Holding Your Glasses in My Hand

Karen Masullo


The guy with the blond hair that we met just south of D.C. is the one I think about --
do you remember how we met him? I don't, not clearly. I know we were hitchhiking,
know it was raining. I know we were broke, but I don't remember how we ended up at his house.
That house, three rooms and a bedroom he shared with his mother.
He threw her out so we could both have a warm place to sleep and then crawled in with us.
He was slow wasn't he? Hardly any teeth, skinny and so very high, even in the morning.

You pretended to sleep while I screwed him. So, we were fed, we were dry.
Everything cool until he decided to come with us. You looked at me with those perfect blue eyes,
crooked glasses, pretty hair; baby-fine blonde strands caught in your mouth:
you formed the word No.
I shrugged it off, no big deal.
Even when we left New York, walked away at lunch right before English
with only thirty six dollars and our uniform skirts rolled up to our asses – I shrugged it off.

We caught a ride with that business guy, remember? Briefcase, mileage log, two kids and a wife.
Our bed bug started to babble: weird stuff about where we were going,
what we were going to find. I don't know, crazy shit, scary shit.
He fell asleep at mile 109.
The business guy had a plan – he stopped the car and let us out while the crazy boy slept –
he told us he'd handle it. I guess he did.

We caught rides for about 600 miles.
Strange folk out there. I slept with all of them so you wouldn't have to:
That guy in Athens who tried to rape you; the one with the red Chevette
who wouldn't drive any more until he got a blow job;
those four hunters in Tennessee. It was always my choice.
Even when you wanted to go home and I helped you see why you had to stay,
hung up the phone while you were talking to your sobbing sister,
helped you understand the importance of what we were doing, I did it for you.
Remember that time I woke up and found you gone?
I got the guy I was sleeping with to help me look for you; and there you were,
five miles down the highway trying to get back to New York, crying, alone.
You never would have survived.

Remember when I wrapped that scarf around my neck,
tied it across my back so it barely covered my breasts?
We went "shopping" for food,
two steaks and a quart of milk.
I was in the candy aisle while you shoved meat down your shirt;
some fat man was offering me food stamps for a look at my tits
while you were being arrested.
I could have walked away. I could have taken the food stamps,
but I was handcuffed to you instead, marched through the store,
eventually put on a plane, sent back: my choice.
Your parents picked you up at the airport -- mine couldn't get away.

Remember how your father looked at me?
It reminded me of red Chevettes and houses with three rooms.
You called me once: you needed your glasses; you were never allowed to speak with me again.
Even today, twenty-five years later, when I stare at your address on my monitor screen,
I know I can't make the call, write the letter.
Something dangerous happened. It should be put away.


Karen Masullo