Great fiction speaks for itself. Or it should do anyway. So I won’t delay us with a long introduction and an analysis of the tale that follows.
All that needs to be said is that
is a long time Soaring Twenties Social Club member and a unique voice in a club filled with unique voices. Her talent shines through and her work has that fantastic quality of being instantly recognisable as being hers. This is the hallmark of the true artist.You can find more of her work here:
Knowing his desire for eyeball-licking, she was ever on high alert for women whose eyes bulged above their cheekbones like fresh breasts. Just once, two years ago, she gave in to him and allowed the nubby rough of his tongue to press into the gelatinous give of her eye. Distracted by the possibility of pink eye tho, she never let him lick again. She shunned the eyeball the way most women shun the butt.
During their last movie night, she picked Bull Durham because she remembered her mother loving it. Her mother, the last in a long line of Barbaras, broke from tradition and named her daughter Barbie instead. So Barbie and her beau settled in for the late 1980s movie and watched as Susan Sarandon slipped on screen as waifish of limb as she was whisper of voice.
But Jesus Christ, her eyes. Annie Savoy’s thyroid eyes popped off the screen with glisten and thirst, and Barbie’s heart raced in panicked jealousy of a woman now her grandmother’s age. Barbie squirmed in the crease of cushions, fidgety of finger and mind, until her boyfriend laid a calming hand on her thigh as the other hand casually tossed popped corn into his mouth.
With timid inquisition, Barbie muttered, “Wow, those are some big eyes, huh?” desperately begging him to validate her normal-sized seeing.
“Ha, I guess anything looks big on a woman that small!” He cracked himself up so much he missed her getting smaller beside him.
“God, does he think I’m fat?” she thought to herself, just another pummel of self-abuse. Just another insecure incision.
He found her beautiful. But he told his best friend that it felt pointless to tell Barbie that when she’d just object.
“Sounds like you feel unheard, man.” His best friend shook his commiserative head.
“Yea, I guess that’s it. Or, . . . . I don’t know, I guess it feels like she thinks I’m lying?” Barbie’s boyfriend avoided eye contact, not wanting the depth of his sadness to be seen by his best friend.
“That’s rough, man.” Another understanding head nod.
“Yea it is, thanks, man.”
“Man.” That was the word they substituted for the act of hugging. Two rigidly limbed men born of hard plastic fathers and raised in homes where hugging wasn’t just not allowed, it was physically impossible. How do you hug without joints?
Beyond Barbie’s jealousy of eyes was her jealousy of elbows. So many other women - especially the women more worldly than her - had pivot points in their arms that allowed for a bend where she barely had a bow. Ninety degrees of confidence in a sleeveless dress.
Women with hinged elbows could put both hands on their hips in a stance of power and erect breasts. Whereas Barbie’s arms were either straight at her sides or straight above her head, no other leeway was allowed to her noncompliant limbs. She’d sit beside her boyfriend and side-eye his Instagram feed as he scrolled mindlessly on weekend afternoons. Images of women with elbows in the crow yoga pose atop mountains barraged her from his phone until her insides turned yellow celluloid: the plastic of the old dolls. The color of the left behind.
Her mood would go sour and pout. He could feel it, the drifting away. When her acetate hair went flotsam on the waves of her stormy mind. Little did Barbie know that the importance she thought he placed on elbows was all her own projection. He adored her never-bent arms, especially the arm’s length hand-jobs and the way she went Frankenstein when in a run.
Barbie felt most cozy when alone with her beau at home. But every other weekend they played in a local kickball league. A gathering of 20-somethings in personalized jerseys drinking beer and playing baseball with an inflated rubber ball - the sport of childhood. Those days were tough for Barbie. Most of the other women were athletic, with names like “Swim & Dive Barbie,” “Flippin Fun Gymnast Barbie,” and the most deadly, “Karate Barbie.”
Emblazoned across Barbie’s jersey was her moniker, “My First Barbie.” Nothing sporty about her or her name. Even worse, the other women were bendy of elbow and had a high-five habit that kept their joints smoothly lubricated. Barbie didn’t know if she could high-five because she only tried it once in 3rd grade. Her fully raised arm overshot the other child, and she fell into the air, a clumsy missed connection for all to see. She could still hear the cries from the playground that day as she ran away, “Straight-armed Barbie can’t high five!” High-five anxiety dogged her til this very day.
If Saturday afternoons were spent at the kickball field, then Saturday nights were spent with Barbie in a mood of sullen avoidance as her beau felt helpless to save her. He’d reach across the couch to caress her knee and stare at her with tender, questioning eyes. He was trying to let Barbie know he loved her. Wanting to ask why she refused to let him do so. But all Barbie saw in his vulnerable sight was pity. He couldn’t possibly love someone like her. How could he ever love someone so insecure, so incapable of putting her hands on her hips in a sassy manner? He must be biding his time until “Karate Barbie” broke up with “Karate Ken.”
They say that gaslighting is done to us by others but sometimes we are the ones who gaslight ourselves until we’ve warped our own reality so badly that there is nothing left to question and no one left to love.
—-------
You are the ever-observant sibling of your older sister’s self-induced catastrophes. She is blind to herself, living in a land of shameful make-believe. The first Barbie in a long line of Barbaras, no wonder she feels estranged. But you, you’re the first Anne in that same long line. You are the Virginia Slims gal for the 21st century. Eyes illuminated by the sizzle of a No Vacancy sign. You are fully occupied.
“Call me Annabelle,” you said to every teacher until you were 12. Never afraid to change your name or alter your ways. How did you get so bold? Where some girls had older sisters who were bossy, you had an older sister squishy with self-doubt, so you became the muscle, and she was left to be the thin skin. Hairless skin was one of the rare sister-similarities you shared. In high school biology class, you’d laugh and compare yourself to a pig gone fetal, as Barbie chewed her pen to oblivion and scoured the arms of the other girls to compare hairlessness.
And when it comes to men, you’ve never been afraid of their coming and just as unafraid of their going. They’re not the food you eat to survive, they are the food you eat to get happily fat. “Face the wall,” you said to the boy down the street who brought over a small duffel he called a “doctor’s bag.” If you’d ever opened it, you would have found it stuffed with Twinkies and Nerf balls.
“Face the wall.” Was this the moment you realized you were different than the other girls? A little kinky?
He did as he was told, and you pressed your impossible breasts into his back and corralled his chest with your ninety-degree elbow bend. If his neck had any hairs, they would’ve stood on end at the graze of your nose behind his ear. And when you whispered, “are you ready to melt?” he matured to frozen petroleum.
Being only 13 years old, and with the rest of the family home, you kept your clothes on but directed him to do as he was told. How many hours did you make him sit at your feet only to let him pat your ass just before the dinner bell rang? What you didn’t know was that your older sister was watching, ever unblinking, in awe of your command and his obedient need.
In the most inadvertent way, your existence made Barbie feel even more unworthy. How naturally you cascade through life. How powerfully you throw your head back and laugh, cracking open skies and raucous gatherings with your carefree cachinnation.
Friends approach you at parties with some variation of, “Ha, I knew you were here somewhere the minute I walked in because I could hear that laugh of yours.”
“I laugh like I orgasm,” you say, “intensely and spontaneously!”
There are women with better jobs, more lovers, longer hair, but you are too busy living to notice, let alone compare. That occurred to you a few days after your older sister asked, “How are you never jealous of anyone? You’re just so at ease. God, I’m jealous of that.”
You and Barbie cackled and giggled in unison at the hilarity of her dramatic irony.
“Jealousy is resin,” you declared with a swish of your hand.
“Yes,” cried Barbie, not sure what you meant.
“Hey, let’s go to the park. I want to practice something with you.”
The next three hours were spent in high-five attempts. Barbie’s sword arm would slice the sky as you’d direct her to back up a bit, explaining “Since other people’s arms are different than yours, you’ll have to judge the distance just right.”
Barbie had been trying to mold herself into the pattern of other women and you were showing her she could break her own mold. Passersby would linger a little and you’d wave them off, directing Barbie to pay attention to the moment at hand.
Over and over again, she’d fall into your goalpost arms, and you’d catch her. Minutes before the sun set and the air was still amber, your hands made contact with a muted clack that rang like wedding bells, and you embraced as best you could, two sisters finally on equal footing.
You can’t teach someone to love themself, but you can teach them to high-five, and that is a solid first step toward worthiness.
i'm not sure why but this story reminded me of the velveteen rabbit (one of my favorite stories of all time), but for adults. Bravo! 👏
(also i can't help but ask: why do Barbie's and Anne's hands look crucified in the last 2 pics?? 😅)
Amazing! It’s just like you said “it's sort of. . .warm. yea. i'd say it's warm. warm like an embrace, not warm like piss.” I love how you did everything in this story. Original, funny, true to life as much as hard plastic can be and “warm like an embrace”.