Girl vs Ghost
“I think what you need,” she says, “is to just get in my car, drive west with me until we are in the middle of nowhere and just scream until you cant breathe.”
I picture us there, two girls in ripped shorts and tomato-soup-stained tank tops, in a random field in west Texas, howling at the moon like gangly, hairless wolves. I picture reaching in through the open driver side window and honking the horn in a random pattern. At some point, Jessie climbs on top of her ten year-old black Lexus, triumphantly clawing at the sky.
Way back when, I used to do something like that in The Hamptons; drive to the ocean in December, walk to the edge and scream into the wind. After Heather died, it felt like the only thing I ever did, but at some point, maybe maybe after 9/11 when I decided to stay in Brooklyn, I just stopped.
“But is there even a place in this fucking world that isn’t inhabited by someone?” I ask. “I bet someone would call the cops and we’d end up in some bumble fuck jail for two days with some alcoholic named Berlinda who smells like she’s been sitting in her piss for the past twelve years.”
Jessie shrugs and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Sweat drips down her temples and she wipes the condensation off the side of her beer. It’s a Friday afternoon and we’re drinking cloudy-yellow, wheat beers with pulpy orange slices in a beer garden somewhere around 45th and Burnet.
“That happened to Kate and me once. We were speeding on the way to Marfa and some hick cop pulled me over,” Jessie says as she inhales off to the side, blowing the smoke behind her, but it comes back and hits me in the face anyway. “My insurance card had expired so he had some deputy drive our car back to the station and we ended up in some cell with a girl coming off heroine. We were only in there for two hours but it was fucking miserable.”