North of Normal

The Siege Diary

I'm driving down Southfield, past the ruins of what I thought was the Ford headquarters but wasn't, past the Salt-and-Pepper Shaker buildings, past the big Blue Lagoon, past the tacky pink Ritz Carleton. Of course the radio is on. "I'm the king of the castle, you're a dirty rascal," a different Dave taunts, then fades into Tom Petty, who won't back down.

I told Falstaff that his job last night was to make sure I didn't drink enough to get maudlin. Shakespeare Vodka notwithstanding, I didn't. I had felt on, on all night. On at the bookclub where the discussion clicked and rolled, on at home talking context and feminism with mom.

"I shine when I'm angry," I said. "Why don't I glitter like this when I'm happy?"

I don't feel on right now. In fact, I feel decidedly off. "In a world that keeps on pushing me around, I won't back down." Something little in me breaks, a filament snaps and I cry at last. Just a few tears, quiet and squelched immediately, are all I can allow. I won't sob down Southfield, past the sad liquor stores and declining neighborhoods. I won't. I can't.

I bite my cheek and try to distract myself: Rocket Noodles, Rocket Man, Rocket Launcher.

I change the radio stations: commercial, commercial, traffic report.

Down skeevy, pockmarked Borman Avenue, I land on the country station. "He thinks I'm pretty, he thinks I'm smart--"

I punch the radio off with more vehemence than is really necessary.

Fuck you, Martina.