He sent me a text that said “I need you.” He bought me a ticket to Detroit.

I wore a black coat and a blue beret. It was freezing. He drove a hummer.

We hugged and kissed. My beret fell. He caught it at the back of my head.

We drove past Detroit on a two-lane highway. He pressed the remote to the garage. 

Inside the garage were canvases with skulls. A cherry red convertible porsche. 

He opened the door. It was warm inside, a noticeable difference in comfort.

There were guys standing with beers near a drumset. This is Faye, Craig said. 

Hello, they said. Hi, I waved. She’s staying with us. Hopefully forever. Maybe for a week.

He gave me a tour. It was wall to wall carpeting. Expensive and beige.

We came to his room. We laid on the bed. His hands pulled my clothing.

We had sex in the shower. I closed the foggy door. The water ran down my mascara.

You’re a swan, he said. He wrapped me in a towel. His friends stood in the kitchen. 

They ate chicken nuggets from a cookie sheet.  Craig dipped his in ketchup.

He offered me one. 

“No thanks,” I said, “I don’t like ketchup.” 

What do you think you’re doing just singing in a tree? Sitting on a branch. Talking to your friend. Wasting the day. Don’t you have places to go. Boys to mate. Babies to tuck beneath your wing, to comfort when they cry, to keep warm against your belly. Are you making your mark? Are you doing good deeds? Do you have a place to stay?

My doctor prescribed a liquid concoction of supplements and muscle relaxers and told me to eat plenty of raw carrots. She told me to avoid computer screens and reading and sunlight, wherever possible.

*Photo of my eye by Alex Prager

Read the full review here: http://forumccsf.wordpress.com/2012/04/17/right-on-the-money-one-dollar-stories-by-jessica-garrison/

DumDum is now publishing a new story every month. First one is Down. You can read it here: http://www.dumdumzine.net/dum-dum-serials-down-by-jessica-garrison/

With ECHO PARK BOOKS and SPACE 1520

I have forty minutes to do something.

I haven’t done anything yet.

Cant wake up at 12 anymore.

I know, I say, it’s bad.

If we wake up at 12, we should just commit suicide.

We should slit each other’s throats.

We should put sneakers on and just walk into the ocean.

I’m drinking a glass and chopping onions coarsely and stirring a Spanish mixture that’s almost like Paella, listening to the Kinks. I’m thinking if the Kinks were in my kitchen, they would fall in love with me. Because of the way I’m shaking my hips and moving my tits and humming while I cut the chiles. How I sip my wine, alone in my kitchen. The way my face is heart-shaped, and flushed, and my freckles. The way I’m wearing a blue cotton skirt and a tank top, the way my top is tucked in at the waist. Undaunted by the world’s problems, even less by my own. Because at this moment, I’m perfect for the Kinks.

I’ve been invited to a show where a friend will play music, he’ll get up on stage and sing in front of an audience and a giant chandelier. 

He said I might regret one day that I didn’t support him through the early stages of his rock career. 

I said I might think about that one day, and then not think about it all. 

What are you telling me? he said.

I’m not telling you anything.

Well then don’t tell me anything.

I’m not, I said.