banana moon

Sometimes I wonder if any of this is real. Me, Lucy, Aliss, this place. Lucy convinced me to come here when I started questioning whether she was real. Started questioning aloud, that is. Aloud, aloud.

Or did I ever?

If you knew the story you might be sympathetic to my doubts. Two years ago, warm August eve, Lucy shows up on my doorstep. Long-lost twin. Moths pinging off the porch light, smell of wet earth on the air. Her long dark hair catching glints of moon; her white teeth; that perfect, confident smile. What man wouldn’t want her for a mirror?

The details are tedious; they could be real, they could be not. Real –- whatever that means. Real like the narrow bed I sleep in? Like these stiff institutional sheets? Or real like the steamer trunk at the foot of my bed, stuffed full with random crap? Dusty old remote controls (no batteries), plastic shopping bags, cords and rope and lengths of plastic sheeting, a plush-toy cat wrapped in shredded rags, blocks of dried-out molding clay. A sharp little pile of cut-up credit cards. A plastic samurai sword. A busted old transistor radio, a yellowed stack of weirdly childlike newspapers. A goddamn motherfucking gorilla suit. That seals the deal – I am crazy.

The trunk has no markings on it; it’s not mine, but it doesn’t appear to be anybody else’s. I’d like to say (mysteriously) “It just showed up one day,” (as things in my life apparently are wont to do) but I don’t recall it going down like that. The trunk did not arrive, so to speak.

Wasn’t here when I moved in, though. Not that I recall.

And yes, some day I’m going to climb into that fucking gorilla suit and bust out of here. Plastic sword. A man needs decent bed sheets, you know. Everything else I can tolerate.

Everything except the missing mollydoll.

I’m starting to wonder if they took it. Might have to see if I can get that radio working.