The History of My Body by Sharon Heath

Author:Sharon Heath
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: literary fiction, visionary fiction, coming of age, general fictin
Publisher: Thomas-Jacob Publishing, LLC via Indie Author Project
Published: 2016-12-09T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fifteen

WHILE LORD HANUMAN moved us one step closer to a Principle of Dematerialization, I’m afraid he wasn’t qualified to share in our eventual recognition. But, perhaps even better from his point of view, the Goodall Institute succeeded in placing him at the Gombe National Park in Tanzania. Thanks to his orneriness, he was one of those fortunate once-captive chimps who manage the transition back to the wild, establishing a secure place for himself in a group of fifteen of his peers.

I’m afraid the same could not be said of me. So Cal’s famous weather suited me just fine, but I found myself pining for the blare of New York cab horns, the wacky performance artists and street musicians of Washington Square, Central Park’s aromatic blend of freshly-mown grass and horse poop. While I grew fonder and fonder of Stanley and Gwennie Fiske, I missed Nana’s rough hugs, Dhani’s delicious desserts, and the familiar scent of Chanel No. 5 permeating my room after Mother kissed each of my cheeks before leaving for one of her Bill W. meetings.

Plus, I was feeling pretty anxious about my upcoming first day of school. I’d had four weeks to prepare, which I did by reading Kip Thorne’s Black Holes and Time Warps, working on dematerialization, accompanying my physics friends to the beach, learning the fine art of boogie boarding, mooning in misery over Adam, hating my pasty skin, hating my pimples, and hating Stephanie Siedenfeld. Oh, and decorating my bedroom with what Amir concluded was the most catholic collection of posters he’d ever seen. (And if you think that meant I’d plastered my walls with pictures that would satisfy the sensibilities of Sister Flatulencia’s church, you’re making the same mistake I did before consulting my dictionary.) What a difference a little capitalization makes. You might not be aware that catholic without a big “c” refers to breadth or liberality in scope or taste, whereas Catholic with the big “C” pretty much narrows the field to the preferences of one man, sometimes called the Pope and sometimes called—at least by Gwennie Fiske—That Misogynistic Sonofabitch.)

As for my own brand of catholicism, here’s what you would have noticed upon entering my room:

1. A movie poster unearthed by Adam at a Hollywood Boulevard memorabilia store featuring the I Dream of Jeannie Jeannie starring in The Harper Valley PTA;

2. A fine pen-and-ink drawing of ten different Austins from England’s Chelsea Garden Show;

3. A rare Ansel Adams photo of a fierce-looking coyote;

4. An old political poster of Father, emblazoned with the motto Life—the ONLY choice!, which, due to circumstances you will come to understand, had to be disposed of at the end of eighth grade, leaving a ghostly imprint of its shape on the wall;

5. An enlargement of a photograph of the 1927 Arsenal football team, sent rolled up in a cardboard tube by Dhani;

6. A shadowbox containing Stanley H. Fiske’s collection of rare banknotes depicting famous physicists, including a melancholy Albert Einstein on a 5 Israeli Lirot and a 500 Danish Kroner featuring a pipe-smoking Niels Bohr.

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