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The Lisa Diaries by Lisa Carver  



Vignettes of Atrocities


October 7, 1999




Pillow Molester


I was kissing Dave and he was making faces, trying to avoid me. “All right, I’ll get up,” I said. “Just stay away from my pillow!” He’s always trying to sleep on my pillow. He has two of his own, yet if I leave the bedroom for even a minute, I’ll return to find him laying on mine, his pair cast aside. This has been going on for close to a year now, so it’s not some passing fancy. I’ve explained to him that the grease he uses in his hair is, upon transmittal to my sleeping quarters, disastrous to my complexion, and that furthermore, it’s an issue of respect. That’s my pillow, and I consider it private. Whether he agrees or not about a pillow’s capacity to be private, that’s how I feel, and he has to honor that. I’ve gotten in the habit, when I’m first to rise, of moving my pillow down to the foot of the bed. I did that again this morning, and started to leave the room when I saw one of Dave’s eyes — the one closest to the bed — open just a crack and peek around for my pillow. “That’s it!” I cried. “What is going on between you and my pillow?!”


    

“It’s true, you know,” he said, both eyes closed again. “I’ve humped your pillow. More than once.” He opened the eyes to see if I was smiling. Indeed I was not.


    

“That’s aggressive, Dave. You’re . . . you’re raping my personal space! How long has this been going on?”


    

The whole time, he confessed.


    

“Dave, that’s . . . that’s . . . deviant! We have sex all the time. When do you have time? Why my pillow?”


    

“Yours is fluffy.”


    

“You have two, isn’t one of yours fluffy?”


    

“Not in the same way. I like a variety.”


    

Disgusted, I grabbed my pillow and ran out.


    

“I’ll find it,” he called, chuckling. “Wherever you hide it, I’ll find it.”






News Item, Page Eleven


After one hour of exquisite stimulation to the clitoris, Dame Edith Sitwell, poetess, sound technician and Honorary Commander of the British Empire, age 73, died. Upon finding her dead, skirt lifted over her formidable head, Osbert, her brother, removed his tie and set about hanging himself from the limb of a Gothic sculpture in brass. The distraught sibling would have succeeded had not a nearby roll of tape come to life, knocked the tie out of his hand and taped his raised arms to the wall opposite his sister’s corpse. (While another man would have been more than match for a roll of masking tape, Sir Osbert Sitwell, at 67, had come to an advanced state of palsy, and was powerless against the tape’s cruel treatment.) This was the scene discovered by the police at 4:07 p.m. in the east wing of the family’s home, Renishaw Hall.


    

What is remarkable is not so much that an energetic roll of tape halted the suicide attempt of a Commander of the British Empire, but that scholars and journalists, including myself, uniformly accepted the verity of these events. “Well,” I thought, “perhaps it was this roll of tape that had been used to provide all that clitoral stimulation, and somewhere along the way it absorbed Dame Sitwell’s life force, much like the orgone boxes of Reich.” But I was kidding myself, in an effort to be polite. Obviously, Dame Edith herself had taped Osbert to the wall, expiring before providing his sixty minutes of exquisite genital stimulation.


    

“So Edith Sitwell wasn’t gay,” I said to myself when I woke up. “Extraordinary.”






The Last Run of Ice Cream Truck Girl


The six painters working on the house next to ours yell out “COUGAR!” in unison when a John Cougar Mellencamp song comes on their radio. It makes me sigh. “You bunch of dumb men,” I say to myself, and picture them with their pants off. I’m flat on my back on my porch, sunbathing in shorts and an anorak. It’s a good angle for observing men on ladders. There they dangle, attached only by one foot and half-a-hand, their paint-speckled, naked backs stretching, making pale flesh-silhouettes against the glistening-wet red house. Their tight painter’s pants with all those pockets and loops . . . What was I saying? I bite into my apple.


    

A familiar melody coming from the next street pricks up their ears and mine. It’s the ice cream truck. The ice cream truck girl has been a steady fuck of Dave’s and mine for months now (well, she doesn’t know it, but she’s done disgusting things with Popsicles and stuff to both of us). The painters clamor down their ladders and charge the truck, hooting about ice cream as lustily as they do about John Cougar Mellencamp. The children get there first — children who seem to have been inside every house, silent and waiting. Released into the outdoors in hats, boots and T-shirts, they shout in code. They are rude and alive and they make the whole scene swirl. Indecipherable creatures.


    

I can see even from here that Ice Cream Truck Girl is disdainful like she always is. She passes out cones with hatred in her eyes and then turns abruptly away from the slobbering customers, revealing a sassy behind. I scramble into the house and up the stairs, calling for Dave: “It’s the painters and Ice Cream Truck Girl . . . together!” He is in his studio. Recognizing the seriousness of the moment, he immediately steps away from his Digital Multitracker and starts galloping. I throw money down the stairs at him; I can’t go because the ice cream girl looked at me funny last time — I think she knows my thoughts. “What kind of cone do you want?” he pauses to ask. “David!” I cry, in disbelief. (To think of food at a time like this!) “Just be my spy!”


    

I wait inside with the lights off. Silence descends. It’s five o’clock and already darkening. Outside, the frenzied jostling for position continues. Some of the painters have finished their cone already and want seconds. The children disappear, as swiftly and mysteriously as they arrived. Unwrapped torsos and Nutty Buddies drip. Dave is the only one with all his clothes on. He even wears underwear, every day — that’s how polite he is. How many of those painters, do you suppose, bother to put them on under their ultra-useful pants? I fix my X-ray vision on the group. It’s hazy, but I’m guessing that’s six naked bums under six painter’s pants. I watch my husband negotiate the sea of males. My sweet little cottontail of a lover, with his secret, snaky intentions. It’s been so long since I didn’t know him. His demure Mother Mary smile, his good boy manners. He’s littler than the others, more lithe. He hangs back at the edge of the crowd. He’ll wait till Ice Cream Truck Girl thinks he’s not going to buy, till she puts her finger on the key to go. Then he’ll say, “Um . . . ” Yes, there, I think I can lip-read the “um.” Now she’s holding out a cone to him with two fingers only, like she’d rather drop it in the gutter. My fingers are cold on the glass. I watch my breath form, a leaf falls. Dave starts to take a little lick off his cone, stops himself. Reaches into the circular trash hole on the truck, right under Ice Cream Girl’s window. It looks obscene — the hole is at crotch level and he’s rummaging around. What do you think you’re going to find in there, Dave? What is it you get out of these odd actions? Now he’s . . . yup, running away. In the opposite direction of our house? It’s hard for anyone to look dignified while running, but Dave runs like a Muppet. Ice Cream Truck Girl sticks her head out the window, furious that someone would run away from her truck. She doesn’t like it when they linger either, but this new, inexplicable behavior is just too much. Why do all the crazy people want ice cream? And is she imagining things, or do the blinds across the street keep lifting? Is somebody spying on her? She’s been meaning to learn voodoo. That would sure come in handy right now — teach people a thing or two about doing weird things around her truck.





©1999
Lisa Carver and Nerve.com