The Next Place by Amy Silver
New Orleans. I forget what street. Jennifer was her name.
I'm in Southern California right now and you want to know a secret? I hate
palm trees. They look nice in pictures of tropical places where they come
in groves, but they're ridiculous around here—shaggy in unkempt yards,
forlorn growing out of sidewalks.
I work in a hotel in a desert town that has two traffic lights, one bar,
four restaurants, and six fast food drive-throughs. Sometimes guests are
sad when they check out but I can't imagine why. They must have really awful
homes.
I'm only staying here until I have enough money to go somewhere else.
I was a random number Jennifer called. Jennifer from Trinidad, with a bubbling
voice and a melodic accent. She told me to go stand by the candy machine
on the corner so she could see what I looked like. There was no candy machine
on the corner. I told her, “I'm in California.”
She asked whether I was Black and I said no, held my breath and hoped it
was okay. The way she laughed tickled the tiny hairs on my spine like a wet
tongue. She asked if I was slender and I could say yes to that.
She talked about what she wanted for her birthday and I kept saying, “What?” because
she laughed every time I said it. We kept saying, “I love you!” and
laughing wildly. It was so funny to use those words on a stranger.
Amazing that she dialed a random number and got me, a lesbian who needed
something to smile about. She gave me her address but after we hung up I
realized that I couldn't afford to send her a birthday present.
I sent her a card that said something like, “Happy anniversary to
my treasured wife.” But when my mouth got tired of smiling I started
to have doubts about going to New Orleans. Maybe she was a crack head. Maybe
she was crazy. I threw her address away.
Jennifer wrote back but she didn't put her address on the envelope or anywhere
in her letter. Her handwriting was large and sloppy. Hardly legible. She
called me Ms. Raines several times, never Kim, and she wrote that she would
kiss me, make love to me, kiss me, make love to me. That was all.
My lips and my nipples feel swollen, skin stretched thin over hormones.
I check my mail every day, waiting to hear from the next place.
Amy Silver
Amy Silver lives in Washington State with her sister, her niece, and three
cats. She works for a temp service. In 2002 she hitchhiked to Maine and returned
in an unreliable old van. Inspired by that road trip, she is working on a
collection of stories.
