Under the Ribs - Memoir (and)

Fire and ash fall from the sky like my eyelashes fall from my eyes. I am four years old living in a motel on Market Street in San Francisco and my parents are drug addicted. My eyelashes are my friends and I line them up on a bent knee cap, give them each a name and talk to them like dolls because I do not have dolls or toys or more than one change of clothes, not that it matters since I have to stay in the motel all day. At night I sleep in the corner under the window where we keep a carton of milk so it stays cold. The window doesn’t shut completely, so when the fog rolls in the crack I crawl under the bed to stay warm. Sometimes in the morning my parents forget to check under the bed and I wake up to find no one in the room, not knowing where they have gone or when they will return.

The room smells like piss because I mess myself in the corner all the time—I am afraid to use the toilet in the hallway. Every time I piss in the corner or vomit in the sink of our room my father punishes me by making me clean it or by rubbing my face in it. One time I had to stand naked on an upside down crate until I learned my lesson but I peed on myself that time too. The bathroom in the hall frightens me because it doesn’t have a lock on the door, so a big nasty man might come in and watch me use the toilet while he plays with his cock. I have seen lots of men do that. Sometimes there is something else besides pee that comes out. I only say “cock” because that is what my father calls it. I feel funny in my stomach when I say that word but I don’t tell him that because he scares me. I don’t tell him I am afraid of the dark bathroom down the hall because he might beat me with a hanger or send me out on the street to beg again or work like my mother, so I sit in the corner and pull out one of my eyelashes.

I do other things in the corner too like count my bones or see how far under my ribs I can fit my fingers, only I do not know they are ribs, so I ask my father the name for that part of my body. I show him I can hide ten fingers, two small fists, under my skin but that makes him really angry, so he slaps me, calling me a “conniving little bitch” but I think my ribs and fists look good like that. I like to play with my body. I think I could take it apart without anyone noticing then drop it in small pieces out the window into the shaft like the heroin I drop down there this morning when the light is still blue.

My mother comes in from the dark almost naked under her coat. She lets it fall on the floor near where I pretend to sleep until I hear her get into bed beside my father. Then I search her pockets looking for something like a fortune cookie but what I find is an orange balloon rolled up in a ball. I know it is their “smack” that later they will heat up in a spoon that is worn black with use. They will lock me in the closet where I will watch them through a crack while they tie their arms with rubber bands that make large snapping sounds or with belts that do not work so well. They will feel for the pulse, talk softly to one another, stick the needles in and change into people that can barely move except to nod or drool. But before that can happen, my stomach is tight as if it has a bug scratching, pinching and aching inside. If my clothes were not dirty and I had something besides my underwear then I would just go ask the brown-skin lady with the red dot on her forehead for breakfast and she would feed me. But it is too early and my pants are drying on the chair, so I open the balloon and pour the “smack” into my open hand. It isn’t much of anything except a dime-size of sandy grainy stuff, maybe it is less than that. I pretend to be a cat and think of licking it out of my hand but then I might become sick or sort of dead as they are, so I drop it down the pale white shaft.

Now I am afraid because I do not know what to do with the orange balloon. My father will see it if I throw it in the shaft too, so I try to chew on it instead. It is bitter and sour. I think I might choke though it does not matter because my father will be beat me harder than the time I knocked the milk over by accident, that time my legs were sore for a week. Quietly I hide the chewed-up balloon in between the bed and the wall. My father’s foot moves. I feel my heart beating loud in my ears that are burning and filled with scabs from the way he digs his fingernails into them when he gets mad at me in public places. When he wakes up I try not to watch him as he questions my mother, slaps her, threatens her, but she is telling the truth, so he gets on all fours to crawl on the floor looking for his fix. He is naked and he demands answers. He moves the bed from the wall and I start to pull my eyelashes out. I have three of them in my hand when he picks the shell of heroin off the floor. He looks at me with wild eyes. Sweat is sliding down his forehead, neck and chest as he comes toward me. I close my fist around my bare eyelashes and hide them behind my back. He points his finger and spits in my face, “Tell me now, you little bitch!” I raise my closed fist to the window. Then he grabs my arm, shakes it violently, thinking I have his smack in my hand. I am not strong enough, I let go. My eyelash friends, Lucia, Santos and Maria, fall from the village and into the shaft of hell.

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