By Day and Night

Mary T

I’ve always been scared to ask for things—especially help, especially from people. I was down bad recently. The wires were crossed. I figured if I could ask a mean bartender for a beer, I could ask some of my favorite writers to write something for me. So, I did. Sure enough, some folks agreed to help. I’m so goddamn excited to share them with you.

First up,

Mary.T

. She writes

Covered

. Below, unsurprisingly, she’s written an absolute stunner. Oh yeah, she’s also provided the killer illustration.

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You know the ‘something by day, something else by night’ thing? Where you put two opposing worlds within the same sentence, two separate yin-yangs inside of you? I was thinking what my two worlds were when the bus missed my stop. I just pulled the lever for the next one, not bothering to stumble over to the driver and yell at him to halt the bus. To my father this will signal weakness, to me it’s a hiccup I don’t quite sweat on.

‘Why wouldn’t you speak up?’ he’d yell at me.

‘It doesn’t matter dad, so what?’ I’d say.

And he’d lecture me on being a sheep in the world of sheep controlled by wolves, or some other dominant testosteroned animal. He was a businessman by day, high philosopher by night.

When the bus stopped, I got off pretending this is where I wanted to get off all along. I saw a man lie down. He was walking normally, then picked a spot on the sidewalk, and curled up like a child taking a nap. I wanted to take a nap too, but I’ve already taken so many. I Googled what’s the appropriate amount of naps for someone who is no longer 6 months old.

Did you mean: an adult?

I walked backwards. I’ve been doing this thing of walking in silence. I do not recommend it if you haven’t been to therapy (subway tracks might get awfully tempting). The sidewalk was the same pattern for miles, but the more I looked at it, it started to play games. So, I stepped only within the cement block, avoiding the lines. It started to get competitive, and I found myself balancing on a toe because my mind thought there was lava. Then I thought someone might be staring at me from a window thinking I lost my mind. So I dusted myself off to catch my breath and walked while stepping on the lines. Purposely.

I wasn’t dressed for anything in particular, so no one found me interesting enough to question where I’d be going. Appropriate-looking for a casual date, a coffee run, some friend’s house, a walk of shame. All the same. ‘Dress for the job you want, not the job you have’. I’m meant to wear overalls with a giant hat, and carry a pitchfork to the bus stop am I? Yet here I am in boring old sweats. Gray because it’s drabby (not really, laundry is just such a chore, wouldn’t you agree?).

Guy opened the door for me when I arrived through the back. There was suspicious liquid puddling from the giant trash piles, a cat likely dead because I saw pigeons bravely sitting on its stomach but then city pigeons are braver than country ones, and the exit sign wasn’t working.

“We ought to fix that” Guy said.

I did nothing because who am I to fix it? And who do you call about an exit sign? And why would anyone want to know where the exits are if all doors open to greet us with piles of stuffed black plastic bags? Wouldn’t lonely men who come to a jazz bar on a weekday want to go up in flames anyway?

“We really do” I said walking inside.

There is nothing more depressing than an empty stage before an audience. Unless your curtains are clean vermilion and steamed to perfectly ripple like chocolate, it’s depressing. There are scratches, and dents. You would need to practice long enough to know where your heel might get stuck, or where the wood would creak louder than the music. They don’t sweep it. I don’t walk behind the stage, I like to walk through it. Lenny shifts and twists the piano so when he plays it the audience can see his fingers moving really fast over the keys—he thinks the ladies like that. I believe him.

I wore the same dress again. As I salvaged my hair, my phone vibrated in the bag. I’m always reachable, but I hate to be reached. Unless I’m the one who’s in need of getting to you, you shouldn’t be getting to me. Being young is awfully selfish so it’s okay. The drummer walked into my room and called for me. When I sang a man threw some dollars, so I had to remind him that it wasn’t that kind of establishment. He apologized, bought me a drink I didn’t stay for. The bartender had to deal with the awkwardness of that confrontation, not me, so I just left.

I walked over to my old roommate’s place right across the street after the show, and we talked for hours. I hid the tips I got inside my book because he would never look there, and so I would avoid reminding him that I was performing a window away from his apartment. I didn’t ask why he didn’t come over to watch me sing. We only talked about things that mattered, time and priorities don’t matter when you’re young. It only matters that you worry about it without ever doing anything about it.

“My mug is chipped, you mind?” he was already pouring water into it and mixing the instant bag of dirt.

“No” I laid down on his couch. The shelf was dusty, I didn’t mind. The table was uneven, there were framed posters yet to be hung, and the only thing that perfectly worked was his TV.

I don’t feel like a jazz singer. I feel that my day has morphed into night and I’ve existed in prolonged hours, only changing outfits for a segment. Like one of those late night-hosts who change out of their pressed suits to wear a hoodie for a bit to show the audience how okay it is to look drabby. ‘Yes yes, you’re poor. Look at me haha! What a loser! Wearing a hoodie’.

Now I’m drabby again because it’s after midnight, but I was nothing to begin with and he doesn’t ask why I have a red lip with smokey eyes while wearing sweats. But I know if he asked I’d accuse him of being a terrible friend for not watching me perform or remembering how well I sing. I look like I could be one of the chorus girls that hopped off of the Cabaret bus, or a salsa dancer. He doesn’t know, but he doesn’t think I could possibly be something that interesting. Maybe he thinks I’m a hooker, bartender, a teenager, or a bored cashier. All the same.

I stare at his ceiling, humming and singing “…don’t sleep in the subway darlin’…”

“Petula Clark?” he hands me coffee.

“Yeah” I sit up and take a sip. It’s horrible. “You call yourself a barista?” I cough for flair.

“Not really, Starbucks calls me that.” He stretches his legs over the table and drinks the coffee while it’s steaming hot.

“What’s the job you want? Maybe dress for it”

“How do I grow horns and a tail?”

I sit in silence, thinking if biology is really so reliably unchangeable. I look at my wristwatch, only quarter to 2, we’ve got some time to give it a shot I guess. He doesn’t rush for me to answer, we both mull it over.

“I need a pitchfork too, wanna go find some?” I ask.

He takes a sip of his coffee, his face seriously considering it. We think for a minute, then he nods and we walk out together. He holds my hand, and I don’t resist it. You’re confused very often when you’re young, it happens. Just don’t check the time.

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Everybody say, “THANK YOU

Mary.T

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