Its easy to get sucked into playing morbid games.
When I was little, I happily went along with a few.
I played one with Renee Jr., the daughter of the woman who gave me my second perm.
Santa Marias seasons could be hard to detect.
Renee Sr.s face was as gorgeous as my mothers.
The scar above her lip accented her beauty.
Above her living room TV hung a framed cross-stitch,God Bless Our Pad.
The sky was a boring blue.
Cars chugged along Main Street.
A gust of wind sent sycamore leaves scattering.
Renee Sr. gathered my hair in her hands, winding it around rollers.
The ragged cash my mother had paid her was stacked on the kitchen counter.
Beside the money, chicken thighs defrosted.
My feet rubbed the spotless linoleum floor.
I liked the sensation of my tight socks gliding against it.
Hold still, said Renee Sr. Quit squirming.
Renee Sr. had a perm and an odd, impatient voice.
She sounded how I imagined an ant would.
Renee Jr. had inherited her mothers beauty, accented by long teeth instead of a knotty scar.
Renee Jr. and I knelt on her chocolate-colored carpet.
The apartment, including her room, smelled of buttered flour tortillas and fabric softener.
The stuff Renee Sr. had squirted on me made my head stink and my scalp burn.
Renee Jr. dumped a pile of Barbie dolls between us.
Lifting one by her asymmetrical pageboy, I asked, Youre allowed to cut their hair?
Renee Jr. petted a blonde and nodded.
Theyre mine, she said.
I can do whatever I want to them.
I tried not to act envious.
I wasnt allowed to cut my dolls hair or my own.
My mother had put that rule in place after I tried giving myself Cleopatra bangs.
With the bedroom door closed, Renee Jr.s dolls enacted scenes inspired by US and Latin-American soap operas.
They yelled, wept, shook, and made murderous threats.
They lied and broke promises.
They trembled, got naked, and banged stiff pubic areas.
Clack, clack, clack.
They slapped and bit.
They hurt one another on purpose and laughed instead of apologizing.
They cheated, broke up, got back together, and cheated again.
They had no choice.
Renee Jr. had no male dolls.
Renee Jr. carried a distraught lesbian to the open window.
I hurried after her.
She shrieked, I cant take it anymore!
Im gonna jump!
Silhouetted against the boring blue, we watched the doll go up, pause, and then plummet.
Face-first, she smacked the ground unceremoniously.
Shes dead, I thought.
Renee Jr. and I looked at each other.
We had discovered something fun.
My parents owned a book with glossy reproductions of paintings and drawings by Frida Kahlo.
One of the paintings,The Suicide of Dorothy Hale, looked like the game invented by Renee Jr.
I was growing out my perm.
Gildas mother and mine were downstairs drinking coffee and gossiping in Spanish.
Gildas mother spoke Spanish Spanish.
She was Spanish and had a challenging nickname.
In Spanish Spanish, the nickname didnt mean anything.
It was cute gibberish.
In Mexican
Spanish, it meant underwear.
Regina, Gildas across-the-cul-de-sac neighbor, was with us.
Gilda had told me to put these things on.
She said it would make the ghost stories I wanted to tell more realistic.
I rocked in the corner rocking chair, reciting ghost stories until I ran out.
We shared some silence.
I continued to rock.
Regina said, We should play a game.
Reginas games usually led to sudden humping, and I didnt want to be humped by Regina.
Delivery room, answered Regina.
How do you play?
Regina told Gilda to get a pillow or stuffed animal and stick it under her sweater.
Gilda chose a pair of lace-edged pillows and followed instructions, creating a lumpy bulge.
She ordered Gilda onto her bed and said, Spread your legs.
Regina rolled up her sleeves and said, Maam, youre gonna have to push.
Looking at me, she said, Sir, you have to support your wife.
This is one of the hardest moments of her life.
It could kill her.
I composed myself and fell into my role.
I was a married man.
I had to support my wife.
The twins could kill her.
I hadnt considered this when Id gotten her pregnant.
We rotated roles, quickly realizing that the best role was pregnant lady.
The worst was husband.
All he did was cheerlead.
I gave birth five times.
The first two times, my babies survived.
The third time, my baby died.
We made the corner where the rocking chair stood the cemetery.
We had funerals for babies and women who died in childbirth.
When was the last time you played a death game?
Were you alone or did you play with others?
How much did you trust them?
InPhilosophical Investigations, Ludwig Wittgenstein postulates that games form a family.
To that I would add that players form a family.
The game I played with Renee Jr. is related to the game I played with Gilda and Regina.
Pregnant lady is vulnerable.
Danger breathes in the space between them.
From CREEP Copyright 2023 by Myriam Gurba.
Reprinted here with permission fromAvid Reader Press, an imprint of Simon & Schuster.
This article was originally published onSep.
