Cadillac Couches by Sophie B. Watson Read Free Book Online Page B

wasn’t like my Dan Bern nerves. This was pure horror, like I was being buried alive, or was trapped in an elevator filling with water.
    I had to get off the bus rightfuckingnow.
    I rang the bell. I looked at the man at my side who was blocking my path to freedom. He was dozing, smelling pickled from the Old Stock beer poking out of his pocket and coming out of his pores.
    â€œExcuse me, excuse me, sir?” He wasn’t budging. I shook his arm. What am I gonna do? I’m gonna shout! I’m gonna . . .  The bus swung to a stop. Guy was drooling. Screw it, I gotta climb over him!
    I scrambled over the guy, half-straddling him, to get over him. Everyone looked my way. I got myself out of the bus, sweating and gasping, but relieved to be outside.
    Except where was I?
    Near some train tracks on 95th Street. This was where the gangs that you read about in the newspaper live. Shit.
    It was still daylight, luckily. I ran up the busy street. Keys clenched between my fingers. Ready to stab someone if I had to. A small, old Chinese woman with a scarf covering her head looked at me suspiciously. I tried to give her a reassuring smile, to prove I wasn’t an unhinged weird girl strung out on drugs. She shrugged. I passed Sinderella’s strip joint, saw the photos of girls in ridiculous positions, all open-mouthed, like they were just begging to be filled up.
    I ran the twelve blocks to the Fasto-Matic mechanics. The running was definitely helping exhaust my nervous energy.
    I arrived, hot and sweaty and out of breath.
    But calmer. Much calmer.
    The mechanics were Italian twins, one shy, one talkative, both sweet. Funny Fellini farting scenes came to my mind, replacing the anxiety. I paid the bill, and they got Rosimund out of the shop. I drove home, relishing my independence. They had vacuumed it, shined the vinyl, and spritzed it with a pine smell. I opened the windows to air it out and turned on the radio, vowing never to take public transport again. I had a celebratory smoke.
    When I got home, I went straight to bed and lay in fetal. I talked to myself as if I was my own doctor. “There’s no need to jump to conclusions. We need to run some tests, to rule some stuff out, and maybe later we could do some electric shock therapy . . . But for right now my diagnosis is that you must be some kind of freaky weakling.”
    Later that evening when I woke up I put Hawksley on the stereo. I lay down on the couch, closed my eyes, and revelled in his soaring voice. As usual, I felt a wonderful warm wave of elation.
    I unbuttoned my jeans. I imagined I was lying naked, basking in the sun. Hawksley sang about berry juice and wind on his soft places. I felt him singing to me, stroking my hair, loving my breasts, licking my skin. I arched and swayed and gyrated into a great sea of shivers. Airborne, in another dimension, until I crashed asleep.
    When I awoke a little while later alone, miserable, with a dry mouth I reckoned it was time for whisky. Time to leave town too. Hitting the highway could be the answer. It was the one place I had never had the Problem. When I was on the road, when I was on holiday, my eyes didn’t twitch, I didn’t get the Attacks. Like a baby, I was lulled by the flow of tarmac and engine drone, wooed by yellow lines, white stripes, blue sky, and music on the deck.
    I lit a cigarette and topped up my whisky.
    My reserves broke down, and I did what I secretly wanted to do for months: I dusted off my calligraphy set and wax seal and finally wrote him a proper letter.
    Hi Hawksley,
    I can’t hold it in any longer, my love and admiration for you. I’ve heard you sing in fifteen octaves, using your vocal chords one at a time or in unison like can-can dancers. I’ve been there when you sang angel-style a cappella on a unicycle, played piano backwards and upside down and just for fun you played electric guitar with your house key. You take a concert hall, an