Research: Journals
The Journal, Issue 30.1
Prose: Her Cause Was Holy
by Meghan FoxI can’t remember Travis’s face. I remember his winter tan, his coarse dark hair. I’ve been turned off that type since. I remember the weight of him. He was twice my age. One of the walls of his living room was a mirror that he liked to glance into while we had sex. I imagined a video camera behind the glass, below the lens a tiny red light, and I tried to do well.
I’d been scared that nothing would ever happen to me. I was a high school junior, short and skinny. I’d had one boyfriend, and over an eleven month relationship, we’d had intercourse four times. We were each other’s firsts, and our relationship ended tearfully when, bored, I broke it off with him. I read gothic novels, hung out with nice girls who got good grades. My girlfriends and I spent long Friday nights occupying a corner table at Friendly’s, blowing straw wrappers at each other like poison darts, laughing hysterically at the great glob of ketchup that had landed onto Gina’s toasted hamburger bun. Everything was funny: fat people, cute boys. Kristen said “kitchen fingers” instead of “chicken fingers.” Nancy laughed so hard she farted. I had to sit on my heel to keep from peeing.
Walking home among the headlights and traffic lights, my girlfriends and I would pass the mall, where I’d see the metalhead girls—some we went to school with—smoking together outside the pool hall. They wore studded chokers, glared at us knowingly, and I would think how of all my girlfriends, I was the only one not a virgin, and the laughter in me would quit like a wind, and the city night would seem to me still and lonely.
Travis and I were strangers who often saw each other at the 7-Eleven, and one afternoon we got to talking. For months I went to him, well into the winter. He took naked pictures of me, and now and then I wonder about those pictures, if they’re still around, and where. He bought me a watch once and silky panties, and for Christmas a calendar featuring topless male strippers in bow ties. He poured honey on my crotch. I still don’t see the appeal. But I kept meeting him, because my girlfriends laughed when the soccer boys at another table looked our way. My girlfriends ordered Fribbles. Cola came out their noses.
At least Gina dated. Walking home, we fell behind the others. “Don’t you want to do it?” I said. “Why don’t you do it with Matt?”
“We’re not even going out for real,” she said
Some houses still had their Christmas lights up. “I’m not getting pregnant,” she said. “No, sir.”
Later, in Travis’s silver hatchback, I asked him, “Do you have a friend for my friend?” I showed him Gina’s school picture. She had a tiny nose and large breasts, the start of their swell visible in the picture. “She’s cute,” he said. “Sure.” On the back she had written: I’ll always remember our crazy Friendly’s nights! I slipped the picture back into my wallet.
I begged her to do it. I called it a double date. “How old?” she finally said.
“Twenty-three.” I had no idea.
As it turned out, he was in his early thirties, balding, nervous. We met up at Travis’s house, where we sat around the coffee table drinking wine coolers. The men looked out of place sitting on the floor, especially Bob, Gina’s date, who wore trousers and a tie.
“Women our age,” Travis said, “they’re all ice queens. They think their shit doesn’t stink.”
Gina’s little nose wrinkled. She’d been sipping at the same wine cooler for half an hour.
“Come here, you,” Travis said. I went with him down the hall to his bedroom, leaving Gina alone with Bob. Several minutes later, naked, Travis’s penis in my mouth, I heard a gasp and some loud words, strange rumblings from the other room that sounded fearful. I had been waiting for this—without realizing it, I had. Holding a pillow against me, I ran out to the living room, imagining rescue and escape. Gina and I would escape together. But as I reached the end of the hallway, I realized that the strange rumblings were the television. There were Gina and Bob watching it. Gina stood in the middle of the room, arms folded, TV light falling on her stern face. She still wore her cardigan even. Bob sat on the far end of the couch and tossed the remote control onto the table. He’d only wanted to check some scores, I would later be told. Travis arrived holding a towel around his waist.
“It might interest you to know,” Gina said, “that we’re officially at war with Iraq.”
The next day in school, she pinned a yellow ribbon to her blouse. Her attitude toward the troops remained saintly throughout. To random boys in the desert, she sent care packages. She showed me the letters they wrote back, so that I would see her cause was holy. She didn’t laugh much anymore at ketchup globs, gay couples, adults in general. Our girlfriends followed, donned yellow ribbons, lost the giggles.
I’ve been wondering about Gina, now that we’re at war with Iraq again. Bob, her balding date, saw my bare backside in the mirrored wall that night the first war began, and for several weekends, Travis lent me to him. I acted like I was okay with this. I felt nothing for the war. I feel plenty for this one, and I like to imagine that if I run into Gina, we’ll stop for coffee and talk. Sometimes I imagine us hitting it off. Usually, though, I can’t help picturing her stern face on me. She tells me that of course I care about this war. This war’s much worse. Who wouldn’t care about it? She folds her arms and looks me up and down, the way women can do to each other.
Honorable Mentions for the contest go to Jean Giovanetti, David Parr, and Renee Reighart.
The Journal’s OSU Alumni Flash Writing Contest was made possible with funds donated in the name of Marie Connell.