In which I am a surgeon/television star and a bisexual career criminal
I was living in a house with George O’Malley, Izzie Stevens, and Meredith Grey (from the TV show Grey's Anatomy), and I think I was a surgical intern, too. George and I were in my bedroom. I was trying to pick out a pair of shoes to wear; the shoes I tried on were really ugly, although I somehow felt they were appropriate for the hospital and that people might find them fashionable. While I looked at the shoes, George talked about being in love with Meredith and vowed to tell her about it. Meredith walked into the room as he said this and overheard. She sat down on the bed and I sat on the floor as Meredith and George discussed his feelings for her. My teeth began to feel weird, as if they were really crooked, and I couldn’t smile normally. My lips stretched tight over my crooked teeth in a grimace. Meredith turned George down and left the room, and he followed her. I got up, too, and went into the hall, where George was headed to his bedroom. I apologized for not excusing myself from the room while he talked to Meredith. He said it was OK and hugged me. It occurred to me that perhaps I was in love with George.
I went back into the bedroom and began going through a small chest of drawers. They contained things that I believed to belong to Izzie, including a white diary with a ballerina on it and a little brass lock, just like the one I wrote in as a kid. I wondered if I had remembered to bring my diary with me when I moved in and I began to look for it, as I wanted to show Izzie we had the same one, but all of the drawers contained her stuff, not mine. One was full of art pencils and gel pens, and I took a pen and a peach-colored piece of paper and sat on the bed to write a letter. The pen didn’t work, so I went back to the drawer to get another one. I wanted a gel pen, in black, with sparkles in the ink, so I could write a pretty letter, like I used to in college. I felt I should write more letters.
As I was sifting through the drawer, I heard voices around me. A man was describing a job that I was going to participate in with a group of other people. It was some kind of criminal job, but instead of approaching it the way we usually did (because apparently I often committed crimes with this group), we would impersonate some kind of artist or maybe miners. I kept digging through the drawer, pushing aside glitter pens and pulling out supplies that would help with the job, especially charcoal sticks and tools that had a wire triangle on one end (like for shaping clay) and a brush on the other. When I looked up, there was no drawer or bedroom. I was standing on a dingy city street, and there were a bunch of men gathered around a square-shaped hole in the ground, looking in. The hole was about the size of a baby pool, and I think it used to be the drawer. The boss was still talking about the job, and warning everyone that breathing in could damage their lungs. Black dust was rising from the hole and I was afraid I had breathed it in.
I had come with my older sister (I don't actually have a sister) from out of town to participate in the crime, and we met up with a man, older than my sister, who was our particular friend. He looked sort of like Trent Reznor, although everyone was dressed in clothes from another time period, maybe the 1940’s. I think my sister had dated him at some point, and I was interested in him and may have also been involved with him in the past, or expected to be in the future. As we were getting ready to leave, the boss started yelling at another man who wasn’t sure if he wanted to take part. The boss told him he could just walk away, but I knew he would kill him. When I looked over, the man was standing upright, but awkwardly, as if impaled on something, and his neck was broken. I was a little disturbed, but I also felt proud of myself because I had no doubts about doing the job and they had asked my sister and me to come in from out of town to do it.
We walked down the street with our friend, who was carrying my sister’s bag and making fun of her for bringing so much stuff. We got to his house, which had a front porch, and on the porch were a bunch of girls I knew, including the man’s sister, who was my age. She reminded me of my friend K from Smith. I sat down on the porch while the man went inside with my sister, and I hoped that nothing was going on between them. My teeth felt weird again, like they were crooked and my smile was stretched too thin over them. Sitting on the porch reminded me of being at Smith – the porch felt like Baldwin House, even though it was in a city. It was obvious that I had formerly lived in the city or knew everyone well some other way, because I was immediately accepted back into the group and it felt good.
I was telling a story, I think having to do with the job, although I’m not sure; it might have been a tale of past exploits. The man was leaning against the doorframe, listening. At the end, he laughed and said, “That’s Sami – not as tough as she looks.” One of the girls laughed and agreed, but said at least I wasn’t like “Marylee.” I proceeded to tell a story about Marylee, whom everyone seemed to know and no one particularly liked. I kept smiling and feeling self-conscious about my teeth. The man’s sister, who was sitting to my left, said quietly but emphatically that she couldn’t stand Marylee. I no longer wanted anyone to talk about her, because the sister was my closest friend in the group and I didn't want her to be upset, so I sat next to her and changed the subject. I realized that in the past, we were lovers, but were no longer involved in that way. Her brother was watching us from the doorway. I wonder what he thought about the fact that I used to date his sister, if it bothered him.
I went back into the bedroom and began going through a small chest of drawers. They contained things that I believed to belong to Izzie, including a white diary with a ballerina on it and a little brass lock, just like the one I wrote in as a kid. I wondered if I had remembered to bring my diary with me when I moved in and I began to look for it, as I wanted to show Izzie we had the same one, but all of the drawers contained her stuff, not mine. One was full of art pencils and gel pens, and I took a pen and a peach-colored piece of paper and sat on the bed to write a letter. The pen didn’t work, so I went back to the drawer to get another one. I wanted a gel pen, in black, with sparkles in the ink, so I could write a pretty letter, like I used to in college. I felt I should write more letters.
As I was sifting through the drawer, I heard voices around me. A man was describing a job that I was going to participate in with a group of other people. It was some kind of criminal job, but instead of approaching it the way we usually did (because apparently I often committed crimes with this group), we would impersonate some kind of artist or maybe miners. I kept digging through the drawer, pushing aside glitter pens and pulling out supplies that would help with the job, especially charcoal sticks and tools that had a wire triangle on one end (like for shaping clay) and a brush on the other. When I looked up, there was no drawer or bedroom. I was standing on a dingy city street, and there were a bunch of men gathered around a square-shaped hole in the ground, looking in. The hole was about the size of a baby pool, and I think it used to be the drawer. The boss was still talking about the job, and warning everyone that breathing in could damage their lungs. Black dust was rising from the hole and I was afraid I had breathed it in.
I had come with my older sister (I don't actually have a sister) from out of town to participate in the crime, and we met up with a man, older than my sister, who was our particular friend. He looked sort of like Trent Reznor, although everyone was dressed in clothes from another time period, maybe the 1940’s. I think my sister had dated him at some point, and I was interested in him and may have also been involved with him in the past, or expected to be in the future. As we were getting ready to leave, the boss started yelling at another man who wasn’t sure if he wanted to take part. The boss told him he could just walk away, but I knew he would kill him. When I looked over, the man was standing upright, but awkwardly, as if impaled on something, and his neck was broken. I was a little disturbed, but I also felt proud of myself because I had no doubts about doing the job and they had asked my sister and me to come in from out of town to do it.
We walked down the street with our friend, who was carrying my sister’s bag and making fun of her for bringing so much stuff. We got to his house, which had a front porch, and on the porch were a bunch of girls I knew, including the man’s sister, who was my age. She reminded me of my friend K from Smith. I sat down on the porch while the man went inside with my sister, and I hoped that nothing was going on between them. My teeth felt weird again, like they were crooked and my smile was stretched too thin over them. Sitting on the porch reminded me of being at Smith – the porch felt like Baldwin House, even though it was in a city. It was obvious that I had formerly lived in the city or knew everyone well some other way, because I was immediately accepted back into the group and it felt good.
I was telling a story, I think having to do with the job, although I’m not sure; it might have been a tale of past exploits. The man was leaning against the doorframe, listening. At the end, he laughed and said, “That’s Sami – not as tough as she looks.” One of the girls laughed and agreed, but said at least I wasn’t like “Marylee.” I proceeded to tell a story about Marylee, whom everyone seemed to know and no one particularly liked. I kept smiling and feeling self-conscious about my teeth. The man’s sister, who was sitting to my left, said quietly but emphatically that she couldn’t stand Marylee. I no longer wanted anyone to talk about her, because the sister was my closest friend in the group and I didn't want her to be upset, so I sat next to her and changed the subject. I realized that in the past, we were lovers, but were no longer involved in that way. Her brother was watching us from the doorway. I wonder what he thought about the fact that I used to date his sister, if it bothered him.
posted by dammit sami @ 11:47 AM
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