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Ball and Chain Eloise Holland Louisiana State University and Agricultural and Mechanical College, Eholla2@Lsu.Edu Louisiana State University LSU Digital Commons LSU Master's Theses Graduate School 2005 Ball and Chain Eloise Holland Louisiana State University and Agricultural and Mechanical College, [email protected] Follow this and additional works at: https://digitalcommons.lsu.edu/gradschool_theses Part of the Creative Writing Commons Recommended Citation Holland, Eloise, "Ball and Chain" (2005). LSU Master's Theses. 3094. https://digitalcommons.lsu.edu/gradschool_theses/3094 This Thesis is brought to you for free and open access by the Graduate School at LSU Digital Commons. It has been accepted for inclusion in LSU Master's Theses by an authorized graduate school editor of LSU Digital Commons. For more information, please contact [email protected]. BALL AND CHAIN A Thesis Submitted to the Graduate Faculty of the Louisiana State University and College of Arts and Sciences in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Master of Fine Arts In The Department of English by Eloise Holland B.A., Emory University 2001 May 2005 Acknowledgements Thank you to my family, particularly my twin sister Elizabeth, who has always been one of my best editors. To Melissa for being supportive and kind and lots of fun. To Rachael for being the second sister I never had. To everyone at The Southern Review: I have learned so much. Thank you to all my writing teachers who have been patient and encouraging, especially Bruce Covey, Jim Grimsley, and Jim Wilcox. Finally, to Dawn Mielke for being a doctor who listened. ii Table of Contents Acknowledgements………………………………………………………………………..ii Abstract…………………………………………………………………………………....v House of Pain……………………………………………………………………………...1 Prospects…………………………………………………………………………………..8 Double Dave’s Lucky Shot………………………………………………………………17 The Invasion……………………………………………………………………………...32 The Chlamydia Room……………………………………………………………………57 Mother Love……………………………………………………………………………...65 Hunger……………………………………………………………………………………81 Blood and Sweat and Barbie……………………………………………………………101 The Inquisition………………………………………………………………………….120 Holiday Cheers………………………………………………………………………….136 A Second Opinion………………………………………………………………………162 My Heart Swells (Along with the Rest of Me)…………………………………………177 Telling…………………………………………………………………………………..195 This is Love?……………………………………………………………………………206 A Broom and a Brush-off………………………………………………………………221 This is Love……………………………………………………………………………..233 Cycles…………………………………………………………………………………...245 iii Vita……………………………………………………………………………………...262 iv Abstract Ball and Chain is a coming-of-age story that explores the pain and joy of an unusual first love. Patsy is a twenty-six-year-old virgin. As her body begins to deteriorate as the result of an unknown ailment, she finds herself intrigued by the beautiful and vibrant Anita. Initially unwilling to admit her attraction, Patsy distracts herself with work, her best friend’s quest to find the perfect tattoo artist, and the politics of her wealthy Houston family. When Patsy grows increasingly ill, she decides that she must find a way to get Anita’s attention before it’s too late. v House of Pain At our first stop, The Skin Lab, a guy leaned against the counter and looked us both up and down. He was maybe an inch taller than Charlotte. His shorts fell below his knees to reveal thick, tattooed calves. A tuft of dark curly hair peeked out from the neck of his T-shirt. “Can I help you sweet ladies?” He smiled and stroked the steel rings in his lower lip. “I am not a sweet lady,” Charlotte said. She adjusted her glasses. “Come on, Patsy, let’s go.” She motioned for me to follow as she headed back out the door. “Charlotte! You didn’t even ask any questions.” “I saw enough,” she said. “Just because he called you a sweet lady?” “Calling me a sweet lady annoyed me, but did you notice his fingers? Filthy.” Charlotte was getting her first tattoo the way she did everything, as a conscientious consumer. She’d picked me up after work to tag along. We were in Houston, and even though we’d just had Thanksgiving, the air was summery warm and damp like puppy breath. Everywhere I went people were walking around in tank tops to do their Christmas shopping. Charlotte and I didn’t spend much time at the next few parlors, generic places with fat binders full of art that was guarded by hip, inked receptionists who stared at us knowingly. At Southern Tattoo Emporium, I asked to use the restroom. The bored 1 employee in vinyl pants pointed to the back where I found a bright, spacious bathroom and a bowl of potpourri on the windowsill. I ran my hands under warm water. The week before, I’d strained a tendon in my ankle, but now my fingers were aching too. Tell-tale signs that I was inheriting Daddy’s arthritis. I watched myself in the mirror as I massaged my fingers. The fluorescent light emphasized the translucence of my pale skin. My stepmother, Dorothy, would send me gift certificates for the tanning salon soon, as she had every year since I was fifteen. I stuck my tongue out as I turned to leave, and my reflection sneered back with bared teeth and a coffee-stained tongue. “You ready?” Charlotte asked when I came out. She was by herself. “Sure,” I said, wondering how Charlotte had alienated the vinyl-pants girl. Something about the way she’d disappeared without a trace made me sure that that was what had happened. I told Charlotte about the immaculate bathroom, but her mind was already made up, and we hurried on. We had a nice chat with the owner of Montrose Mama’s House of Pain. Paul was a sinewy, middle-aged guy with dragons running up and down his arms and a pink, leathery neck. Charlotte looked around, discussed fees, and took his card. I thought it had gone pretty well, that this time we’d found the one. He was polite, he seemed smart, and he had clean hands. But when we were back in her Camry, Charlotte picked up her clipboard and crossed The House of Pain from her list. 2 “What was wrong with that place?” I asked. Charlotte cranked the engine and turned on the air-conditioner before answering. Her short black hair was pulled into a ponytail. She tucked stray hairs behind her ears and wiped away the sweat gathering at the bridge of her nose under her glasses. She sighed. “If you wouldn’t want to eat your lunch on their floor,” she said, “then you probably don’t want to bleed there.” “It looked okay to me.” I flipped the blowing vent toward Charlotte. Everyone complained about the heat, but I was still freezing and aching. “Then again, I don’t want to eat my lunch on anybody’s floor.” “I wasn’t happy with his personal hygiene. He smelled funny.” “He did not!” “I was closer to him,” she said. She ran her index finger down the list to check the next location. “I know it seems like a bit much, but I’ll thank myself when I don’t get hepatitis.” “You’re not going to get hepatitis.” “Well, I’m also including things like diversity of employment, and you heard him say that they don’t recycle. I really think I’d like to have it done by a woman, if I can find one.” “Whatever tickles your goose.” I shrugged, borrowing an expression from my grandmother. Charlotte didn’t need affirmation every five minutes like some people. She’d been confident since I met her in high school. Now that we were both back in 3 town, we were hanging out a lot. She taught high school English, hated corporate America, worked with her church’s youth group, and never tried to set me up on dates. Sometimes, though, she had weird ideas about men, which might have explained her desire for a female tattoo artist. I’d always thought it was a holdover from her Korean mother, who often told us that men, especially white ones, were only out for one thing. I guess being married to one, Mrs. McKay would know. When Charlotte was on the cheerleading team in high school, her mother almost had a heart attack the first time she saw Grayson Moore lift Charlotte up with both hands placed firmly under her skirt. Then again, maybe I was the one with weird ideas. Unlike me, Charlotte had a serious, committed relationship. She and Richard had been engaged for a year and were getting married in August. Never having had any kind of boyfriend at all, I was one to talk. “There’s got to be a woman tattoo artist somewhere,” I said finally. “That’s the spirit!” Charlotte squeezed my shoulder and turned on the stereo. She sang along to her favorite Janis Joplin, “Ball and Chain.” Pressure gathered behind my eyes. For a tiny girl she had a very loud voice. I rested my head on the window. “What’s wrong now?” she asked. “I don’t feel so great.” “You should have had a flu shot.” Tsk, tsk, her waggling head lectured. “It’s not the flu.” “Well, you’ll know soon enough if it is,” she said. “Half the school is out with it now. I’m so thankful I got mine.” 4 “I know. You’re so smart,” I said just as I had the sensation that an ice-cold nail was being wedged between my skull and my brain. I rubbed my head and shivered. “I’ll forgive you your sarcasm, but only because you’re getting sick.” “I’m not getting sick,” I said. Charlotte stopped at a red light. On the median, a man sat on a fold-out camping chair holding a sign and a bucket. Charlotte waved and he waved back. He started to stand so she shook her head and held up her hands, palms to the sky.
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