The Girl Who Learned To Kneel

Goldberg: Fix me, Jesus

Goldberg: Perseverance Alone

“Shitballs,” she exclaims.

He isn’t black or dangerous looking. Nor is he wearing the ribbed tank top she had imagined. And there is no sign of a gun. In fact, he is more of a she. Or it is hard to tell. But the clothing suggests female. Her brain quickly sifts through the ambiguity and makes a decision, as a brain is wont to do—desiring clarity, categories. She is wearing red dangly earrings, which stand out against her pasty white skin and a flowered blouse buttoned up snugly at the neck. Surprising in this heat. Also surprising is the matte finish of her skin; in fact, she seems entirely unaffected by the temperature. (Conversely, Laser can feel her foundation starting to trickle and pool at all the facial crevices.) The creature’s hair is a cheap looking blonde and barely covering the scalp. The sound of whirring wheels is coming from her wheelchair, a high tech piece of equipment which she maneuvers adeptly.

She half expects the man…woman to pop up out of the chair and yell: “Freaky D-Day” or “Fuckiatchi!”—something obscure and theatrical. She is reminded of all the weird theatre movements she studied in university and that one class in particular, where the eager presenters had thrown a bucket of urine at the unsuspecting onlookers—a re-enactment of Dadaism. A bucket of piss would not be out of place here.

And what is she here for again? She suddenly feels faint. She reaches for her bottle of water. “Can I help you?” The she-male utters in a husky voice. She appears entirely at ease, despite the fact that a sweating pregnant woman is standing at her front door, having thus muttered a mere two syllables: ‘Shitballs.’ Perhaps this is a vision—a desert vision. Unlikely, but not impossible. Though the dryness in her throat suggests otherwise. “Ah…yeah…ah…” Laser stammers, dumping the contents of her bag on the concrete. She needs a sip of water bad, but she grabbed the green slouchy bag—the one that absorbs contents into its slouchy skin. Mental note: throw the fucking bag away.
“I just wanted to ask you about something—”

Dizzy, dizzy, black.

Light.

Black.