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39 to Beam Up

December 1, 2023 By Lisa Wartenberg Vélez

39 to Beam Up

Marshall Applewhite likes his sushi cooked. Tempura everything, extra ginger, no seaweed. Lit purple by the neon sign blinking O P   N by his tableside, Marshall Applewhite strokes the air and mouths the word martini at me, winks. The hit of molly rushes in. I feel like a rabbit right then and wag my tail at him. He smiles at me the way I’ve seen Helena emote at her second graders. I hate her second graders. I should get all her love. Or maybe it’s the patches on his Grimace-purple jacket drawing me in: Away Team, one says. I decide this means he belongs to a team that is away, like Helena is away. When I ask him, he says that’s correct, and he says Marshall Applewhite is not my real name, it’s what I’m called on Earth. By then I spill onto his lap.

Marshall Applewhite and I make love in the broken bathroom. The toilet overflows some part of the way. When he’s finished, Marshall asks me about heaven. I tie apron strings around my hips and tell him none of it is real. He puts a finger between my eyes and says in here. Marshall downs his martini and begins to cry. His Nikes slosh about. I tell him about Helena, the way she left me before ever leaving me. How you can live a life and its opposite at once. Marshall dabs paper towels at my cheeks. It is me, I am weeping.

His twenty followers still sit at the table: nails along the border of the mock bamboo like the keys of a piano, each in pageboy haircuts, androgynous in high collars and black cotton. I grind my teeth, they feel too long. I could never be a rabbit. Lunch time’s done and I cash out. My boss yells. Someone forgot to tip out the kitchen and I guess it was me. I fan the money stick it down my chest.

The bathroom door breaks open water rushes out. We are washed away into the street. Marshall pat-pats the table and we bob atop the slush. It is then he promises me heaven, another planet. I want to tunnel inside the whole of him. Burrow in wait for this whole place to go. I never wanted anything but flesh. I imagine the children with their growing teeth eke out the thing I could no longer.

About Lisa Wartenberg Vélez

Lisa Wartenberg Vélez is a Colombian writer of fiction who split her childhood between Bogota and South Florida. Her has work received creative and/or financial support from Bread Loaf Writers' Conference, Kenyon Workshops, Ucross Foundation, and Tin House Workshop, and others. MFA: University of Houston (2023). Her work is anthologized in Best Debut Stories 2023 (Catapult) and also appears in Nimrod and elsewhere. She is a recent winner of a 2023 PEN / Robert J Dau Prize.

Artist Credit:

Dimitri Gregorio is an artist living in Orlando, FL. Find more of his work on Instagram @dimitrigregorio.

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