She will never fuck again.
Why are you like this?
What? Should I be all buttoned up, like you? Hush-hush? Is that healthier?
I’m not that buttoned up.
Well, I would love to go out on that limb with you, but I’m going to need some evidence of this unbuttonedness.
I have a lover!
But I did not say this, I did not say I am loved, I am a person worth loving, I am not dirty anywhere, ask Prince William. That night I made a list of ways to meet him in reality:
Go to his school to give a lecture on earthquake
safety.
Go to the bars near his school and wait for him.
They were not mutually exclusive; they were both reasonable ways to get to know someone. People meet in bars every day, and they often have sex with people they meet in bars. My sister does this all the time, or she did when she was in college. Afterward she would call and tell me every detail of her night, not because we are close—we are not. It is because there is something wrong with her. I would almost call what she does sexual abuse, but she’s my younger sister, so there must be another word for it. She’s over the top. That’s all I can say about her. If the top is here, where I am, she’s over it, hovering over me, naked.
The next morning I woke up at six and began walking. I knew I’d never be thin, but I decided to work toward an allover firmness that would feel okay if he touched me in the dark. After I lost ten pounds, I would be ready to join a gym; until then I would just walk and walk and walk. As I moved through the neighborhood, I re-ignited the dream, reaching such a pitch of clarity that I felt I might see him around the next corner. Upon seeing him, I would put my head under his shirt and stay there forever. I could see sunlight streaming through the stripes of his rugby pullover; my world was small and smelled like man. In this way I was blinded and did not see the woman until she stepped right in front of me. She was wearing a yellow bathrobe.
Shit. Did you see a little brown dog run that way? Potato!
No.
Are you sure? Potato! He must have just run out. Potato!
I wasn’t paying attention.
Well, you would have seen him. Shit. Potato!
Sorry.
Jesus. Well, if you see him, grab him and bring him back over here. He’s a little brown dog, his name is Potato. Potato!
Okay.
I walked on. It was time to concentrate on meeting him; plans 1 and 2. I’ve gone to other schools and discussed earthquake safety, so it wouldn’t be the first time. There’s a school in the neighborhood, Buckman Elementary, and every year they invite the firemen in to explain how to Stop, Drop, and Roll, and later in the day I come in and talk about earthquake safety. Sadly, there is very little you can do. You can stop, you can drop, you can jump up in the air and flap your arms, but if it’s the Big One, you’re better off just praying. Last year a little boy asked what made me the expert, and I was honest with him. I told him I was more afraid of earthquakes than any person I knew. You have to be honest with children. I described my reoccurring nightmare of being smothered in rubble. Do you know what “smothered” means? I acted out the word, gasping with my eyes popping out, crouching down on the carpet and clawing for air. As I recovered from the demonstration, he put his hand on my shoulder and gave me a leaf that was almost in the shape of a shark. He said it was the best one; he showed me other ones he had collected, all of them more leaf than shark. Mine was the sharkiest. I carried it home in my purse; I put it on the kitchen table; I looked at it before I went to bed. And then in the middle of the night, I got up and pushed it down the garbage disposal. I just don’t have room in my life for such a thing. One question is: do they even have earthquakes in England? If they don’t, this is the wrong approach. But if they don’t, I have one more reason to want to live in the palace with him rather than convincing him to move into my apartment.
Then Potato ran by. He was a little brown dog, just like the woman said. He tore past me like he was about to miss a plane. He was gone by the time I even realized it had to be Potato. But he looked joyful, and I thought: Good for him. Live the dream, Potato.
Forget the school visit. I would step into the pub. That’s what they call a bar over there. I would step into the pub. I would be wearing a skirt like the one he lifted in the dream. I would see him there with his friends and bodyguards. He wouldn’t notice me, he would be shining, each golden hair on his arms would be shining. I would go to the jukebox and put on “All I Need Is a Miracle.” This would give me confidence. I would sit at the bar and order a drink and I would begin to tell a yarn. A yarn is the kind of story that winds people in, like yarn around two hands. I would wind them in, the other people at the counter. There would be one part of the story that involved participation, something people would be compelled to chant at key moments. I haven’t thought of the story yet, but I would say, for example: “And again I knocked on the door and yelled,” and then everyone at the bar would chant: “Let me in! Let me in!” Eventually, all the people around me would be chanting this, and the circle of chanters would grow as they gathered in curiosity. Soon William would wonder what all the fuss was about. He would walk over with a bemused smile. What are the commoners doing now? I would see him there, so near to me, to every part of me, but I would not stop, I would keep spinning the yarn, and the next time I knocked on the door, he would shout with everyone else: Let me in! Let me in! And somehow this story, this amazing story that had already drafted half the English countryside, would have a punch line that called upon William alone. It would be a new kind of punch line, totally unlike “orange you glad I didn’t say banana.” This punch line would pull him to me, he would stand before me, and with tears in his eyes, he would beg me: Let me in! Let me in! And I would press his giant head against my chest, and because the yarn wasn’t quite over I would say:
Ask my breasts, my forty-six-year-old breasts.
And he would yell into them, muffled: Let me in, let me in!
And my stomach, ask my stomach.
Let me in, let me in!
Get down on your knees, Your Highness, and ask my vagina, that ugly beast.
Let me in, let me in, let me in.
The sun was collapsing with a glare that seemed prehistoric; I felt not only blinded but lost, or as if I had lost something. And again she appeared, the woman in the yellow bathrobe. This time she was in a little red car. She had not even put on her clothes; she was still wearing the robe. And she was yelling “Potato” so desperately that she was forgetting to stick her head out the window, she was yelling into the interior of the car uselessly, as if Potato were within her, like God. Her vaulted cry was startling, a true wail. She had lost someone she loved, she feared for his safety, it was really happening, it was happening now. And I was involved, because amazingly, I had just seen Potato. I ran over to the car.
He just went that way.
What!
Down Effie Street.
Why didn’t you stop him?
He was going so fast, it took me a moment to realize it was him.
It was Potato?
Yeah.
Was
