and sedated rag doll on the seventh floor of some downtown parking garage and she's agreed to meet some stranger named David.

\\\\\_/////

I say goodbye to Rosemary and throw on some blue jeans and a black t-shirt. I don't know why I called her. She's practically a stranger and here I am, preparing to meet this person for drinks.

"What the fuck are you doing?" I ask my reflection.

"You've always been a vessel for trainwrecks," my reflection responds.

\\\\\_/////

Rosemary is descending the stairwell with unsteady knees. Each step is a deliberate and concentrated movement. She trips but catches herself on the second floor railing.

"Fuck fuck fuck ... two, just two more levels. Guess I should take one more for good measure ... for ... for this David."

She crushes another pill and her dry tongue absorbs the fine snow. A window is her mirror and she attempts to straighten her tangled hair and smooth out the folds in her pants. But some creases cannot be pressed away.

"Oh, darling, you look like the pristine queen of shit ... shit ... but you feel ... zero ... z ... zero ... and therefore you are beautiful ... a chemical princess," her reflection speaks.

\\\\\_/////

I find a parking space and walk two blocks until I see the Empty Caboose. The sidewalks are crawling with people, creatures slithering through this hot August night. Their eyes are glassy from bottled spirits, their voices loud, boisterous.

And then I see her -- Rosemary. She's seated on the sidewalk smoking a cigarette. Alone. She gazes straight ahead as if she can see through the sea of drunken souls to some distant shoreline.

"Rosemary?"

\\\\\_/////

Rosemary hears
A voice
A sound
One million miles
Away
"R o s e m a r y ?"
She breaks
From her gaze
And looks
H e a v e n w a r d
"H e y,
I t ' s
M e,
D a v i d ."

"O h
H e y
D a v i d
C a n y o u
H e l p m e
U p ?"

\\\\\_/////

Jesus, she's a mess. Her cold hand grasps mine and with shaky knees Rosemary rises.

"You OK?" I ask.

"Mmmm, no. No, David. I'm not ... I'm not OK ... and I'm really sorry, all right?"

"That's OK. Judging by the looks of you, I don't think getting a drink is a good idea. Am I right?"

"Oh, do I look like shit? I must. I ... no, a drink is not a good idea. I ... I would, however, like to get away from these god damned drunkards."

"Yeah, me too. How 'bout a bite to eat ... some coffee?"

\\\\\_/////

Rosemary
Pauses
Her eyes are
Fixed
And she sees herself
Running
Running
Running through a field of polyethylene flowers
And trampled valentines
My love, Rosemary, my love for you
Will never die.
"You're wrong
You fucking lied
To me
You lied
To me
You mother fucker," she mumbles.

"I-I'm sorry?"
A sound interrupts.

And Rosemary awakes. Coherence strikes.

"Jesus. Jesus. I'm sorry, David. I ... I got lost there for a moment. I'm so sorry for making you come down here. I'm such a ... I'm such a fucking mess. You must think I'm a piece of shit or --"

"No, Rosemary. I don't think you're a piece of shit. And you didn't make me come down here. I came ... I came because I wanted to, OK?"

\\\\\_/////

Our eyes connect and those giant black holes begin to swallow me.

Until she turns away.

And this sidewalk is crowded with men who smell artificial and women who smell like feminine products.

"You want me to take you home?" I ask.

"No. No. Home is not ... not a good place because home means my dickhead boyfriend ... ex-boyfriend ... whatever. Chris -- that fucking asshole."

Poor Rosemary, I think to myself.

Poor me. I've always been a shipyard for sinking vessels, I admit to myself.

"Look, David. I really do appreciate you coming down here ... for me -- this deplorable, worthless ... I feel like a whore asking you this, but could I ... could I just crash at your place?"

\\\\\_/////

She slips
Away
Again
And Rosemary
Is just
Looking for refuge
And those little white snowflakes
Don't work
Anymore.
Rosemary just wants to be
Someone else
Something different
New flesh stained
With someone else's problems

\\\\\_/////

How can I deny this stranger? This girl? But she's a wreck. Broken. (And you've always been a shipyard for sinking vessels, David.) Broken.

And I'm ... I've been broken, too. By different methods. By different hands. And behind her eyes and trapped inside her frail ribcage is a story -- a story I recognize. A tale the pen of my existence has written over and over and over and ...

\\\\\_/////

David unlocks the door to his apartment and Rosemary trudges through the doorway only to collapse on his couch.

"Are you OK? You want some water or something?"

"Hmm? No ... no thanks. I'm sorry about ... about this ... about me, OK?"

"Don't worry about it. Really. Let me get you a blanket."

"Blanket ... yeah, that would be great."

Rag doll Rosemary curls under the blanket. Fabric for refuge. Clean cotton to conceal herself from a world constantly collapsing.

\\\\\_/////

I cover Rosemary with a blanket and she's gone. Sleeping.

I seat myself on my recliner and turn on the television. An infomercial flickers on the screen. Some man is selling a plastic product that will make life easier. More manageable.

And I stare at the shrouded body on my couch. Her pale face and tangled black hair rest on a pillow.

I think about my life.

I think about Rosemary's life.

Such a beautiful mess.

All of it.

All of this.

And the man on the television tells me operators are standing by. Waiting for my phone call. Waiting for contact.

And we're all just shots in the dark. Ghosts of desperation searching for a momentary taste of salvation.

xx