r-kv-r-y non-fiction
by bobbi arduini
winter 2005
by bobbi arduini
winter 2005
On an Invitation
“Come over here. I want to show you something."
John wore sunglasses, even though we were inside his house. They were dark and I couldn’t see his
eyes, but I could see myself. I wore an army green dress that I bought in Paris. Paris had been a
graduation present from my parents, and so was the money for the dress. It was a beautiful sexy
dress, but a size too big. When I leaned forward to see what John wanted to show me, I saw my
chest reflected back at me in the lens of his sunglasses.
“What is it?” We knelt before a plank in the wall of his parent’s storage closet. He pulled the plank
out and revealed a secret cubbyhole, filled with pink insulation and cobwebs. He reached into the
shadows and felt around.
I imagined his fingers brushing against the fiberglass in the insulation, burning his fingertips and
palms, while soft silky webs tore apart silently, breaking like whispers against his wrist.
“You like guns, right?” He smiled.
I didn’t know whether or not I liked guns. I enjoyed the idea of guns more than the reality of them. I
had gone shooting once and found it be less like “Scarface” and more like meditation. I hadn’t
guessed that I would have to focus so much on my breath, or that it would be so hard to hit the
target.
But John smiled at me. He had the junky jaw, the dead giveaway that someone has relapsed. He had
a scary mouth but I didn’t want to see it because I had known John sober, until then.
“I love guns,” I told him. And I smiled at him, which was like smiling at myself.
He pulled out a machine gun. It looked like what I’d seen in the movies, like what every mobster
used. It was black and neat and it was the suitcase of guns. He handed it to me.
“This is what I use, what I give my men whey guard my crops.” His mouth flickered in and out of a
smile. He was showing me something precious and secret and sacred, showing me what he used to
defend himself and his livelihood.
It was heavier than it looked and cool. Without thinking, I pointed it at him. He shoved it down and
away. He laughed.
“The first rule: you never point it at someone unless you plan on shooting them.”
I pointed the gun at the wall, which is cluttered with messy stacks of papers and books, old cardboard
boxes filled with toys and clothes. John used to be a child, I thought, holding his machine gun and
trembling a little and laughing along with him. I used to be a child, too.
“Have you ever shot anyone?” I pretended there was field of enemies in front of me, that John was a
big heroin dealer again and I was his mistress, his partner in crime. Mentally, I replaced his Raiders
jersey with a pinstripe suit and my sandals with expensive high-heeled shoes. I kept his sunglasses
and my dress from Paris. I kept his shaved head and my deadlocks. I kept his jaw and gave myself
arrogant lips.
“Once. He fucked with my girlfriend. I don’t know what happened to him.”
I didn’t want to see the expression on John’s face. I didn’t want to know if he was proud or upset or
guilty. His voice sounded neutral; he was just telling me a story.
“I went back out,” he said then “I’m dealing again. And I went back to Humboldt and got my crops
back in order. I’m leaving soon, to be closer to my business.”
I didn’t know what to say, which was nothing new. Whenever confronted with something I didn’t
know how to handle, I smiled and pretended that nothing was wrong. John had killed someone,
maybe, and he was dealing again and he was using again and I was in his parent’s storage room,
pointing a machine gun at the remnants of his childhood. I turned around and handed him the gun.
“There are times when I want to use. You know, if I think about never doing heroin again, I start
getting all panicky.” The words were clumsy in my mouth. I wanted to say the right thing, the thing
that would let him know that I understood, that would prove to him I was his friend. I had just over a
year sober and I was frightened of his gun and how I liked holding it, even though I could never
imagine killing someone. I meant to say something sober, something wise, but I heard the question in
my statement and he did, too.
John took the gun from me and put his hand on my shoulder.
“You know,” he said, “if you ever want to use, please give me a call. I would really like that.”
He gingerly placed the gun back into its hiding place, then covered the plank over the hole in the wall.
He led me into the hallway, holding my hand, then locked the door behind us. I wondered about this
handholding, which was cool and smooth and soft and easy.
He checked to make sure the door was secure, turning the knob and banging against it. Then he
turned back to me and lifted his sunglasses onto his forehead.
His eyes were wide and green and slightly bloodshot. A few weeks ago, we were friends. He showed
me all of his photographs and we went to a baseball game together. He scalped my extra tickets and
I bought him a hot dog. We took walks in the Berkeley hills with my dog and I played his songs on
guitar. We met for coffee and he told me about rehab and about how badly he wanted to stay sober.
I told him about my parents in New York and about how bad it was for me when I was using. I told
him about my good friend, Todd, who I had used with and fell in love with and how I watched him get
sober and how he relapsed when I was in Paris and then killed himself a week after I moved to
California. I told John about Todd, how maybe I could understand his death, maybe it could be okay,
if I could just save one other person, anyone at all.
I looked into John’s eyes and I saw someone the same age as Todd was when he died, 22. I looked
at his jaw and saw the same junky jaw that we all had when we were using, or even thinking about
using. It was a mean jaw and selfish jaw, the kind of jaw that would rob me blind if given half the
chance. If he had his sunglasses on, I would’ve seen my own mouth in the same light, because I was
thinking about a world with machine guns and white powder and bleached sunlight. I was thinking of
a world where I would have no memory and no roots. I was thinking of a world where, when people
died, it was like flies hitting the windshield of my car on the freeway.
I got into my car later that afternoon and I called other people in recovery. I cried to them, because I
knew that I couldn’t see John again, because I’d never see Todd again, because I didn’t use heroin
again, because I wouldn’t use heroin again. I cried because the only one I could save was myself, and
I cried because my life was good. I had Iams mini-chunks and heartworm medicine and a tick collar for
my dog. I had heat-activated shampoo and sensitive-skin soap and pink Daisy razor in my
bathroom. I had six cans of warm diet soda on my counter and a box of fiber cereal in my cupboard
and two microwave dinners in my freezer. I had memories of walking through Paris with coffee and my
journal and I had a voicemail from my mother, who had called to say that she loved me.
Bobbi Arduini was raised in New City, New York. After hitchhiking across the country with her dog, Laughter, she earned her BA in
Creative Writing at Hampshire College. Currently, she is working on an MFA in Creative Nonfiction at Saint Mary’s College of
California. She has written a book review for MARY – Saint Mary’s on-line literary journal, where she is also the current Nonfiction
editor. She and Laughter now live in the east bay.
“Come over here. I want to show you something."
John wore sunglasses, even though we were inside his house. They were dark and I couldn’t see his
eyes, but I could see myself. I wore an army green dress that I bought in Paris. Paris had been a
graduation present from my parents, and so was the money for the dress. It was a beautiful sexy
dress, but a size too big. When I leaned forward to see what John wanted to show me, I saw my
chest reflected back at me in the lens of his sunglasses.
“What is it?” We knelt before a plank in the wall of his parent’s storage closet. He pulled the plank
out and revealed a secret cubbyhole, filled with pink insulation and cobwebs. He reached into the
shadows and felt around.
I imagined his fingers brushing against the fiberglass in the insulation, burning his fingertips and
palms, while soft silky webs tore apart silently, breaking like whispers against his wrist.
“You like guns, right?” He smiled.
I didn’t know whether or not I liked guns. I enjoyed the idea of guns more than the reality of them. I
had gone shooting once and found it be less like “Scarface” and more like meditation. I hadn’t
guessed that I would have to focus so much on my breath, or that it would be so hard to hit the
target.
But John smiled at me. He had the junky jaw, the dead giveaway that someone has relapsed. He had
a scary mouth but I didn’t want to see it because I had known John sober, until then.
“I love guns,” I told him. And I smiled at him, which was like smiling at myself.
He pulled out a machine gun. It looked like what I’d seen in the movies, like what every mobster
used. It was black and neat and it was the suitcase of guns. He handed it to me.
“This is what I use, what I give my men whey guard my crops.” His mouth flickered in and out of a
smile. He was showing me something precious and secret and sacred, showing me what he used to
defend himself and his livelihood.
It was heavier than it looked and cool. Without thinking, I pointed it at him. He shoved it down and
away. He laughed.
“The first rule: you never point it at someone unless you plan on shooting them.”
I pointed the gun at the wall, which is cluttered with messy stacks of papers and books, old cardboard
boxes filled with toys and clothes. John used to be a child, I thought, holding his machine gun and
trembling a little and laughing along with him. I used to be a child, too.
“Have you ever shot anyone?” I pretended there was field of enemies in front of me, that John was a
big heroin dealer again and I was his mistress, his partner in crime. Mentally, I replaced his Raiders
jersey with a pinstripe suit and my sandals with expensive high-heeled shoes. I kept his sunglasses
and my dress from Paris. I kept his shaved head and my deadlocks. I kept his jaw and gave myself
arrogant lips.
“Once. He fucked with my girlfriend. I don’t know what happened to him.”
I didn’t want to see the expression on John’s face. I didn’t want to know if he was proud or upset or
guilty. His voice sounded neutral; he was just telling me a story.
“I went back out,” he said then “I’m dealing again. And I went back to Humboldt and got my crops
back in order. I’m leaving soon, to be closer to my business.”
I didn’t know what to say, which was nothing new. Whenever confronted with something I didn’t
know how to handle, I smiled and pretended that nothing was wrong. John had killed someone,
maybe, and he was dealing again and he was using again and I was in his parent’s storage room,
pointing a machine gun at the remnants of his childhood. I turned around and handed him the gun.
“There are times when I want to use. You know, if I think about never doing heroin again, I start
getting all panicky.” The words were clumsy in my mouth. I wanted to say the right thing, the thing
that would let him know that I understood, that would prove to him I was his friend. I had just over a
year sober and I was frightened of his gun and how I liked holding it, even though I could never
imagine killing someone. I meant to say something sober, something wise, but I heard the question in
my statement and he did, too.
John took the gun from me and put his hand on my shoulder.
“You know,” he said, “if you ever want to use, please give me a call. I would really like that.”
He gingerly placed the gun back into its hiding place, then covered the plank over the hole in the wall.
He led me into the hallway, holding my hand, then locked the door behind us. I wondered about this
handholding, which was cool and smooth and soft and easy.
He checked to make sure the door was secure, turning the knob and banging against it. Then he
turned back to me and lifted his sunglasses onto his forehead.
His eyes were wide and green and slightly bloodshot. A few weeks ago, we were friends. He showed
me all of his photographs and we went to a baseball game together. He scalped my extra tickets and
I bought him a hot dog. We took walks in the Berkeley hills with my dog and I played his songs on
guitar. We met for coffee and he told me about rehab and about how badly he wanted to stay sober.
I told him about my parents in New York and about how bad it was for me when I was using. I told
him about my good friend, Todd, who I had used with and fell in love with and how I watched him get
sober and how he relapsed when I was in Paris and then killed himself a week after I moved to
California. I told John about Todd, how maybe I could understand his death, maybe it could be okay,
if I could just save one other person, anyone at all.
I looked into John’s eyes and I saw someone the same age as Todd was when he died, 22. I looked
at his jaw and saw the same junky jaw that we all had when we were using, or even thinking about
using. It was a mean jaw and selfish jaw, the kind of jaw that would rob me blind if given half the
chance. If he had his sunglasses on, I would’ve seen my own mouth in the same light, because I was
thinking about a world with machine guns and white powder and bleached sunlight. I was thinking of
a world where I would have no memory and no roots. I was thinking of a world where, when people
died, it was like flies hitting the windshield of my car on the freeway.
I got into my car later that afternoon and I called other people in recovery. I cried to them, because I
knew that I couldn’t see John again, because I’d never see Todd again, because I didn’t use heroin
again, because I wouldn’t use heroin again. I cried because the only one I could save was myself, and
I cried because my life was good. I had Iams mini-chunks and heartworm medicine and a tick collar for
my dog. I had heat-activated shampoo and sensitive-skin soap and pink Daisy razor in my
bathroom. I had six cans of warm diet soda on my counter and a box of fiber cereal in my cupboard
and two microwave dinners in my freezer. I had memories of walking through Paris with coffee and my
journal and I had a voicemail from my mother, who had called to say that she loved me.
Bobbi Arduini was raised in New City, New York. After hitchhiking across the country with her dog, Laughter, she earned her BA in
Creative Writing at Hampshire College. Currently, she is working on an MFA in Creative Nonfiction at Saint Mary’s College of
California. She has written a book review for MARY – Saint Mary’s on-line literary journal, where she is also the current Nonfiction
editor. She and Laughter now live in the east bay.
