The Bed Moved Read Online Free Page A
Author: Rebecca Schiff
bad-looking made them want to be violent, and that’s why they had formed a club not to be. This explanation still made sense when I attended the wedding of my friend and the man who had founded “Men Against Violence.”
—
AT THE WEDDING, I made a toast. It was a job assigned to me because I was “good with words.” I wondered if I would have to let my friend minister my wedding because she was good with God. My toast was not very good. I did not mention the club my friend’s new husband had formed and disbanded in college, though the club was all I wanted to say about him. I said my friend was marrying someone with a cool beard.
I had seen cooler beards. I had seen cooler beards at this wedding, but most of the men with beards had girlfriends, assigned to sit next to them in case the water glasses got mixed up.
When had my friend made so many new friends? Were they all ministers? I met Methodists, Episcopalians, Unitarians. The girls were pretty and seemed concerned about race relations. The men were quieter, chewing behind their beards, like they had always been heading in the direction of wearing a tie at this table. Couples danced whether or not they were going to make it through the year. They were going to make it through the night, was the message, so back off. They didn’t know that I had backed off years ago, when all this was still for the taking.
“Dr. King espoused nonviolent resistance,” said a Presbyterian in a tube dress.
“He wouldn’t have been violent anyway,” I sort of whispered.
The bride and groom sat by themselves at a two-person desk, which I later learned was called the “Sweethearts’ Table.” They were in charge of what we valued tonight—ethical shrimp, token gay ministers, gift packets of seeds, nonviolent porn. They thanked the wedding guests for taking planes from all over the world to form this community. They handed a mic back and forth, and seemed moved.
Somehow, the two of them moved back to the town where we had gone to college. They must have liked it there. My friend became a minister to the students at the college, but it’s not called a minister when it’s students. It’s called a chaplain. Violence might mean something other than violence, too, at this college. I always thought violence meant a punch in the face, a knife to the throat, but the students at this college meant whenever you felt violated. That could be anytime.
—
RIGHT NOW I am violating my friend and her husband by telling their story. I am violating the college and all its clubs. Someone could point out that a girl at the college was once a victim of actual murder. There is a tree with her name at the base, on a plaque. The tree blocks the view from a hill where we used to sit. The tree violates the view. I didn’t know the girl, or miss her, because she went to the college after we went, after my friend’s husband’s club was formed and disbanded, but before my friend and her husband moved back. I didn’t know the guy who killed her, but I know violence has to mean what it says, and it shuts everybody up when it says it.
Welcome Lilah
ON THE BUS, I was jealous. I was jealous of the girl in front of me, jealous of the girl diagonal. I was jealous of the elderly Chinese woman sleeping by the window. It was the Chinatown Bus. The bus was taking me to see a guy who had come to see me twice, a guy who held doors, a guy who told me I was cute like he was trying to ward something off. He would find all of these girls cute. Any of us could step off the bus and be his girlfriend.
By the time I got off the bus, I was done with him. He was there anyway, waiting to take my bag. The problem was that it was his birthday. I had a box of Italian cookies and a card I had written on the bus.
“You are special,” I had written. It was the only thing I could think of that wasn’t a lie. Everyone was special. “I hope you like cookies…,” I had added. That was a lie. I knew he liked cookies.
—
AT THE WEDDING, I made a toast. It was a job assigned to me because I was “good with words.” I wondered if I would have to let my friend minister my wedding because she was good with God. My toast was not very good. I did not mention the club my friend’s new husband had formed and disbanded in college, though the club was all I wanted to say about him. I said my friend was marrying someone with a cool beard.
I had seen cooler beards. I had seen cooler beards at this wedding, but most of the men with beards had girlfriends, assigned to sit next to them in case the water glasses got mixed up.
When had my friend made so many new friends? Were they all ministers? I met Methodists, Episcopalians, Unitarians. The girls were pretty and seemed concerned about race relations. The men were quieter, chewing behind their beards, like they had always been heading in the direction of wearing a tie at this table. Couples danced whether or not they were going to make it through the year. They were going to make it through the night, was the message, so back off. They didn’t know that I had backed off years ago, when all this was still for the taking.
“Dr. King espoused nonviolent resistance,” said a Presbyterian in a tube dress.
“He wouldn’t have been violent anyway,” I sort of whispered.
The bride and groom sat by themselves at a two-person desk, which I later learned was called the “Sweethearts’ Table.” They were in charge of what we valued tonight—ethical shrimp, token gay ministers, gift packets of seeds, nonviolent porn. They thanked the wedding guests for taking planes from all over the world to form this community. They handed a mic back and forth, and seemed moved.
Somehow, the two of them moved back to the town where we had gone to college. They must have liked it there. My friend became a minister to the students at the college, but it’s not called a minister when it’s students. It’s called a chaplain. Violence might mean something other than violence, too, at this college. I always thought violence meant a punch in the face, a knife to the throat, but the students at this college meant whenever you felt violated. That could be anytime.
—
RIGHT NOW I am violating my friend and her husband by telling their story. I am violating the college and all its clubs. Someone could point out that a girl at the college was once a victim of actual murder. There is a tree with her name at the base, on a plaque. The tree blocks the view from a hill where we used to sit. The tree violates the view. I didn’t know the girl, or miss her, because she went to the college after we went, after my friend’s husband’s club was formed and disbanded, but before my friend and her husband moved back. I didn’t know the guy who killed her, but I know violence has to mean what it says, and it shuts everybody up when it says it.
Welcome Lilah
ON THE BUS, I was jealous. I was jealous of the girl in front of me, jealous of the girl diagonal. I was jealous of the elderly Chinese woman sleeping by the window. It was the Chinatown Bus. The bus was taking me to see a guy who had come to see me twice, a guy who held doors, a guy who told me I was cute like he was trying to ward something off. He would find all of these girls cute. Any of us could step off the bus and be his girlfriend.
By the time I got off the bus, I was done with him. He was there anyway, waiting to take my bag. The problem was that it was his birthday. I had a box of Italian cookies and a card I had written on the bus.
“You are special,” I had written. It was the only thing I could think of that wasn’t a lie. Everyone was special. “I hope you like cookies…,” I had added. That was a lie. I knew he liked cookies.
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