Ampersand

‘There are listeners and talkers, slitherers and stalkers, for the flim and the flam of the witchity-
grubs would never find an end.’ Blatantly, it made no sense, none at all, but no matter. It would
serve its purpose well enough, which was to go towards completing the creative writing
assignment that Dr Morrison had set her the previous week.
“Five thousand words” she had said, “lucid, coherent and full of the real you. This time I want
you to really commit, okay? Try and reveal yourself a little, hmm?”
That had been on Wednesday, a week ago tomorrow. ‘Funny how time flies…’ Amrika thought
wryly. Since that day last week in the good doctors classroom ‘fun’ had been the last thing she
had been having. She and her best friend Julietta had spent the time mainly in the company of
their deadbeat, soon to be ex, boyfriends. Most of that time had been spent in the mall. In the
beginning they had to drag Kanye and Thomas to the mall, as left to their own devices they
preferred to shoot hoops on the makeshift basketball court that lay behind the garage of
Thomas’ father’s house. Thomas occasionally played as the ‘Phoenix Suns’ the team from the
town his late mother had grown up in, but mostly as the ‘New York Knicks’, the team from the
town he had been raised in until the age of ten, and which he still regarded as home. Kanye
always, but always, played as the L.A Lakers. Home team advantage all the way. Amrika
remembered that back then, two months ago, the struggle to get them to come to the mall had
been half the joy, cajoling and funning them whether or not they thought they were too ‘manly’
to be seen at the mall with girlfriends, and asking them if they preferred to stay together playing
homoerotic sports. That always seemed to do it. But nowadays they put up little to no resistance
and accompanied the girls zombie-like to their destination. Where was the enjoyment in having
two boys standing timid and compliant in the corner of shop floors whilst they shopped? It was
like being middle-aged and married when what they wanted was a pair of difficult Alpha Males,
who, if not quite bad boys, at least had some sense of self determination. Why didn’t they
refuse, so that then, alone, the girls could curtail their shopping trips early and rush eagerly
home to spend quality time with their men? Truly, the life of a modern thirteen year old girl was
harder than could be imagined.

She counted the words she had written. Twenty three. Only four thousand, nine hundred and
seventy seven to go. Despair. And then all at once, it came together and she realised that what
she had written was not nonsense at all, that it was in actuality something that emanated from a
place she had hitherto barely been aware of. Dr Morrison was sure to be impressed, if only she
found what Amrika had written half-way intelligible.

Light from the late afternoon sun plummeted icarus-like into the classroom and onto Dr Morrison
as she picked up the last of the classes’ text books. Broken spines. She tired of telling the pupils
about the cost of books, the value of a good education and the correlation between the two.
Unlike some of the other teachers she never tired of the students themselves, but then her path
into the profession almost precluded such a reaction. She had been a practicing psychotherapist
for 8 years, and that, added onto the years of training meant that a significant portion of her
adult life had been dedicated to the welfare of others. But she had felt something missing, and
after coming to the conclusion that there was something futile, contradictory even, about her
chosen profession, the role of therapist somehow becoming part of her patients’ problems, she
decided personal change was necessary. Approaching forty she was still childless, partly through
circumstance, partly through choice. She hadn’t met the right man, and her second boyfriend
apart, loved none of them. To her mind, to bear a child without love or without a partner (this
being society’s age of choice due to sperm banks etc ) was wrong and so she would not. Any
child of hers deserved two parents who loved each other and hence she was prepared to wait.
They would get a mother and a father, not a mom and dad. Yet despite her cussedness her
biological clock felt like it was a stroke before midnight. She still retained the psychotherapist
she had used when she herself was a quack, and was required to see one as part of her
emotional de-briefing. This was what helped her to feel confident that her decision to go into
teaching was not motivated by some sort of ‘child-replacement’ syndrome. The irony of being
bolstered by a practioner of a trade she felt unable to herself ply was not lost on her. Yet she
was clear that she wanted to go into a profession where she could quantifiably see results on a
week to week basis, and the growth of young minds. Hence, she never tired of these kids, and
one in particular; Amrika, A thirteen year old colored girl (she was shamed that she still thought
in the historically loaded term ‘colored’ rather than the new ‘African-American’) she had
encountered outside of her normal duties. Amrika was neither a student in any of her subject
classes nor was she Amrika’s home-room teacher. Therefore both scholastically and pastorally
she had no natural contact with the girl which in effect meant no contact whatsoever. That was
until she was asked by the principal of the high school if she would mind having a ‘talk’ with
Amrika and see if everything was ‘alright’, as it had been ‘brought to her attention’ that it
appeared there was ‘something wrong’ with her. These referrals occurred on a fairly regular
basis from the Principal, as knowing Morrison’s background she thought that Morrison would
know how to ‘get through to’ the kids. Dr Morrison didn’t mind, not really, even if she knew that
they were over-estimating her and her former profession. None of her teachers had been able to
furnish Dr Morrison with a precise reason for their concern. Instead they had talked in terms of
the popularity Amrika enjoyed amongst her peers versus her indifference verging on antipathy
towards these peers. She was one of those kids who was popular not only with her own age
group and below, but with the older kids, too. Even without the patronage of an older sibling at
school to vouch for her she was accepted by many of them and known by all. This in itself, to be
known by other kids, was an achievement. In other words, she was cool. The teachers also spoke
of her consistently good grades despite apparently nominal effort. She was averaging A- for the
year and whenever they told her that even though her grades were good with more application
on her part they’d be better, they could of swore by her reaction that she was proud to not be at
the top of the tables. So, there were anomalies by the usual standards, in both her standing
within the school and with her attitude towards schooling. But the thing that they all mentioned,
the actual reason for being referred to Dr Morrison, was what they could only describe as her
‘Blankness’. It seemed to them as if she wasn’t there.
Another broken spine. These books made Dr Morrison muse on Amrika even more. It had been
difficult thinking of a reason to give to Amrika for these weekly meetings she had instigated. In
the end she had simply said that it had been brought to her attention that Amrika seemed to
have a talent for English Language and would she be interested in a private tutorial once a
week. Amrika had said “Yeah, would Wednesdays be okay?” immediately, even if she did so
without any hint of enthusiasm whatsoever. The speed and uncomplicatedness of her response
seemed to suggest that she had been expecting the request, or was at least expecting to be
singled out at some point on some pretext. Dr Morrison had no doubt that Amrika had not been
hoodwinked by this ruse despite the actuality of Amrika having a talent for manipulating the
written word that was uncanny for someone of her age. It was this talent that had made her the
main suspect for part of the graffiti that had appeared all over the school in recent weeks, and
had also in some strange way disturbed the entire faculty. Funnily enough ‘graffiti’ seemed
hardly the right term for it as it was of a completely poetic nature. It said, ‘They cannot rewrite
my soul, don’t let them rewrite your soul.’ The faculty all agreed amongst themselves that they
much preferred the usual brand of stupid and aggressive graffiti that proliferated everywhere
else, but did not discuss with each other why they felt so. Privately though, they knew. This
simply line had filled them with an incredible sense of loss.
The Los Angeles Geese

Every morning she was awoken by the cacophonic racket of the geese of Los Angeles. From
outside of her bedroom window and across the silken lawn Amrika could hear their mad chatter
as they waddled, skipped and jumped down the sidewalk. At least they sounded like geese to
her ears. In truth, they were the happy children of class 2b from Valley Rise Kindergarten, and
they formed a procession that trailed Mrs Hassenthaler (nee Perkins) over to the annexe building
of the school. Once upon a time Amrika had been one of these geese, and, yes, she too had
been unmistakebly happy back then. She lay there in her bed and thought about how funny it
was that she would be brought all the way to kindergarten only to be trooped back right past the
front of her house less than twenty minutes later.

Her left cheek was wet. Damn. She’d drooled onto her now sodden pillow in her sleep again. Not
very lady-like. It was a sure sign that her nightmares had returned.

Back in kindergarten she wasn’t known for any of the things she was known for now like being
bright or weird or anything like that. Back then she was known for being happy. The happiest,
naughtiest little star of her class. Mrs Hassenthaler (nee Perkins) was unmarried then, and
without children of her own treated Amrika like a surrogate daughter. But that was the past and
this…wasn’t. And as she had heard Principal Murphy say to the school every year at the first
assembly ‘we can’t live in the past’. This would be before he swiftly went on to say ‘…so that is
why we’re ALL OF US gonna work towards making this the best academic school year EVER’.
Yeah, right. It wasn’t as if she wanted to live in the past anyway she just didn’t want to live in
the present and it was impossible to live in the future. It wasn’t fair. It was like being told you
were moving house and were gonna end up living in either London, New York or Utah. Guess
which one the present would be. Guess which one you would always end up in. Mormons here
we come! She remembered when Mrs Hassenthaler (nee Perkins) had brought them all to the
park to collect bugs. That had been so much fun. They had each been given a little plastic jar
with two transparent (rubber) tubes going into the top. Mrs Hassenthaler (nee Perkins) showed
them that the trick to using them was to suck on the end of one tube whilst holding the other
tube just above the insect that you wanted to collect. Then one big inhalation later and, whoosh,
the bug was sucked safely up and trapped inside the jar. It took a little while for all the children
to master but once they had, wow, what fun! Amrika didn’t collect the most bugs for as usual
the boys were the most competitive and maniacally vacuumed up as many as they could. But
she did collect the most beautiful and interesting ones. Whereas the others in her group, boys
and girls, all seemed to have more than fifty of the same type of ants and spiders she had only
about fifteen but each one different from the others. There was one bug that had what must
have been a hundred legs and another whose eyes you could see peering back at you as clear
as day. But her very favourite one was the one whose back glowed a green so iridescent it was a
case of nature at its most un-natural.

The song ‘Two-way Street’ by Duel blared from the speakers of Amrikas’ stereo system at th
same time as their video played on MTV. She turned the stereo up. The storyline of the video
involved the four members of the boyband at a club all trying to pick up girls. For one reason or
another (one girl already taken, another that talks too much, etc) the boys all appear to go home
empty handed. The twist was that they pair off amongst themselves and, thus, the happy-
ending. The promo for their third single, it was the first to be aired on MTV. Bisexuality was not
something MTV had ever endorsed (unless it involved a guy and two women who didn’t mind a
bit of girl-on-girl action as well. But now, well, times they truly were a-changin’. Or to be more
precise, the cd buying patterns of young girls of pocket money age was changing. ‘Duel’ had
caused a furore across the nation. The Bible belt were apoplectic, the Republicans were talking
about ‘implementing a new hardline’, and what’s more, the Democrats were listening. Moms and
Dads all over the U.S. were at a loss, especially those who had hitherto considered themselves
liberals. But most of all they had caused a furore with the young girls. Here at last was
something that was ‘theirs’. Apart from it defining them as other than their parents, it also gave
them superiority over the boys of their age who, obviously, recoiled from such things.

If Amrika had known the effect that her sudden urge to deface school property had created, she
might of thought twice about the next piece of graffiti she was to create. Maybe she would have
thought of something equally delicate and subtle, created another original that would slightly
shift the world of those around her. Unfortunately the only reactions she had heard were from
the other kids when they mentioned it in passing conversation. The sum total of these reactions
could be summed up in one word; Weirdo. Of course, they were unaware that it was Amrika who
had written the graffito so she had the opportunity to listen to their unvarnished views. What
they would have said had they known she was the author was not something she wished to
explore. Maximum impact, zero exposure – that was her motto. She was pissed about their
reactions, for sure. And the fact she was pissed about it just made her more pissed. Why the hell
should she care what they thought? The first offspring of her temper was that she resolved to do
more graffiti but to this time use someone else’s words. She decided to paraphrase a line from
that old movie she had seen last week, Network – ‘I’m mad as hell and I ain’t gonna take it
anymore…’ The ellipsis was her addition. Her second resolution/child was that there was no way
she was going to elucidate on the opening of her essay. If her graffito, a genuine attempt to say
something, had been so badly received by the kids then there was no way she was going to
open up to Dr Morrison. She would have to prise her open like an oyster shell before Amrika
would willingly yield pearls. It was a shame because Dr Morrison seemed like a pretty nice lady
who had somehow got it into her head that Amrika needed help. Up until now Amrika had
figured that it would be pretty easy to throw the metaphorical dog an equally metaphorical
bone. But not now. It would be a clear day in L.A. Amrika was honest with Dr Morrison. But then,
maybe that was the answer, maybe she just had to throw the doctor a bone of a different flavor.
She would lie. In general she hardly ever lied. Not for any high-minded moral reason, nor even
because her parents had told her as a small child that lying was bad. It was just because she
couldn’t usually see the point. On occasion she lied in order not to hurt somebody else’s feelings
or sometimes she lied to avoid having to deal with somebody’s hurt feelings, which was so
boring. But apart from that, nah. This could be different though. Not only would she be keeping
Dr Morrison happy but she would also be able to show how much cleverer she was than this
adult, this doctor, no less. She would never be able to let Dr Morrison in on the joke but that was
okay because she would know within herself, which would suffice.
She rolled across the bed, reached over, and turned the stereo off. It was time to give this essay
her full attention. The beginning was good, she thought, no need to change it, it was cute. The
rest, she could go to town on. This was gonna be fun.

Death and the teenage years

The body had hung for what they reckoned to have been a full six hours before discovery that
Monday morning. By rights it should have been the school janitor who found it, as where it hung,
taut beneath the south hoop of the basketball court, was on the route that he was meant to
patrol. It was to be his bad luck that that morning his wife had relocated her oft-misplaced libido.
It was the kind of opportunity only a fool would spurn, and James Anthony Etherbridge was
certainly nobody’s fool. His morning glory was to soon turn to disaster for as he fucked Mrs
Etherbridge little did he know he was being fucked over by the body formerly known as Cindy
Hackensaw-Tippett. For his oversight he would lose his job, be denied the job reference his labor
deserved and warrant a fleeting yet disparaging mention in the following weeks copy of the local
newspaper. They had come to the conclusion that he was partially to blame, for if he had been
there when he was supposed to be (a full five hours after the body had originally hung itself)
they reckoned he could somehow have saved her. As he wasn’t and he didn’t then clearly he
was complicit and culpable in the matter of her death.

The body formerly known as Cindy Hackensaw-Tippett

Anthony Panucci and Chad Roberts were the boys who’d discovered the body. They had headed
to school early with the intention of smoking some dope out on the football pitch before classes
began. Again, Cindy Hackensaw-Tippett intervened. They stood and stared at this girl they had
both only vaguely known, and shared the same unspoken thoughts. They thought how pretty
she had been when alive, and whether or not it would be right to still use her as a masturbation
fantasy now that she was dead. Thinking about dead movie stars was one thing, but someone
you actually knew? They weren’t so sure. They each wondered about how in death her
prettiness had changed to full-blown beauty but struggled to articulate this thought even within
their own minds. And finally they wondered whether or not they would still have time to smoke a
joint on the football pitch before reporting the dead body of Cindy Hackensaw-Tippett, or if in
doing so they would miss out on the glory by someone else discovering her in the interim. This
last thought they did talk about and a compromise was reached. And so, with Cindy’s sneakered
feet no more than six feet away they quickly built a joint and sat on the basketball court and
considered the fame that awaited them in school as the kids that found ‘that girl that hung
herself’.