I Bite Off My Wings
I see the car out of the corner of my eye. It’s red, or burgundy. Cars are always such ugly colors. It is beastly, frenzied, feasting, a shark’s snout erupting from beneath a wave. I am too tired to care or react. I have not slept in 36 hours. I stayed awake deleting photos on my iPhone. I do nothing as the car crashes into me. I watch myself slide across the pavement and collide with the curb, where I roll to a miraculous stop. I fumble with my headphones. Am I hurt? I yell at the driver as they continue onto the highway ramp, What the fuck is wrong with you? I am too polite. My bike feels closer to the ground, as if it's kneeling. I try to continue riding but stop. My front tire is flat. A couple walking their terrier asks me if I am okay. That was crazy, the woman remarks. We got their license plate number if you want it? No. There’s nothing I can do with this information. I refuse to call the police.
I called the police once. The day after I was followed for five city blocks and assaulted in the courtyard of Becky’s apartment. He recognized me from Grindr. I liked his drawings. They were haunting and grotesque. But I stopped responding after he sent a photo of himself because I remembered his face; He stalked and harassed E for six months. I described the scenario on the phone. My memory of his breath on my neck, which might have been erotic if not accompanied by his threats, or his body wedged in the entryway to prevent me from closing the gate. He threw his tallboy at us after Nick wrestled him onto the sidewalk. The alcohol smelled like dehydrated, yellow piss. Nick easily hopped the fence, and I worried he would do the same. But he was drunk and wandered off. I called 311 from the bathtub. The water was cold. And the operator was clerical. So this didn’t happen at your apartment? Maybe your friend should file the report, she suggested. Ok. I hung up.
I tweeted his mugshot under the guise of warning others instead. He is a repeat offender. A serial danger to the queer community. However, if I am honest, I wanted people to know I survived this trauma. I wanted affirmation and indignation from friends and strangers to prove that others cared. Siobhan warned me that she saw him at Armitage and Milwaukee a few weeks later. A girl messaged me on Instagram a year later. She saw him at a house party. Her friend was sleeping with him. Someone told her that he moved back to Chicago after being stabbed in Miami. I thought about doing the same, maybe. And once, I imagined him in my bed, my arms wrapped around him, and silence.
In lieu of individually texting my friends, I post to my Instagram Close Friends the next morning: Got hit by a car while biking and listening to Charli XCX. It’s giving CRASH! A dozen people message to ask if I am okay. I’ve never been good at writing punchlines. How disappointing. Now I have to reassure them, recount the story with dramatic seriousness, when I wish I could admit the entire experience was entirely unremarkable, minus the flat tire. No blood. No bruises. No road rash. This was lucky; I was wearing a new cream-colored cardigan and would’ve been devastated to ruin it so quickly. Z points out a scratch on my cheek when he picks me up. Oh no, I don’t know what that’s from, probably rubbing my face too much. My bike remained upright. I remained upright, upstanding, even. I am inconvenienced only because I cannot use my bike to transport groceries for my dinner party. My guests will have to eat something simple, a chickpea and kale salad.
That’s karma. For walking to New Wave each morning in a white t-shirt and no bra. Milwaukee Ave undergoing construction is an ant’s hill during mating season. Workers swarming under the June sun. Nuptial flights. I am in heat. I am taking my progesterone again. Biting off my own wings and leaving them in the dust. Want to start my own nest. Want to be catcalled. Want to feel guilty for wanting to be catcalled. Even though it’s when I feel the most womanly. Pretending to be unamused as a semi-truck driver calls to me from across the street. I wave from a safe distance. He cannot inspect closer. Unlike the man at The Owl who complimented me, I like your necklace. Boring. Everyone likes my necklace. Thank you, I said. He was confused. He clocked my voice, I imagine. He looked at Francesca, 6’4”. And Dara, unspeakably gorgeous, but still trans. He scurried away without another word.
It was 2 am. We waited in line outside for an hour. A man stopped and told us we looked unreal, as if we stepped out of a play set. Like a dollhouse? Francesca asked. He lingered, inserting himself into our small group. He confessed, without prompting, that he was estranged from his wife and child. Well, what did you do to estrange yourself from them? I was abrasive, cutting, like steel wool. I wanted to leave his metaphoric fingertips pink and raw, unidentifiable, following our conversation; I wanted to strip away his calloused, outermost sense of himself. Why else would a cis man hang around a group of transsexuals? Besides sex. Eventually, he slunk away and joined a group ahead of us. I was relieved. Francesca and I left to piss in the alleyway between dumpsters.
Inside the bar, a line of men assembled to hit on Dara after she walked a lap of the dancefloor. She has the neatest hairline, like the uppermost edge of letterhead, and handwritten freckles. One guy tapped her on the elbow. She didn’t notice And then he sent his friend to ask Francesca and I for advice. Hey, my friend has a big crush on yours. We can tell, Francesca said. Tell your friend to get some charisma, I offered. His friend was balding, short, and ugly, no chance, but I held my tongue. The friend could tell we were unhappy at being overlooked and said, I think you both are attractive, too. Sure. I was wearing an orange maxi dress, no makeup, and carrying a large shoulder bag with a hoodie inside. I looked like a tired mother toting around a diaper bag, which might explain my magnetism for men with mommy issues. Message received. He left us alone. No one else approached Francesca and I.
Outside the bar, Francesca, Dara, and I shared cigarettes. I noticed the elbow tapper walking home—alone. I felt a pang of sympathy and considered calling out to him. And then the impulse passed.
Image: Nicole Eisenman, Destiny Riding Her Bike, 2020.