Free Dora: A Headcase by Lidia Yuknavitch

sacks waiting to go to dirt,” I go.
    Marlene doesn’t say anything. She dries my hands. She reaches under the sink and gets a first aid kit and wraps my cut up hand with a gauze bandage, slowly. I stare at the little red cleft in my hand. Don’t cry, pussy .
    Then a numb comes. It’s a numb I know. It’s the numb of a girl checking out. Whatever they say next can’t fucking touch me. I’m long gone. One way or another, I will end this. But on my terms. I turn the volume up. Marlene picks up glass on the floor. The next voice is Sig’s. His voice is all over the map.
    “I find that last comment entirely offensive. This is intolerable. You have no right to talk about any client in such a way – ”
    For a second I think the Sig is going to rescue me. Like Heidi’s Grandpa. Can you beat that?
    “ – but what was it you said earlier – what did you mean a new ‘you?’ You mean me?”
    “New you? What I meant was, well we can’t … Sig, I mean, look. You’re one big brain with a whole fucking library of shit stuck up in that noggin, but you’re not exactly a visual magnet, right? But don’t worry about that. I found someone – another client of mine – who is very interested. He was made for TV. Oh – and he’s in your line of work.”
    “You found an actor who is a psychotherapist?”

    “ What? Fuck no. I found a dream guy. What’s that shit you ordered? Is that the Chicken Kiev? It looks like paste. All this frou-frou new food looks like crap to me. I should have ordered a fucking steak.”
    Sound of old man half choking on food.
    “Symbols and brain waves and talkity talk. Like you. Only he’s a looker. No offense. Actually, you already know each other. Hey! Look! Here he comes now. Hope you don’t mind, I invited him to join us. To share the news … I’ll get us all another round.”
    Sound of chairs being pushed back.
    I steal a glance at Marlene. I remember from the restaurant. It’s the silvery hot guy. I crank the volume.
    “Sigisimund! My old friend. So very good to see you!”
    “My … I … Jung?”
    Sound of body falling to the floor.
    The H4n shuts off.
    Marlene looks at me.
    I look at Marlene.
    “That’s where he fucking fainted,” I go.
    “Liebchen, are you well?” she asks.
    I bend down on the ground. I calmly put my beloved H4n – maybe the only thing in the world besides Marlene that I trust – into my backpack. I stand up. I look out of the kitchen window. I wish it was snowing. I mean I wish it kid hard. But it’s still just stupid raining. Well, there’s more than one place to find white stuff.
    Marlene and I lock eyes.
    “Marlene?” I go.
    “Liebchen?” she answers.
    “I’m gonna need to borrow one of your wigs. Can you help me pick one? One that, you know, will make me not look anything like me?”
    “Certainly. I happen to be very good at disguises. Who do you want look like?” she asks.

    I suck some blood on my thumb. Almond pepper. Kirsch Wasser.
    “Dora,” I go. “I want to look like Dora. They want a show, I’ll give them one.”

10.
    IF YOU WANT TO STALK SOMEONE PROPER, ONE WORD for you: wigs.
    Lucky for me, Marlene’s got lots of’em. She’s got platinum blond Marilyn Monroes and fire engine red beehives and long jet blacks with Bettie Page bangs. She’s got blue hair and pink hair and hair the color of purple Slurpees. She’s got a foot wide’fro and a spiky punk black and blue. She’s got Liz Taylors and Zsa Zsas. She’s got long hair and short hair and tall hair and soft trusses and bobs and shags and even this braid down to your ass that would make a man yell RAPUNZEL half a mile away.
    Obviously she uses them for her gigs at the tranny jazz club.
    I have other plans. With a wig, you can be anyone.
    My mother once lost all of her hairs. It came out in patches at first, then great clumps. So she cut it short – then it began to look refugee. They said it was psychosomatic. They said it was stress. They said she made her own hair