Mango Tango

Our cravings for human interaction are so potent that we will go to extremes just to give ourselves the illusion of intimacy with another human being.

Dainty feet shuffle underneath stall doors as ladies relieve their bladders in violent spurts. I await my turn. The ambiance can only be described as the misting of the unclaimed vegetables during their ritual watering at the grocery. Perhaps, I am a nice plump pepper that is ready to be sliced and diced-flush-my time has come. I shake with excitement. A larger woman with beautiful hips and lips that any woman would take in place of their own, comes out of the stall. My hand instinctively reaches for my lips as if to console them for my fallen devotion for them as I envy this woman's. I can't help but watch her as she re-enters the world. She walks over to the sink and gets a hearty serving of soap and lathers her hands with impeccable delicacy, there is great care in this formality. I can see it in her eyes as they watch her hands turn an unnatural white. I have the urge to join her, but that thought sprints away the moment she looks up at me. I am the roach that scurries when light hits it.

Inside the stall my bladder takes over and I revel in this moment, but even after I finish I remain on my porcelain throne taking in the sounds and scene about me. Through the slit in the door I watch a few rounds of women washing their hands and checking their reflections. I hear spotty bladders, bladders of power, and twinkle bladders as I sit. I feel like a predator, but I know I am safe within these tight quarters that I have made my own. My bony knees and pasty legs are enjoying the airing out, so there is no need to rush.

The peaceful scenery is shattered in an instant as the bathroom is overrun by vicious girls with chemical imbalances, a detail I include, not faulting them but rather the traumas of puberty. All are startled by their grand and sudden entrance that causes the bathroom to constrict as if sucking in it's last bit of air before going under water. I lean close to the door to see what comes next.

My view is perfect. I watch them put on powders and draw on makeup with shaky hands. They will conquer these aesthetic enhancements in years to come, but their time is not here. They pucker and flaunt as they chatter about things I can't understand. The bathroom belongs to them as people file by knowing the dangers of girls who have just found hormones.  After they finish in front of the mirror they all pack into a stall together and all the doors rattle and shift as they constantly rearrange in their bathroom chamber. I can visualize the endless rearrangement of these young vipers as they struggle to make room for all their ripening bodies. I can hear them egging each other on as giggles travel through the air waves. I want so badly to be a part of this right of womanly passage that I was always excluded from. Their voices sound rushed and their hand movements all the more. A squeaky voice breaks the rustling up with an eager cry, “I've got one!” The girls all hush as what I imagine is the ring leader of this pack scoffs, “ What do you want me to do with this? Do none of you seriously not have anything better?” They respond with silence. The girls are quiet in the stall for several moments before all letting out sounds of amazement and with that the lock is released and they all file out. I have an irrational fear as they pass by that I will be discovered, so I sink back as far as the porcelain will allow me. Right as they pass a girl, The girl raises her fist for a micro second and squeezes. I hear something give way under her death grip and she tosses it's carcass over the back of her shoulder. With that they are gone.

I sit in awe of their life force, almost shaking from their brief presence in my life. I inhale deeply, zip my pants and reach for the latch. No one is around to notice me. I devote little time to cleansing my hands while my eyes search wildly for the discarded object that the ring leader left. Nothing. I see nothing. Just as this resolution starts to make me frantic, there in the sink, sits a lone crayola. You, I think. My dripping hands reach for him, Mango Tango. Oh, what a delicious name. Cupping His fragmented self I walk him to the once over-run stall. I enter and pivot to close the door, sure to lock it behind me. Examining the walls encasing me I find the vibrant graffiti scrawled out for anyone to see. There, brilliant and volatile is the scribbling of a pubescent girl reading simply, 'Janie is a s**t'. Oh yes, crayola has found a way to sin in all it's non-toxic might. Janie, I feel your shame. Janie,I know that this is a lie. Janie, even if it is not, I forgive you. My fingers trace these markings in the hopes to absorb all the hatred that exist within those simple words. Janie, Janie, Janie what are we going to do with you? Below I write my phone number. I look it over for a few moments before I burst out of the stall, hoping to leave no traceable evidence of the real me.

Teriyaki glazed chicken with a side of almonds and steamed broccoli littered with garlic. My nostrils expand as the meal cools, it's fragrance lining my airways. My television is on but the volume is turned all the way down. I do this to give myself the illusion of being in the presence of others much like the experience of going out to dinner alone and being cut off from the surrounding persons conversations, but still comforted by their relevance to you; to just be in the presence of others. These are what we desperate socialites do. We, who if only we were discovered by the world would be loved by all. I shiver at the thought, my time is coming. The stillness in my home is vibrating with the silent hum of the muted television that glows. I cut a hearty piece of chicken, careful to keep all other components of this meal separate, always. Lifting the still steaming piece of meat to my already salivating mouth, the ringer goes off, startling the chicken off my fork and forcing a yelp out of me. Dropping my fork it clatters and mixes my foods- a meal now ruined- my hands rush to the aid of my gaping mouth to silence it. The ring continues from an unknown number. My heart races. My thin fingers clamor and react.

“Hello.”- Silence. I repeat my words but punctuate it with a tone more questioning, “Hello?”

“Is this Janie?”

My immediate reaction is to tell them that they have the wrong number,  but my mind interjects and flashes Mango Tango in urgency.

“Yes. Yes, it is.”

This moment, my dear friends, introduces me to my new vice. As soon as I assumed this identity the gates of vulgarity are unleashed upon me; sayings that I had never dreamed possible, verbal abuse oozed from the phone and into me until both she and I were exhausted. I am in love. And just like that, she left me with nothing but the dead air on the other end and the echo of her words to numb me much like a healthy dose of Novocaine administered by a trained hand. There I sat for many minutes, my body trembling and basking in the sitcom's radiant light being expelled from the tube. This light source felt all too exposing and I stood before it in one swift motion cutting it off. There I stood for many more moments in the darkness of the night unsure of what had happened.

Hoping to shake off the words that were meant for Janie, I rush to my room where I strip myself of my thin dress. I leave it on the floor as if too foul to touch and could feel as my n*****s begin to ripple under the cool breath of the room. I sprawled out upon my mattress and stare at the ceiling fan above. Its constant motion causing the slightest rhythmic undertones in the room, lulling me into a dreamy awareness where I replay the words forced into my being that evening over and over and over again. I was a firm believer in the notion that sin, whenever in moderation, brought one closer to God. I allowed my eyes to close so I could linger within the multitude of galaxies behind my lids where I begin to hear the voice from the phone and with it the image of a woman's glazed lips and words reverberating within me. The image is jarring.

My sleep is anxious as the words of my invasive suitor keep drifting to mind. I sit on the edge of my bed facing the window in waiting for the almost suburban views to be lit up by the approaching morning glow. The sound of cicadas screaming kept me company during the summer night. 

The morning after I carried on with my daily routine of making breakfast and doing some light stretches but, my mind is occupied by another who whispers nitty gritty to me. Oh Janie, I am baring your cross with diligence and releasing you of all your sins but just know that your burden is draining. I rush to the market hoping that the walk there will ease my mind.

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The greeter seems to extend his neck unnaturally to address me and this extra effort does not go unnoticed but, is also not appreciated. I hope to be out of here as quickly as possible. Shoppers are busy bustling about smelling melons, sizing cucumbers, and admiring cutlets.     The fluorescent lights give everyone the appearance of having a  sheen coating as if they are replicas of a living breathing person that exist outside of this little grocery. I regret trying to escape my mind by entering into a world so uncanny. I can feel the eyes of others darting in my direction and I know in my being that they know. They know that I have been up all night relishing the vile utterances of another. They know that I am 'Janie'. They look at me like the s**t I have sworn to protect. I can feel my inner self bubbling. I am frozen like a child stricken with fear as these shoppers begin to encircle me, staring, saying nothing at first but rather waiting until I am on the brink of imploding before they let the onslaught ensue. They all take their turns shaming me. Their words pelt me, robbing me of my breath. I collapse into myself and sink into the floor, curling. I make myself tight and impenetrable, but I can see that the buffed floor is disappearing under the ever encroaching feet of these public shamers. I squeeze myself and eyes but it is not enough. While they abuse me I begin to see her lips behind my lids and it calms me. Their voices fade into a deafening hum and on the other side of that I hear it. Her sweet sickness like honey thick and all consuming floods me. I want to see her, to know her.

"Miss.Miss"

I open my eyes reluctantly and there a man who's breath smells of a turkey sandwich, shakes me shoulder. I look around to reacquaint myself with my surroundings and I find women with bulging eyes staring at me.

"Miss are you alright? Is there anything I can help you find?"

This is the the polite way for a grocer to tell you to leave. The whole lot of them stare but, they know what they did. I respond to him.

"No, I believe these floors could use a sweep and a buff though."

I stand stiffly and look into the eyes of a man stuck in the tiny world of this market. I instinctively brush a bit of crumbs that had settled upon the front of his vest. I gather myself and walk coolly to the entrance where the doors whir and open. Before my eyes adjust the world is nothing but piercing white light and yet again her parted lips find me. I gasp.

My walk home is a blur and once I enter my home I lean my back against the door staring in to my space. I could do nothing but crave more from this unknown speaker. Eventually, I gave into it's illimitable influence upon me and sat alone on my couch hoping that a few sobering breaths would help me regain some semblance of oversight in my life but, there I sat all day. I sat and sat and sat. I felt frail as the lights began to dissipate and I with it. The phone rang and rang and rang and I with it.

"Is this Janie?"

"Yes." Oh yes, I thought.