Char & Lisa

(This story contains themes of substance abuse, mental health and self harm.)

This is one of those favors that I always regret committing to. If she wasn’t such an asshole she’d have more friends to mooch off of. Spread it out a little. Finally a middle finger pushes threw some dingy curtains from the porch window after a hard lean on the horn. She’s up. 

She takes forever. Not just, let me get a quick look at myself before I run out to be on time for the person who’s been patiently waiting for me for 30 minutes. I imagine it’s more of Mmm This brownie sure does taste good, hmm I wonder what my high school history teacher is doing, and why are flowers purple but not trees…oh yea Charlotte is waiting for me.

As soon as she steps out the door I recognize it. That little… 

“Whatcha know!?”, she yells with a grin while silmultaneously hurling it into the backseat along with another bag. 

“I KNOW that’s my jacket, Lisa.” 

She looks back at it confused, like she didn’t just have it on. “That was a gift.” 

“Your favorite thing to do in the world is to lie isn’t it??”

“And nice to see you too, Char! Can we at least get to Beaver Brook before I get one of your famous lectures pwetty peease.” Her hands were clasped together and everything. I should backhand her.

She’s lucky I need this money right now. Not that I’m entirely sure she’ll pay up. But one thing about Lisa, two things for sure, she’ll find a way to get what she needs and I have no problem accepting unscrupulous payments. 

“You still seeing that guy?”, she asks while arching her back and digging in her pockets to find a cigarette. “The married one, what’s his na…”

“No.”

“Good. God he was ugly.”

That’s funny because she’s always said ugly men make the best boyfriends. Even though I think she meant “targets”. She was every man’s ideal; slim and blonde. Of course she’d be picky. I got my hair cut into a short, brown, Dick Van Dyke looking thing when I was in 8^th grade and it just seemed to grow in variations of that the rest of my life. So I wouldn’t say I have my pick of the litter. 

“Listen, after this I can’t give you a ride anymore,” I say in the meanest tone I can muster so she knows I mean it this time.

She finishes lighting her cigarette, then looks straight ahead. “Won’t be needing it. Ya girl done growed up and got a real job. No more cleaning fish. Plus this new gig is gonna pay more, I’m gonna get to travel some. I’ll be coming to visit you and picking you up now.” 

I hope not. “What is this? Did you talk to Lolita about moving out of Belmont?”

Just saying her name stirs up a lot of memories that would send me right back there again if I thought about them long enough. But she was a safe haven in a complete hell hole for us. Yet, have Lisa tell it, it was a two-week stay at grandmas but in reality it was a two-year stay in a psychiatric ward for two of Belmont, Massachusetts’s best and brightest.  

“We’re out of the looney bin girl. We don’t need to check in or on nobody.” That’s not what the out-patient program says but cool.

“Remember that park over there,” I point it out to distract her because we’re passing her favorite breakfast spot and I don’t need her begging me to stop. 

“I remember nothing after 10^th grade,” she says with the cigarette pressed in the corner of her mouth. “Why are you going down Lexington? Take Concord, it’s quicker. Then we can get on the freeway. So sick of this place. And there’s no way you’re not too, miss look at me I’m all reformed now.”

She would pull that card. 

“Who said I was reformed!? Just because I’m not still hanging out all night and putting God knows what up my nose doesn’t mean I’m a Saint!”

 I slap the radio on. The weight by The Band starts playing. I used to fantasize about dating their guitarist and singing lead for them. My dad’s Pontiac is on it’s last leg but the radio is in perfect condition, thank God. One of my greatest accomplishments is never letting Lisa convince me to steal this beauty to go joyriding, which definitely would’ve ended in one of us wrecking it.  

She had the run of our High school up until Junior year when she got expelled for making Cynthia Clark eat moldy bread. We weren’t nearly a gang but the way the neighborhood parents talked about us after that, you couldn’t tell the difference. Lisa loved it. Shit, we all did. She never told me what landed her in the “looney bin”. Two months in I’m eating breakfast in the dining hall and I look up to see a ball of greasy, dry, blonde hair buried in a bowl of corn flakes two seats down from me. I suspect it had something to do with the hangover from our teenage years. 1967 was a trip.

“I don’t put shit up my nose anymore. I know that’s hard to believe, Ms. Reformed,” she says never taking her eyes off the road in front of us.

It is hard to believe. No one just walks away from all that power. One by one we all fell in line with what Lisa thought was cool at the time. Skipping school freshman year. Sneaking out to go to random bars Sophomore year. Selling LSD out of our lockers Junior year. Senior year sleeping with married men so we can support our newfound LSD habit. If it wasn’t for her I’d be studying music at UMass right now. Not working at a desk job at my dad’s law firm while trying to evade questions from reporters inquiring about that lawyer’s daughter who tried to off herself. 

“You know what, maybe I am reformed! You act as if it’s a bad thing. Yes. You’re right, I’m tired of this place but mainly because I’m reminded everyday of the mistakes I made when I was under your spell!”

We’re starting to get close to our exit so letting loose like this feels appropriate, I’ll be leaving her with something to think about. 

“Get in the right lane,” she says.

“But we’re getting off h-”

“I’m not going to Beaver Brook. Pull off up at the Shell.”

This wouldn’t be an outing with Lisa without a detour. 

She gets out and waves at a blue Volkswagen van. A skinny dude sitting in the drivers seat with a muscle tee on waves back at her. She motions for me to roll down the window. 

“What do you want me to say. I fucked up. I am fucked up. I’m sorry if I took you down with me. Ok?”, she looks over at the van. “Im joining a band. I know you’re the real musician between us but I figure I could be more of the road manager, and Steve over there says they need another vocalist.”

What do you know. She actually does have a new job.

I can’t help but humor her for a second.“You wanna start a new gang, huh?”

She shrugs. I reach in the backseat to grab the jacket and bag of clothes and hop out.

“I’d love to, Lisa, but some of us have responsibilities.” 

Reaching out my arms, I offer up probably her only possessions.

“Keep the jacket,” she says with a smile.

“Wow thanks so much!” I say sarcastically as possible.

I can’t help but feel sorry for her. Who knows where she’s gonna end up. And running away to join a band is so cliche and desperate.

The trip back always seems longer. At least I got my jacket back. The patchwork looks the same but there’s some colors in it that weren’t there before. Maybe she got bleach on it. And of course there’s trash in the pockets and a letter no doubt from her a man she dropped.

Dear Lisa,

Don’t let your past define you. You’re not your mistakes. I hear you’re going to be touring around New York? Those folks can be pretty stylish. Hope this coat helps you blend right in.

- Lolita.