My eyes scan the grass around my feet as I walk. The grass hasn’t been cut in a long time, and long blades brush against my knees. My body feels light; spare. All skin and bones and muscle. To my left, not far off, I can hear the sound of tricking water, but otherwise it’s quiet down here. The ground under my feet is squishy in places, and I tense whenever I feel the ground soften. People say that there’s quicksand somewhere around here, although I don’t anyone who’s actually seen it. Still, you never know. I continue walking and enter a wide, grassy field; straight ahead I can see a small wooded area. I know that if I walk through the woods to the other side I’ll find on my right a steep incline, almost a cliff, and that if I climb it, I’ll be up against the fence bounding the golf course. There’s a path up there you can follow that will lead you all the way to Lake Ontario. The path is very narrow, with the fence on one side and a steep, dangerous drop on the other. I used to run up the incline and then jog along the path at the top all the way down to the lake. Once when I was running along the path I got caught up across my chest by a thin piece of wire that had been strung across it, one end tied to the fence and the other tied around a tree. If I’d been a little shorter, not so tall for my age, it would have caught me right at the level of her neck. As I stood there looking up at the wire, I felt cold. Somebody who knew that children jogged along here had strung that wire across the path. Somebody has set a booby trap just for them.
I stops and looks to her left over at the creek. Some accident of geology has left the creek and its banks riddled with fossils, and I own my weight in rocks with tiny spirals and shells embedded in them; one rock even has what, if you look at it from the right angle, might be interpreted as a fragment of some prehistoric insect. Instead of heading for the woods, I turn around and walk along the creek until it passes under a big concrete bridge. Under the bridge is a number of small pieces of Styrofoam, the kind that you find on the inside of boxes containing electronic equipment. There’s no explanation for why they’re there or where they came from, but I feel a flush of pleasure at the sight of them. I walk over toward the smaller of the two nearby pieces and bend over to pick up a small rock. I look over at the piece of Styrofoam, lean back in an exaggerated way, then heave the rock toward the Styrofoam. The rock hits and then dislodges it, but there are rocks and branches everywhere in the creek and it’s not long before it gets stuck again. This is all part of the game.
I throw a few more rocks, sometimes dislodging the Styrofoam temporarily, sometimes missing it altogether. At one point the Styrofoam gets hopelessly tangled up with some branches and I have to find a stick, walk out, and, balancing on the rocks, poke it until it’s free. I become absorbed in my task until it seems as though it is in the nature of the bits of Styrofoam to become trapped, and it is in my nature to free it. My mind doesn’t need to create a story to give the activity meaning; it is inherently meaningful to me. The elation and then building apprehension as it travels past rocks and branches, the disappointment of having it jam up again, the grim determination I feel as I target it, and finally the satisfaction of setting it free.
It’s a hot day, even with the sun so low on the horizon, and I stop to scoop up some water and pour it over my head. Just as I’m about to launch another rock at a difficult tangle of driftwood and seaweed, I hear the sound of gravel behind me and look back to see a car wheeling down the hill. It comes to a skidding halt in the dirt-covered area that serves for a parking lot and six older kids pile out of the car, laughing. From the way they walk, it looks like they’ve been drinking. I don’t want them to see me; in their state, teasing a younger kid might be exactly the sport they’re looking for. I look at the piece of Styrofoam one more time, released by some current from the seaweed but jammed up now by an old brick lying in the water. Then I run, bent down, into the trees. I run past the fire pit, staying near the water, as if held close by something. I approach a low bunch of bushes and crawl into the middle. Then I wait, squatting, trying to quiet my breathing. The older kids run across the grassy area next to the woods, pushing each other and tossing around a Frisbee. When they reach the woods they head immediately for the fire pit, then pull beer cans out of their knapsacks and sit down on the ring of enormous logs that surrounds the pit. I groan inwardly. They’re not going to be leaving any time soon, and it’s getting late.
While I crouch, I start to feel something like sharp pin pricks around where my bare ankles meet the tops of my sneakers. I barely notice, though, until the pricks start to travel up my legs. Then I bend my head and look down at my shoes—maybe I caught some burrs on them when I was running. Instead of burrs, though, I see that my bare legs are covered with tiny red ants. They’ve become angry at those points where they’re being blocked—around the top edge of my shoe and where my thigh meets the back of my calf. I look closer, and to my horror discover that I’m squatting almost directly on top of a red ant hill.
I look over toward where the older kids are and bite the back of my hand to keep me from making any sound as the ants crawl over me. I put my other hand down in front of me, trying to ease my thighs up off of my calves. That’s when I feel the rock—it’s the size of a plum, and almost perfectly round. I drop onto my knees and crawl forward, swiping at the ants on the backs of my legs with one hand and grabbing the rock with the other. Then I stop and lean back on my calves again, bringing the rock close to my face. I turn it around in my hand and notice that it has a tiny set of vertebrae snaking around the circumference in a band that doesn’t quite meet itself. There’s no obvious head or tail to it, just a long trail of vertebrae. It’s beautiful—the best I’ve ever seen. This rock would be perfect for my collection—the centerpiece—but that’s not its destiny. I poke my head up through the bushes for one more look at the group of kids and then begins to crawl slowly toward the edge of the woods, knees bruised by the sharp rocks, the back of my legs throbbing with hot, red welts. Just as I’m about to reach the boundary of the wood, something releases in me and I jump up and begin running, yelling at the top of my voice. I run crazily across the grass, then slow down just slightly and look in the direction of the water, still running. I jump up and turn sideways, legs spread apart, and throw the rock out into the middle of the creek. Then I somersault onto the ground, scramble to my feet and keep running, arms trailing, feet trying to catch up to my head, all the way up the dirt road and around the corner at the top. I look back once and think I can just make out a small piece of Styrofoam bobbing its way toward the lake.
*
A week and a half into my stay I receive a call from my brother to let me know that I haven’t landed a job at Ohio State, where I had made it to the top three and been invited for a two-day campus visit. The reality is, I’ve already, begun to fact the fact that, with each passing day, my chances of success have become more and more remote, and I don’t feel that surprised when I get the rejection call. Still, my devastation is acute. I can’t stop crying, and the nurse finally gives me some Ativan to calm me down. Just as the Atavan is kicking in I decide to go find Suzanne and convince her to come out with me. I feel a bender coming on. We sign ourselves out (I, as Virginia Woolf; she, as Madonna), and head off to Deco’s. Deco’s is the coolest—albeit one of only two—women’s bar in town. It’s huge, with multiple rooms, each with a different ambience, and I find it hard to imagine that lesbians, who are more likely to find love over at a potluck or activist meeting than at a bar, are going to fill this place. For a while they do, though, and I spend the tail end of my clubbing days hanging out here.
When we get there the place is dead, but as the night progresses the crowd starts to fill out and gain energy. I drink steadily, and after people start approaching the dance floor, I get up too and begin to move by myself to the music, eyes closed, head thrown back, arms stretched above me. One moment I’m laughing—crazily, too loudly; the next moment I’m standing still in the middle of the dance floor sobbing, my hands clutching my hair. No one notices me; the mass of bodies just separates and rejoins around me—fluid and adaptable. I return to the table to find that Suzanne, who’s straight, has become the object of attention for a sharp-faced woman wearing cowboy boots, who describes herself as a trucker just in town for the weekend. After ten minutes of distracted conversation with the trucker, whom I find at once dull and grating, I drain my beer and weave toward the bar to get another. Normally I can drink quite a lot, but the combination of the Ativan and the beer is making me feel woozy. On the way back I knock into the side of someone on the dance floor and spill half my beer onto the woman’s shirt. The woman turns around and gives me a push, but I just giggle, step backward into someone else, then steady myself and retreat to the edge of the crowd. As I’m scanning the bar tables that circle the dance floor for Suzanne, my eye is caught by a woman standing over by the entrance. I squint, and tilt my head back to get a better view. It’s Anne, who was my first girlfriend, We split up in 1989, but we’re still good friends, and I’m pleased—if surprised–to see her.
I raise my arm and wave. “Hey, Anne. Hey, over here!”
Anne looks over, shielding her eyes from the glare of the disco ball, and heads toward me.
“Wow!” I exclaim. “What a bizarre coincidence, eh? Imagine, both of us coming here on the same night. But hey—I thought you didn’t like this place.”
“I came here looking for you, dummy,” Anne says. “Your brother called me—told me about Ohio State, said he’d called the hospital back and was worried when they didn’t know where you were.”
“Hey, have you seen my roommate? She’s around her somewhere.”
“You mean Suzanne? Nope.”
“Anyway, her stuff’s here,” I say, gesturing vaguely at a table occupied by two twin lipstick lesbians. I walk again in the direction of the dance floor.
“Listen,” Anne says, trying to walk alongside me through the crowd. “Don’t you think it’s about time to be getting back to the hospital? Don’t they have a curfew or something?”
“I suppose,” I reply. “But what are they going to do, not let me in?” I continue on to the dance floor and wedge myself in the midst of what is now a very packed crowd, letting them prop me up. After one song, I realize that I’ve been holding an empty beer bottle in my hand and walk over toward the bar to order another.
“Sorry, Ma’am, you’re cut off.”
“Cut off!” I exclaim, incredulous. “Since when has anyone ever cut off anyone else at a queer bar? I grin and steady myself on the bar. “C’mon, Fred. Just one more.”
“My name’s not Fred, and sorry, you’re cut off—on the advice of that woman over there.” He points to Anne.
“Fuck it,” I say, and turn around, intending to have words with Anne. Just at that moment, Suzanne sweeps by me and heads for the door.
“Hey Suzanne! Hey! Where are you going? Hold up!” I shout, but she just yanks the door open and walks out.
“Huh,” I say to myself. “That’s weird.”
Anne comes up behind me and takes me by the shoulder. “Come on, you’re going home.”
As soon as I walk out of the door and breathe some fresh air, I get the spins and feel my legs going out from under me. Anne throws my arm around her shoulder and supports me all the way up Yonge Street to College. I try to help out, but the full force of Ativan and alcohol has hit me and I can barely put one foot in front of the other. When we get to the ninth floor, Anne bangs on the door to summon the night nurse.
The nurse takes one look at me and says, “Just put her to bed like that. We’ll deal with it in the morning.” I’m out before my head even hits the pillow.
*
My night out has a disturbing outcome that centers around Suzanne. Sometime during mid-afternoon my doctor shows up at my door and asks me to meet him in the interview room. I groan, roll onto my front, and push myself up to a kneeling position. My skull feels like it has cracked open, and I lower myself slowly back onto my stomach. After another couple of minutes, I roll onto my back and swing my legs onto the ground. The room is directly across the hall, so I don’t bother to put shoes or socks on. I walk over in my bare feet and sit down gingerly in the chair opposite him.
“I’ve heard some disturbing news,” he says, “but I wanted to check this out with you because I’m not sure how to take it.”
“Uh huh,” I say, the pain in my head now accompanied with waves of nausea.
“I understand that Suzanne went out to a bar with you last night.” The tone of his voice and the mention of Suzanne combine to focus my attention.
“That’s right,” I answer. “Why?” I’m annoyed at myself for already sounding—and feeling–defensive.
“Well, Suzanne told her doctor about something that happened while she was at the bar with you, and I just wanted to get your input on it.”
“Well, all I know is that she disappeared somewhere, and then later on she stormed out.”
“Suzanne tells us that she had an upsetting…encounter with someone in the bathroom.”
“What do you mean?”
“She says that a woman forced herself on her in the bathroom. She’s saying that she was raped.”
“What?”
“She says this woman raped her.” He says it slowly—not so it will sink in, but as if reaching for comprehension. “So what I want to know from you is, does this sort of thing ever…happen?”
“Do women rape women? I suppose, but…”
“I guess what I mean is, is this the sort of thing that happens at a women’s bar? You’re not in any trouble, I just want to know if Suzanne’s story is plausible.”
I think back and try to call up an image of the trucker. She did look kind of dodgy, and I’ve seen a lot of unwelcome coming-on to people, but I’ve never heard of rape in a bathroom women’s bar. I doubt that Suzanne is outright lying; it seems more likely that her perceptions of her own and the other woman’s actions are distorted. But I have no way to know, really. I feel my loyalties divide—on the one hand, to a community of women that is already badly misrepresented; on the other hand, to a woman who shares my condition and is probably in genuine distress. I choose to dispense with nuance and just pick a side.
“No, that sort of thing does not happen,” she says emphatically.
“Okay, that’s what I thought.” He sounds relieved. Incident avoided.
I don’t see Suzanne much in the next few days, and when I do, I avoid her eyes. For weeks after, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve somehow betrayed both Suzanne and myself.
*
My nurse, Nellie, hears about my bender, and knows that it has to with not getting the job I had been hoping for. During our one-on-one nurse, she brings it up. “Listen Jennifer,” she says. “A lot of people don’t get to have the jobs that they want. I think you should start figuring out what else you might do. You’re just making yourself miserable, keeping on like this.” She sounds irritated.
“Why are you saying this?” I ask. “I thought you were supposed to be, you know, supportive. I thought you were supposed to be encouraging.”
“I am being supportive, Jennifer. But listen, do you think this was my first choice for a job? I wanted to be a teacher. But there were no positions then, and it wasn’t a realistic goal. The province was dying for nurses, it was a guaranteed job with good benefits, so I did that instead. And here I am.” I look over at Nellie. The knowledge that she’d rather be elsewhere makes me feel like an imposition, and I finish up quickly with her and return to my room.
I occurs to me that I envy Nellie. Nellie just gave up. Changed course. Did the sensible thing. Why can’t I do that? A series of low-paying, Government-sponsored jobs during the summers I was an undergrad has left me with a fair bit of experience working with physically and intellectually disabled people. Add to that my jobs taking underprivileged kids and then young offenders out on wilderness trips, and surely I could cobble together a resumé targeted toward working with disadvantaged and at risk populations. I’d have to take the PhD off my resumé, of course; nobody wants to hire someone who’s overqualified and is likely to jump ship when a better opportunity comes along. Having been passed by again and again, you’d think I’d be ready to move on. It’s not like my classmates have had any better luck. There were eleven of us, and as far as I know, only one of us has actually found work in academia. Somewhere in Tennessee, where, during class, students spit out the juice from their chewing tobacco into empty coke cans. One of our group works in a bookstore. Another runs a yoga studio, a third works in a bar. Yet another, a German fellow, the star of the department, works for some large corporation back in Germany doing something in the corporate world that’s extremely lucrative.
I’ve crapped out where the job market is concerned, and my efforts are exhausting me emotionally. I lie on my bed, faced with the sure knowledge that one more rejection and I’ll lose myself—not just the image of myself as an academic, but a deeper disorientation that will suck away the last of my agency and purpose. I can’t imagine applying for any sort of job right now, but my knob sorting gig is petering out, and I’m in a real jam. And so reluctantly, and only after repeated prompts from my doctor and the social worker, I entertain the possibility of going on welfare. Just the thought of it fills me with shame; although I know them to be distortions, I balk at being associated with the images of welfare slackers and con artists portrayed in the media. But I’m not crazy enough to qualify for disability benefits—reserved for the deserving disabled—and the only option left is to become an undeserving burden on the system. I finally agree, the paperwork is filled out, and I begin my six mortifying months on welfare.
There remains the question of where to stay. There’s always my brother’s couch, but that thought too fills me with dismay. It’s not that it’s particularly unpleasant, and I’m certainly welcome, but if failing to get a job makes me feel like I’m standing still, returning to my brother’s couch feels like going in reverse. Fortunately, a solution presents itself during a visit from Anne. She’s planning to get a new apartment while she’s in law school—would I like to get something together? Sensitive to my financial situation, she offers to pay two thirds of the rent. It’s a bad time to be on welfare, what with the twenty-one percent rollback in social assistance that the Harris Government has imposed, but with Anne’s help, I should just be able to make it. It might be a bit complicated, given the fact that we used to be girlfriends, but we have eight, stabilizing years of friendship behind us.
Because my depression is so stubbornly resistant to medication, as a last ditch effort my doctor has put me on Ritalin. For those people with ADHD, Ritalin has a calming effect; for the rest of us, it’s like drinking ten cups of coffee. Because welfare doesn’t cover the slow release version, I have to take the quick release a couple of times a day. While the slow release gives you an even boost over about eight hours, the quick release gives you an abrupt high that lasts about an hour and a half, followed by a precipitous dip, at which point you take another one. The highs are great—I feel like I can do anything, even the most banal chore feels pleasant and meaningful, and I find it easy and fun to interact with people. If I feel a little uncomfortably speeded up at times, if sometimes the high mutates into a crushing anxiety that leaves me curled up in bed, unable to stand even the touch of the sheets on my body, chasing that great feeling is worth the liability.
With Ritalin coursing through my system, and my finances and living arrangements somewhat in order, I begin to feel more hopeful, and in a couple of days my doctor agrees that I’m ok to leave. I stay with my bother until Anne and I can find a place, which proves to be difficult, given the almost zero percent vacancy in Toronto, but eventually we find a two story apartment in an Irish setter colored brick house on Ossington just south of Bloor. Anne takes the small bedroom at the front, and I take the larger one at the back, reasoning that I’ll need space for a desk once I return to making revisions to my book. There remains the matter of continuing to look for paying work so that I can present evidence to the welfare office of my sincere efforts to improve my station. But the book is much more important to me now than looking for work. Fueled by an artificial stimulant, my fantasy has found new life, and I reason that If I’m going to land that tenure track job, I’m going to need a published book in hand.
I work on the book in the morning and then visit the welfare office in the afternoon, which creates in me a profound cognitive dissonance. For the first half of the day, I immerse myself in the heady world of postmodern and critical Marxist theory, teasing out the utopian impulse in their logic. Navigating this elevated terrain, when combined with my Ritalin high, makes me feel smart, focused, in control. But by the time I slink into the welfare office in mid-afternoon, my second Ritalin has worn off, and the full force of my shame hits me like a punch in the gut. I keep my eyes down when I talk to the worker behind the glass, imagining her disapproval at my indifferent efforts to acquire work, at my presence here, at my very being in the world. It’s difficult to reconcile the disparity between my academic work and my social status, and tough to maintain a coherent sense of myself.
I spend my days swinging between chemically-induced confidence and socially-induced shame, and my evenings escaping from my double life into a haze of alcohol. During that time, I manage to obtain one low-paying sessional course in Ryerson’s Continuing Education Program, teaching writing and grammar to mature students. The actual classes, which take place in the evening well after my Ritalin has worn off, are an exercise in endurance. The grading, however, which I do in the morning after my first pill, is a delight. I blitz through the papers, and if I miss the odd comma splice, pass over the occasional verb tense disagreement, I more than make up for it with my effusive and lengthy comments. If my enthusiasm is artificial, well, what’s the difference, really? The work gets done. And if the highs sometimes turn to a crippling anxiety that leaves me lying with my eyes squeezed shut, unable to tolerate the faintest sound, what choice do I have? At least I’m free from the depression, and I dare to think that maybe this stuff will beat it back for good.
