Gogo stands over the oven. She is sweating – the air is warm and humid, even at night. She is cooking when I come in the door, licking her mother’s red sauce recipe from her fingers. There’s a loaf of bread and garlic next to her with a piece missing. And she says, “Forgive me, but I was so very hungry. You’re late.”
“I started eating,” she wipes her hands with a white towel from the rack. “I couldn’t wait.”
Only the light over the sink is on, keeping the kitchen in shadows and smells. I take a bowl from the cupboard and she fills it with noodles, tomato, garlic, wine. We sit down at the small wooden table pushed against the wall and eat mostly in silence. We fall asleep on the couch after we’re finished, watching something on TV that we’ve both seen before. The apartment is only one room, so nothing is far away.
It was the opposite the last time we had sex. It was the last time we fell asleep together in the bed – slept someplace other than the couch.
“You’re early,” she had said, her hair pulled across her forehead, panting, licking her lips, unsatisfied.
We watched a movie recently. I don’t remember the title. It was something that Gogo wanted to watch and I fell asleep before it was over. I woke up near the end to a guy with a strong jaw taking the leading lady in his arms and telling her, “You’re silly.”
“To think that the money that you’ll inherit from your mother is what makes you special. It makes you no different than the homeless man your mother gave money to just now on the street.”
He looks at her. “You’re so much more interesting than money.”
He looks at her and he says, “I love you.”
They’re somewhere in Paris or London or Rome.
“Istanbul,” Gogo says. “Real close. Maybe you shouldn’t fall asleep in the middle and miss everything.”
The leading lady stands facing the stove, her back to the man sitting with his legs dangling over the edge of the kitchen counter, surrounded by loaves of bread and dried basil and thyme. Something on the stove top starts to smoke, but they don’t notice or care. She turns to face him. They don’t speak. They stand there for a while, facing each other, just like that.
The movie ends in sunset purple and red, blinking “The End,” before the credits roll slowly to the music of the countryside. I let the air out from my chest in a long sigh. It’s a world that exists only in movies; in stories and in the imaginations of the people who write them.
“But,” Gogo asks me with a nighttime twinkle in her eye, “where do the stories come from?”
“Someone writes them.”
“A person writes them. Someone. Real life.”
She goes to the kitchen to make breakfast for dinner for lunch leftovers tomorrow. Stretching, I yawn. The screen is dark. Headlights from a car passing outside shine across the wall and then disappear again.
Gogo takes care of her eggs, gently folding them over and over a smoking pan. I imagine her as a movie star, standing there. As the one and only at whom you stare at onscreen. A magnanimous beauty. “You’re so much more interesting than money,” I say to her and she turns, steam coming from the stovetop and framing her face. She sticks her tongue out at me and crosses her eyes before turning back to the pan.
“I don’t have any money anyway,” she says to the eggs.
She adds salt and pepper. Her chest is bare and single drop of sweat rolls down her back to the floor. She’s wearing nothing but an apron. We are young and youth is money, but it’s the same – if we could give the homeless man on the street his youth back he would be a rich man as well.
“You can’t eat it,” she says.
If he could start over, fresh.
“Money.” Gogo blows at a strand of hair hanging down her face. She looks at it with her eyes crossed and blows again. Her hands are covered in flour. “You can’t cook with it either. You can’t really do much of anything with paper money. But when you think about it, you can grow everything you need to survive. And the only thing you have to spend is just a little bit of time. We don’t need money.”
The homeless man outside might disagree.
“I don’t know if you ever met my grandma?” Gogo goes back to pounding dough on the counter in front of her with her fists. “Before she died.”
I shake my head, “I didn’t.”
“She grew her own food. She was poor, but she was never hungry. She grew everything, more than what we get from the store. From the co-op even. Tomatoes and okra and lettuce and potatoes and fiddlehead ferns that she would pickle and leave in the cellar for winter. She canned tomatoes and made the best chili. She got water from a well. She used matches to start the oven she built herself. with wood she cut down and chopped herself.”
“Where was your granddad?”
Gogo shrugs. “Wherever. He drank a lot and then died. She did it all on her own.”
“From what. Liver failure?”
“I wish.” She pounds. “That would have taken longer. The bastard. He stumbled down a river bank and drowned. They say he didn’t wake up until he woke up in heaven he was so drunk. But I don’t think he went to heaven anyway.”
I think about what my own granddad used to tell me, “Heaven is an imaginary place. But people are real. And so real people were created by an imaginary figure, trying to end up in an imaginary place.”
Gogo is pounding harder and harder on the dough with her hands. “And the river he drowned in dried up before grandma died too. Like a bone. But they say all the while that the polar ice caps are melting.” She looks at me. “Here in America, the water is drying up. And soon whole world is going to be covered up to its neck or further in water. Pretty soon we’re all going to drown.”
Water is not something you can hold onto. It’s not something you can grasp, or something you can stand or build a house on. But you can float, swim, boat, ride waves like California and Florida and Hawaii and even frigid Lake Superior just outside of Duluth, Minnesota.
“We don’t surf.”
“We can learn.”
Gogo smiles. “That’s how we’ll survive?”
Gogo is a restless sleeper. She tosses and turns and moans with her eyes still closed, pulling the blankets up to her chin. Maybe that’s why we fall asleep to movies on the couch: We don’t sleep well at night. She has one dream, the same dream, every night:
In this dream, she tells me, she is looking to the sky as the stars slowly disappear. One by one they fade. She lays her head back and she lets out a sigh and then another one. “Am I dead?” She asks.
“Yes,” the dying stars tell her.
“Thank god.” She says.
“But that doesn’t mean you’re gone,” they say, their voices growing faint. “We will disappear, and you will remain.”
She wakes up from this dream sweating, her bedsheets wrapped tight around her chest and me, snoring just a moment ago, reaching for her waist. She stands to get a glass of water from the kitchen, wiping her forehead with her hand. It’s cold where she leaves me in bed. I roll over and fall asleep again before she comes back. She stays in the kitchen alone for I don’t know how long, watching through the window as the stars begin to disappear, switching off one by one.
“And soon,” she tells me when she finally comes and lays with me again, “the whole world will be covered in water.”