nicole elizabeth

Angie would have been thrilled to find a picture of a naked, malnourished Nigerian baby when she opened the newest issue of National Geographic magazine. That’s what National Geographic is supposed to feature—famished infants, mouths gaping, sprawled over their desperate mothers’ laps; South African giraffes, necking under a blazing sun; some camels lounging around the Giza pyramid complex. It was not supposed to contain this chart—this American map that highlighted areas of the country where the population of single women trumped the population of single men, and vice versa. Red dots indicated the areas where single women reigned; blue dots signified a surplus of male bachelors. The New York City area was covered with a giant red blemish—the largest female cesspool, with nearly 200,000 more single women than single men. Los Angeles housed the biggest blue dot of all—and Angie Zimmerman.

She made a note to herself to write a letter to the editor later that night, criticizing the chart for its misrepresentation. The blue blotch over L.A. might actually encourage women to migrate, under a twisted impression that they could meet a man and fall in love. The person responsible for the chart should have really added a disclaimer: Existence and size of dots does not necessarily reflect the population’s sanity, integrity, or overall quality. In fact, bigger blue dots probably mean that asshole men are spreading their seeds rapidly, impregnating impressionable women with their asshole kids. 

She felt the knot in her stomach tighten. She couldn’t be pregnant. Joel probably wasn’t even capable of making sperm, with the amount of pot he smoked on a daily basis. That’s what he told her, at least, the one time he forgot to pull out. She never actually read up on the effects of marijuana on sperm count, but maybe next month’s National Geographicwould be kind enough to conduct a study and publish the results on giant centerfold. He also told her, after sucking on a blunt the size of a roll of dimes, that “sometimes if you worry that you’re pregnant, you won’t have your period.” She wasn’t sure why Joel seemed so keen on the female pregnancy thing, but his relaxed attitude about her fears reassured her, most of the time. She couldn’t be pregnant. Angie was 23 and uncommitted—and she should have had 40,000 studs wrapped around her finger, according to the magazine mocking her from the table. Instead she had Joel—a lackadaisical 22-year-old college dropout consumed by the delusions common in the L.A. scene; he didn’t own a video camera, but he was certain he was the next David Lynch. He had plenty of other women, and she had plenty of other responsibilities as an accountant; it worked out for both of them.

She slouched in her chair outside Urth Café on Melrose Avenue, gazing down her midsection. The high waist of her black Anna Sui capris pants cut into the flesh of her heaving stomach. She worried that it was cutting off her baby’s circulation. Get a grip, you crazy bitch.

With these self-censuring thoughts, Angie threw her Coach bag over her shoulder and ambled off the patio, taking long strides toward the directions of Joel’s apartment, where she should have been 20 minutes ago for their bi-weekly midday romp.

―

“I think I’m pregnant,” she blurted as Joel opened his door for her, exposing a dingy living room littered with Dead Kennedys posters and PBR cans.

“Angie.” His expression hardened. “Shut up.”

She did. He reached for her waist with a skinny, tattoo-laden arm and pulled her close, kissing her gently on her forehead. He smelled like cheap bar soap, and whenever Angie noticed it she pictured him immediately as a six-year-old, gnawing on his soap in the bathtub while screaming for his mommy. He had a young face, with big cheeks and wide eyes. His dirty blond hair was pulled behind his ears, leaving his long, scruffy sideburns to highlight a face burdened with piercings. There was a new one, Angie noticed.

“You look like a bull,” she mentioned, pulling away slightly and staring curiously at the large piece of metal protruding from both nostrils.

“You look like a lady who just got off work,” he retorted, licking the bridge of her nose. She winced.

“Good observation,” she responded, writhing away from him.

“So what’s goin’ on, m’lady?” He inquired, pursing his lips and nudging his piercing with them so he resembled a chimpanzee oohing at the sight of an apple. Angie half expected him to jump on his couch and wildly clap his gangly arms at any moment.

“What does your upper lip smell like?” she asked.

“What? Do you want some Doritos?” He picked up a bag that was lying on his couch, though the majority of it had already emptied between the cushions and onto the floor. He thrust the bag under her nose and the sudden whiff of cheddar made her gag. She wondered what she would smell like when she left here—sex, beer, or Doritos. Sometimes the scent of cheap beer followed her out, chasing her suede high heeled boots all the way home.

She stared into the vacant Doritos bag, a handful of broken chips staring dejectedly up at her. The ever-present knot in her stomach inflated. If she was pregnant, she shouldn’t be eating Doritos. She should be in bed, eating nuts and berries and drinking whole milk. She should be married, waiting for her husband to come home and put a cold washcloth over her head and say “I’ll take care of everything, honey. I got a raise today.” She should be taking multivitamins and resting or picking out cribs and bottles at JCPenney. Of all places, she should not be here.

She felt herself becoming faint. Joel slowly withdrew the greasy bag from her face, muttering “Guess not” before pushing his lip ring back and forth with his tongue. “What’s eating at you?”

“Our baby.” She spat the words out violently, her eyes glued to the floor.

“Angie, you’re a fucking nutjob. You’re not preggo. And if you are, I’ve got plenty of coat hangers.” He turned away from her, taking long strides towards his adjacent kitchen, stepping over piles of clothes and DVD cases. She heard peanut shells crunching under his bare feet as tears built up behind her eyes. “I’m ordering Donatos. You want?”

Her heartbeat intensified. She wondered if her baby had a heartbeat. Her heart pulsated even harder.

“Angie.” He sauntered back into the living room, cordless phone in his hand. “Seriously. Relax. You’re acting like a crazy person.”

Of all places, she should not be here. What if Joel had syphilis? What if he had AIDS? What if his drug addiction was worse than he made it seem? What if he never got a job? What if he was having sex with her and the head of his penis poked her womb and irritated the baby?

“I know it,” she uttered. “A woman just knows, I think. I just know there’s a little life inside of me. I just know.”

Joel glared at her. “Well, I can take care of that.”

He pulled back his arm and propelled it into her abdomen. Pain radiated down her limbs as she doubled over, clutching her stomach with both arms. An ungodly noise escaped from her lips—something between a sob and an elongated grunt. Her whole body throbbed.

“Oh, jeez!” Joel exclaimed, apparently elated by the effects of his punch. “I didn’t mean to hit you that hard. Damn. I’m sorry, baby. I should be a boxer, huh? Or run my own abortion clinic—crazy chicks like you could come in sobbing and I’ll just kick them in the tummy. A dollar a pop.”

“I—I have to …” she trailed off, pushing past him, still doubled over. She darted to the nearest bathroom, flicking on the light switch and shutting the wooden door behind her. The dull bathroom light flickered and yellowed her skin. She braced herself against the counter and tried not to make eye contact with herself in the mirror, lingering on the blue toothpaste stains and mass of blond hair in the sink. How, of all places, did she end up here—hunched over in a maniac’s bathroom, on the verge of sobbing and vomiting, with a baby cowering between her hips? Was it dead? Was it destined to disintegrate inside her body? Would its blood pour out when she peed?

Angie retched, and spun aggressively towards the toilet behind her. As she dropped to her knees, she noticed a brown mass at the bottom of the toilet bowl, about the size of a baseball. Her first reaction was that Joel had forgotten to flush, but she quickly noticed that the thing was floating in the shallow water, and that the protruding part was covered in fur. She threw up violently, coating the furry thing in the coffee-tainted liquid that ejected from her mouth and nose. She noticed that it had wings as she clutched the toilet seat with both hands and trembled. She had seen bats in Joel’s apartment building before, usually at night, soaring down the hallways, desperately seeking solace in a closet or attic. But never here—never  drowned in a shallow toilet bowl, stiff with death, eyes shut tight, scowling, floating silently as a woman vomited on its face. Angie wondered if it consciously chose its deathbed, so depressed by the sunlight that it forced its head underwater and fluttered violently until it collapsed. Or was it just taking a bath, neglecting to notice that its lungs were filling with water as it enjoyed the childlike ecstasy of swimming? Either way, it shouldn’t be here. Not in Joel’s dirty bathroom, in Joel’s filthy apartment, decaying as he rolled a cigarette between his stubby fingers.

Angie reached into the toilet and grabbed the bat by its wing. It frowned at her as she pulled it from its coffin, dripping with water and vomit. She rushed out of the bathroom, neglecting to turn the light off or flush the toilet, the rigid bat dangling from her fingertips.

“Hey girl.” Joel was lying on his couch, his long legs draped over the side. “Whatcha got there?” He adjusted himself, resting now on his side so he could face her.

Swiftly, Angie raised her arm over her head and flung the bat down at him. It thumped against Joel’s stomach and ricocheted onto the floor, landing with a thud. It was still frowning.

Joel’s jaw dropped. “Angie, what the fuck? Get a grip, you crazy bitch!”

Angie smiled. “Have a good evening, Joel.”

His expression was fixed into a shocked, cold glare as Angie paraded out. She had to write National Geographic and thank them for convincing her to move out of Los Angeles.