Olivia does not believe in superstitions, which is a shame because she should. One day we were walking and found a penny on the ground; it was tails-side-up, but she picked it up anyway. I hated that she did this. Stupid Olivia.
We don’t like Olivia. No one really likes Olivia at all, actually. Sometimes Olivia will be walking and she will stumble on her feet—so embarrassing, she thinks. And everyone agrees; yes, so embarrassing.
What is interesting about Olivia is that she is obsessed with fish. This is the only thing that is interesting about Olivia. She has posters of fish in her room, she eats fish for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and goes fishing on the weekends when it is nice. When I kissed her, she tasted like fish; when she asked me to go fishing with her on the weekends, I said no. However, her omega-3 levels are particularly admirable; this makes up for all of her other qualities, which are particularly poor.
I lied; many people do like Olivia. In fact, she is quite popular. I dislike her for this. She has friends and a family, both things that most people consider good. She is smart and she looks okay, but maybe you would think she looks better. Olivia likes these things about herself. I liked these things too, at one time, but Olivia lives her life in a world unlike others. Her mind, as one might say, is a thinking mind. She wakes in the morning with thoughts like: We are all just naked people in disguise. She goes to bed with thoughts like: Beef jerky is just cow raisins and for someone who doesn’t like tea, a cup of tea isn’t their cup of tea.
Olivia is a Viagra baby. She is a Viagra baby because that is what her mother told her she is. I don’t quite know what this means. Olivia’s mother is very odd; I met her once or twice, three times perhaps. Her name is Noreen. Noreen is tall and pretty; she looks like she lives in the suburbs. This look is accurate because she does in fact live in the suburbs.
Olivia likes to call people cunt. Noreen does not like it when Olivia says cunt. Noreen has never heard Olivia say cunt, but Olivia knows that if Noreen heard her say cunt, she would not like it.
Noreen is cynical; her humor is dark.
Everyone likes Noreen and this is the truth. This annoys Olivia because it extends the amount of time it takes them to complete a task that involves interaction with another being. Said being is always charmed by Noreen. Said being who is charmed will talk to Noreen until Olivia tugs at Noreen's jacket like a child and blurts, “Don't we have to go?” It is like this every time. Olivia hates that she has to act like a child. She is too old to be a child, at least, this is what she claims.
At the dentist’s office, the dentist shoves sharp tools into Olivia's mouth. But instead of focusing on the procedure, the dentist is looking at Noreen, who hovers near the chair. The dentist is laughing so hard that the tools shake in Olivia’s mouth, making her bleed. Then he looks at Olivia and asks through his gasps for air, “Is your mother this funny at home?” Olivia does not reply. Noreen is not allowed to come into the dentist's office with Olivia anymore; Noreen has to sit in the car and wait. Bad Noreen.
Noreen does not like drugs, or swearing, or people who stick their tongues out of their mouths or wear their clothes too tight or wear their clothes too baggy. Olivia does all these things. I was only ever guilty of three. Maybe you are guilty of more. Noreen would not like that.
Olivia likes puns. One time I was with Olivia. I have been with her more than one time, but this time we were in her room. I slipped one hand under her shirt and one hand into her pants. She squirmed and cooed and began to squeak and her brow began to sweat, so I leaned down and whispered in her ear: If you were a fruit, you would be a fineapple. She came.
Noreen and Olivia go to church every Sunday. I hate this about them. The church is exactly a six-minute and 30-second walk from Olivia's house. Noreen leaves 45 minutes early. Noreen says this is so she can be on time, but Olivia knows that it is because she likes to talk, even though there is never anyone there for her to talk to. Noreen never takes communion, and she never donates to the church. “Isn’t my existence enough?” she exclaimed when Olivia made the mistake of asking.
Sometimes Olivia went to the chapel and prayed. I told her that was stupid. When she stopped going to the chapel, she stopped calling me a cunt. I told her that just because she stopped calling me a cunt didn’t mean I was going to stop eating hers. And I thought yes, that was smooth. I am charming.
Noreen is a paramedic. Noreen hates her job. Olivia thinks Noreen has a cool job. But Olivia is stupid, we cannot believe what she says. Whenever Olivia asks Noreen for advice, Noreen begins the same way: “Do you know how many dead bodies I have had to pull needles out of?” Olivia never finds this comforting.
When Olivia asked Noreen what to do about a short man who shoved his fist down her throat and stole the voice from her soul, she said that she would kill him dead. “Dead, D-E-D, dead,” she said. I was not supposed to know this.
When Olivia and Noreen went to Home Depot, Noreen asked Olivia if she wanted to get high on fumes together. Olivia knew that she was kidding, but the man next to them did not.
When Olivia asked Noreen how she picked her name, Noreen told her she found it in the obituary section.
When Olivia asked Noreen what was in the giant box sitting on the front step, Noreen said it was a dead body.
When Olivia asked Noreen where the drilling sound was coming from, she told her it was their neighbor chopping up his wife.
Noreen has no chill.
Noreen is also very kind. Olivia admires this about her. She wishes she could trade her high levels of omega-3 for some of her mother’s qualities. Olivia told me this while we were fucking in a bathroom stall.
When Olivia was writing a story about her mom, she called Noreen and asked her for examples of stupid things she says. Noreen was quick to reply:
“I don't say anything stupid, are you cereal? First of all, I didn't sign a release allowing you to write about me, you didn't ask permission. Inspirational, thought-provoking, inspiring maybe. Stupid? No. Maybe you should write about someone else's mother. Why don't you talk about how you were adopted and how traumatic it was when you learned that you did not have roots?”
Olivia reminded Noreen that she was not adopted. Noreen continued:
“I have post-nasal drip, I can't think right now. Talk about how I was the first female to walk on the moon. And how the world isn’t round. Or how you like to get loaded … that means drunk. Listen, why don’t you lose this number.”
Noreen did not like that Olivia wrote that story. Noreen does not like that I have written this story. Noreen says none of this is true. Perhaps I would agree.
I knew Noreen, but I did not like Noreen. Noreen called me a liar. I called her a cunt. Olivia didn’t smile the next time I called her a fineapple.
When Noreen called to ask Olivia how she was and what she was doing that night, Olivia said she was having people over before going out. I was not invited, but neither were you.
“Going out where?” her mother asked.
“A party,” Olivia replied.
“You should not party,” Noreen said.
“Why not?” Olivia asked.
Then Noreen began: “Do you know how many dead bodies I have had to pull needles out of?”
Olivia’s life is a series of failed social interactions that she plays off as jokes. People think Olivia is cool for acting this way. Olivia’s life would make a good movie. You would like this movie, I think. Her movie would be a comedy. Who would play me? I wonder. They would have a lot of lines. They would not be liked.
When Noreen asked who Olivia was having over, Olivia told her “friends.” Noreen asked what she was serving.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Olivia asked.
“Well, what appetizers will you provide?”
“You don’t provide appetizers at a pre-game.”
“That is rude, don’t be rude,” Noreen insisted. “You could have cheese and crackers and fruit, and everyone can bring dip.”
“Or booze.”
“Yeah, okay, that’s a great idea. Why don’t you just have a pot party.”
“Good idea,” Olivia smirked.
“Do you know how many dead bodies I have had to pull needles out of, Olivia? Do you?”
Olivia hung up the phone.
When I told Olivia she had a fertility problem she replied, “Yes, I know. It is called being a lesbian.” That was comical, I thought.
“I did not know,” I replied.
“Yes,” she replied.
“That does not change how I feel,” I stated.
Our conversations were never long.
I looked at a photo of Olivia sitting at a coffee shop, sitting with an extraordinarily handsome man. He is shorter than he should have been to be with her. Nonetheless there we sat. Yes, that short man, that boy, is me. She is smiling, I am laughing. I called her a fineapple and then she called me a cunt. We left the coffee shop. I did not leave a tip.
Olivia is stupid and her feelings cannot be trusted. Olivia cannot be a lesbian because Olivia loves me. Olivia is confused. I pity Olivia. Noreen says that my narcissistic, chode-like qualities are toxic. I called her a cunt. Again. Olivia cried.
The day Olivia left for school, we smoked a cigarette in the backyard. She asked what I was going to do without an education. I told her I was going to write. She liked that. I told her I was going to write about her and Noreen and you. She smacked the butt from my hand. She did not like what I said.
Olivia aches for closure. Olivia hates who I have become. Noreen just hates who I’ve always been. I tell them I do not know what I have done. I tell them that life is a metaphor and this is my poetry. I try to distract them with abstract words that make little sense—oblong, cerulean, epoch, soy sauce. Perhaps I am dwindling into that now. I hope you don’t like closure. Olivia loves closure,