The first question people insist on asking a new acquaintance is: What do you do for a living? I hated that. Insecurity, probably, because I’m not a lawyer or a doctor or any of those other professions that make people say, ‘Oh...’ in that reverent, awestruck way. And anyone unlucky enough to ask me that fatal question without preceding it with at least two others--for example, what books have you read lately or who’s your favorite ballplayer--was answered with:
‘I’m a lumberjack.’
Because any person with a greater interest in what it is I do to earn enough money to afford rent and music and beer and food and jeans--rather than in the fact that I think Bill Lee is the coolest guy ever to climb onto the pitchers mound--deserves to think I spend my days in the woods cutting down trees.
--Chapter 3, WFS
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Rachel looked up at the ceiling so I did, too. It was a drop ceiling, a grid. Big white squares with yellowish water stains here and there that looked just like piss. The Doctor and Dusty Pink Nurse talked to each other in low voices, about whatever it is that doctors and nurses talk about. And then it was time.
Stirrups. Ultrasound. The screen was pointed mercifully away from Rachel. Even if it hadn’t been she wouldn’t have seen it, because she didn’t shift her gaze, not once. Still looked straight up and I wondered if she was counting tiles. Or maybe counting the tiny little holes in the tiles. What were those holes? Were they there just for looks? Ventilation? Air bubbles that formed when the factory cooked the tiles? What the hell were those tiles made from, anyway? Styrofoam? Plastic?
It didn’t matter, and now I had to listen to The Doctor again. She was saying something about sedation. Demerol for pain and Valium to help her relax. Rachel nodded. She was all for that. Until The Doctor mentioned the dangers of giving it to her if she’d consumed any drugs or alcohol in the past twenty four hours. And that’s when she had to tell us.
She’d taken Something last night. Right before she’d hopped into bed.
“Just so I could sleep, Tess. Just so I--”
I put my hand up. “It’s alright, Rach.”
I said it even though it wasn’t alright. It was as far away from alright as we could get. But it was a done thing and right now I couldn’t do anything about it. Right now she needed to settle down and not worry about Condemnation and Judgment and Consequences. There would be enough of that later. But when it came it wouldn’t be from me, and it wouldn’t be about the Something that had helped her drift off to sleep. It would be even worse. It would be Rachel judging Rachel. I knew it. I could see it in her eyes. Already.
--Chapter 26 WFS
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When I slipped into bed beside Brian he asked me--this time--if I was alright. And I told him no, but that will teach me for eating red meat. And he said yep I guess it will. Then I fucked him. Even though I’d just taken a painful shower and vomited out what was left of my soul; even though I was so completely exhausted that I couldn’t think of any profanity that was harsh enough to qualify it; even though I wasn’t horny at all, and neither was he. I fucked him anyway. I even managed to come. A vague reflex, a purely physical reaction; the same way your stomach will begin to digest your supper once you’ve eaten it. Even when you’re not hungry.
--Chapter 27 WFS
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"Why don’t you tell me something, Tess. Why is it that you’re satisfied to just exist? To live in half a house that’s falling apart? How can you paint all these awesome pictures—create all this fucking amazing, honest art—and then just let it rot on the wall upstairs? And why do you lie to yourself and say you don’t want kids when you really do? And make just enough money to pay your bills and not any more than that, even though you work your ass off and could make--”
“Money? What the hell does money have to do with anything?”
“It’s not the money, Tess. It’s you. It’s...it’s about worth. And feeling like you have some."
--Chapter 36 WFS