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240 pages, Paperback
First published November 8, 2011
And look at me: My mother gave me a punk-rock name, but my spirit is composed of elevator music: Tra-la-la-la./Don’t mind me./I’m a nice girl./I have good manners./I’ll not bother you./Tra-la-LA!
My feelings are that a granite toad tossed through a window is a lame-ass gesture that barely constitutes revenge. My feelings are that Jesus himself would not be all turn-the-other-cheek–esque about Catherine Bennett, that he’d kick it like: Whatsoever you do to the least of my brothers, that you do unto me, so don’t be so lame and let Alecia Hardaway s-u-u-ffer.… I cannot shake this off. But what else is there to do except drive home with these bad feelings and attend to the business of the day?
“Hello! I’m Shirley, the range master. Tell me what I can help you with. And by the way, you’re so pretty. Your hair is darling! Aren’t you a doll?” She turns and stage-whispers to the receptionist, “What a living doll!”
I smile, suckered by her compliments. “Thanks. I just wanted to learn a little bit about self-defense. I just thought I would be proactive. There are a lot of burglaries in my neighborhood.”
“This is the place! Did you bring your own firearm or do you want to rent one?”
I answer her question with my own: “I’ll rent one? I guess?”
“We’ll get it done,” Shirley says. And God bless America, I can rent a handgun simply by filling out another form and plunking down my Visa card.
As I’m lighting a cigarette I hear rap music, loud as sirens, flooding the street, and then a Volvo wagon parks in front of Erika’s Erotic Confections. Two white college-age guys get out of the car, trailed by the sounds of Common and Kanye West: I got two kids and my baby mama late, uh-oh, uh-oh, uh-oh. They go into Erika’s Erotic Confections, the car engine still running, the song still pumping—I did what I had to did cuz I had the kid, uh-oh, uh-oh, uh-oh.
Bright floodlights switch on, trapping us in a rhombus of golden light. Bradley looks handsome and electric and we freeze like startled, experimental lovers: Uh, what exactly are we doing?
I crank up the Clash all the way home, my adrenaline harnessed in perfect pitch. My gun is on the passenger seat and I am Sandinista Jones, motherfuckers, all the way home.