Reggie was an Engelbert Humperdinck hater. Also, cranberry sauce. Tosh.0. Celebrity news. Slippery dew on the grass as she was leaving for work. Annoying. Troublesome. Plum-colored fingers from grocery bags, pulling too hard, crossing the street with a tear in one, a plastic thing of coffee poking out the top of the other. Buttery feeling after eating dinner, she always washed her hands before and after meals. The zeal in strangers when she was down. Down when she was excited. Lightning and thunder when she was trying to focus on Ducktales, which was a TV pilot, then a novel, then a pilot again. Texts while she was working. Birthmarks on people’s faces, she just didn’t like it. Ugliness, whatever she perceived to be ugliness, especially in the mirror. Nothing depressed her worse. Mother had been beautiful, still beautiful. Mel had been handsome in pictures and vaguely in the few memories she had of him, but not really. He was himself and proud of it. She was herself and proud, that was the greatest gift she could be grateful for from her parents. When that gift felt as though it had recessed—her big mannish brow, chin hairs as she aged, pig nose, bunny nose, duck nose—she felt fucked for life, dead already, good as. Every day took the shade of a bruise that was prodded. Was godless, not worth a thing. Rooster nose. Martian nose. Devil nose. She hated herself. Hated wealth, how her father must’ve had it yet hoarded it. Maybe he didn’t want to get caught in some court debacle with mother and have to pay for a different level of life, had Reggie been accustomed to nice cars, nice clothes. Her father’s LA glow. His nonchalance, his lack of apology or acknowledgement of the hurt she’d suffered. Servers who took too long to bring out a breakfast skillet. That doctor who was probably lying and guessed at pain cures as he overcharged. Her daughter, how she took snacks out of the cabinets and the fridge, left crumbs and pretended not to, snuck out at night and pretended not to. That rat. She was just like her. She was her daughter. Her daughter was Reggie. She knew every trick in the book. Nothing surprised her anymore.
Julián Martinez is working on a novel called Reggie. His debut collection of short fiction is out next year with Future Tense Books. He edits stories at The Michigan City Review of Books. Find him online @martinezfjulian or IRL in Chicago.