Her goal in life was to write a short story in the fourth person. This was something she had to do without me. I was told to leave our two-bedroom apartment. The day I moved out it was raining. I didn’t tell my friends to help me and so no one helped me when I asked her to leave and she went to the coffee shop to write her short story in the fourth person. The rain crawled across the living room window. I gave most of my clothes to the Salvation Army. My one bag, I double-wrapped in a plastic garbage bag so my clothes wouldn’t get wet. I had 12 boxes of books, but I gave five of them to the Salvation Army. The seven boxes that were left, I wrapped those in garbage bags, too. I had a crate of records. I wrapped that in plastic, too. I had bought the couch before she moved in, so I sold it to her for $150.
When we first met we walked along the street by the ginkgo trees. She ate an ice cream cone and every few bites I asked could I have a bite. The way she looked in my eyes, it was like she cared about things in my head. Which was a feeling I only felt once every 3 girls. She said, “You have crazy eyes.” I said, “What do crazy eyes look like?” She said, “Something crazy is happening in your head, and the way your eyes move and the way you get quiet.” I said, “I’m sorry I have crazy eyes.” She said, “Don’t be sorry. I like them.”
Over the years her story in the fourth person gained strength and pages. When we first met, it was just an idea. She said, “I want to make something that has never been made before.” We sat on the rooftop of the climbing co-op. I smoked a cigarette and she waved the smoke from her face. When a bird flew into the window across the street, she said, “Oh, God.” She covered her mouth with her hand. The bird lay on the ground, but got up and flew away. She said, “Oh, good.” I put my cigarette out on a shingle. She said, “Where was I?” I said, “You were in the middle of being beautiful.” She said, “My story in the fourth person. The first three don’t communicate the way I experience reality. They’ve always felt,” she paused in thought, “limiting.”
In year three of our relationship, she moved away for a year to an island in the Caribbean where her family was from. She had never known her family. She said she felt like an essential part of who she was was always missing. I supported this. When we broke up the first time, it was because who wants to date someone living so far away. We got back together because I loved the way she smelled. I also feel like something was always missing in me. I am white. I am a manic depressive person. I am convinced I am living the wrong way. This is probably a story about that.
Three weeks into her stay on the island she called me on WhatsApp and said, “It’s begun.” I said, “What’s begun?” She said, “The fourth person.” I said, “How many pages do you have?” She said, “I’ve got 32.” I said, “That’s a lot. That’s a healthy story.” She said, “It’s my story, and I’m going to write it until it’s done.”
While she was away, I lived with my sister. I didn’t have bookshelves. I stacked my books along the wall and I called them Book Mountain. My books were completely inaccessible in this format. My sister had a dog named Frankie who yawned and when he yawned his mouth spread wide, and jolted sideways, and shut. I began to yawn just like my sister’s dog. Like I was maybe a mime.
Year three turned into year four and the fourth person was blooming. I visited her on the island and we ate fried pork skin mixed into fried plantains. An iguana crawled out from under a rock next to the ocean and I put my fork down and took a picture on my phone. She chewed and she swallowed and I chewed and she said, “Stop chewing with your mouth full.” I stopped. She said, “The story. It’s like, finally, I’m making something that is alchemical and inter-dimensional. Actually,” she said, “pretend I didn’t say that. Those words don’t fit. Words can’t define what’s happening right now on page 371. It’s just like, it’s happening. It’s real. No. I’m not even sure it’s that, either. It’s something else. It’s what I’ve always needed to make. It’s it.” This is what she said.
The wind crept into my ear. I could taste lime on my gums. Scooters and convertibles raced by the restaurant blasting dembow music. I put my fork down. I cried. I said, “I’m so happy to hear that. That’s all I’ve ever wanted for you.” She said, “Thank you. It means a lot that you support me. You’re sweet. You could totally be…” And then she paused. So I said, “Be what?” She said, “Not like this. You could be angry,” she said. “You could be looking out for yourself.”
She moved back in with me but it didn’t work out and her story grew and I learned less and less about the fourth person. I taught creative writing to children in schools. I taught what I knew, which wasn’t much. The way I do it, the basics go a long way, and the students take care of the rest.
