Adam Fieled (Plymouth Meeting, Pennsylvania, USA): "Amenities II"
Stomach-plummets, the ultimate hemorrhage for
those watching who cared— at a certain point, it was
obvious to all that Abby was sticking needles up her
rear end. She spoke in speeded-up bursts, rode single
points for too long, fidgeted restlessly when forced to
sit still, and it fed her TV persona, to be sure, but her
already paranoid temper took her over a steep cliff when
the camera stopped rolling. If I was going to avoid being
on the receiving end of another tantrum, I’d have to stay
out of her way. Not that I saw her around much. Still
ensconced in Logan Square, I knew she was dumped in
a hole in West Philly somewhere, and that, as hurt badly,
she had lost her family’s support. She needed it. The work
she did for the dyke patrol— who knows? Except to say,
the idea was obvious, that she had no notion of painting in
the foreseeable future, or having her own place, as she once
had. Her girls were her family now. They were happy to give
her a camera, but no food, speed-up-the-ass but no insurance,
cred in the right drug houses but no heat in winter, no AC in
summer. Abby established a life with no amenities. What she
had already painted sat in storerooms, waiting to tell whoever
asked that she was not meant to be a brief flame, a degenerate
tart. I myself was pulverized into the position of confidante,
who had heard her do a monologue about suicide which didn’t
make it onto the confounded station, but allowed me to
understand what a life with no amenities was all about,
speed-freaked or not. Her family in Manhattan thought
whatever they thought. The ice she skated on was too thin.
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