When It Rains in America
By Ruby Fire
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America was the place of dreams, right? It was full of wide open spaces and amber fields and purple mountains majesty, right? Big parking lots and big cars and fashion designers and really awful movies and rainbows and big people and landmarks both man-made and natural.
Mamimi looked over her shoulder at the plain-looking talent agency building. It seemed like a logical place to start. But the receptionist looked disapprovingly at her when she admitted she didn't have a mailing address or even a place to stay.
The moment that fat, stupid American saw her pictures, he showed her the door. He glowered at her when she handed him her drugstore-developed pictures. He said she should have a proper portfolio, whatever what was, with glossy photos and not something done by a disposable camera.
He looked really angry when she said that it was her own camera. Just because it was drop-off film didn't mean it wasn't good.
Now she was in the road and glaring at the temporary office building. The kind of building that has the stapled in thin carpeting with boxes and plastic wrapping strewed about the rooms as things are constantly being packed or unpacked with no middle between the two. Coming or going, no staying.
Mamimi thought that was pretty much all America was going to be. People were always just arriving or immediately leaving. For someone who had stayed her entire life in a town that was trapped in its own little world, she wasn't used to either. She wasn't sure if she liked it or not.
She just decided to forget about this temporary parasite of a talent agency. There were a million other places to give her beautiful pictures to.
She walked down the street and surveyed the scene. Maybe she would find something to take a picture of since she had only tried to line up potential shots so far. Yeah, her first set of pictures in America. In California. In a beautiful city full of bizarre people and bright places and strange, new things to photograph. Perfect.
She felt like the camera around her neck was like some sort of badge. As soon as she had stepped off the boat, people were trying to get in her line of vision, especially once she had lined up a shot. It annoyed her after awhile but it provided some interesting material.
Mamimi had always envisioned America to be just one big sweeping plain of wheat with mountains to the far north in the foreign world of Canada. She knew it had fruited fields and shinning seas. She knew these things because her English class had to learn that America the Beautiful song. The times she bothered to pay attention, she thought the tune was irritating. She thought the lyrics had described a perfect world.
She wondered why the lyrics had forgotten about the transvestite dancers in head-to-toe sequins and crack dealers.
She had a bad run-in with a couple of prostitutes that had make-up on so thick that you wondered if they were kabuki actors. They were screaming at her to stop attracting people to her, as if she were some kind of threat to the oldest profession, until they saw her camera. Then they sweetly asked her to take some pictures of them. When she tried to tell them no, they had pushed her away and dug their fake painted nails into her skin until she fled to the safety of the other side of the street.
It was amazing how vain some people were. Despite that, Mamimi liked the sense of power that this simple little camera brought her. People smiled when she had that thing in her hands. People stepped around, instead of pushing her once they saw that black machine hanging around her neck.
She walked on street curb, arms stretched out like she was a high-wire walker. This place was a circus anyway.
She was just now starting to wonder where she was going to stay. She'd had a plan: get on a boat, step off boat, get some more money, get an apartment, and find her boyfriend. She wasn't sure if she would move into his place, wherever that was, or he'd move in with her. She hoped that it would be his because she wasn't going to able to afford anything very fancy or big.
But money was something that she didn't have a whole lot of in the first place. She had brought most of the things she needed, like a few clothes and film and a toothbrush in her backpack, but a big part of her savings went into buying a boat ticket and food was something you always needed a lot of money for.
As for a place to live. . . .
She smiled up at the blue sky. Ok, it had a few faint yellow spots in some places but she didn't care. It was quite warm this far South, especially along the oceans. There were a million benches to sleep on and a hundred bridges to hide under when it rain. By the time winter came, she'd be rich and famous living with her boyfriend.
She laughed to herself and closed her eyes and spun around. Through her eyeslids, she saw red light filtering through. It alternated with darkness as she spun like a top on the edge of a curb.
Yes, she'd live with her boyfriend. He'd forget about whatever girl he found. He just needed a substitute, and that girl would be gone the second Mamimi appeared in his life. Substitutes were needed sometimes, just like she had needed Naoto once her angel had left. Naoto was a sweet kid but he was just much like his brother, which was his real appeal.
But she'd move in with her baseball playing god and they'd be rich and comfortable with a cozy apartment with a TV and a million video games to play and beautiful silk sheets and expensive Christmas presents for each other every year.
She'd go and attend all his games and take pictures, just like she did back home. Newspapers and magazines and fans would demand pictures of her baseball playing god in action.
America was going to be a perfect world. Here they grew the biggest and juiciest watermelons and the plumpest pumpkins. She heard that one night a year kids went to houses begging for candy. She and her personal athlete god would dress up and go too. America was the place of dreams. A million and a thousand things to photograph and never run out of material. A million angles and angels and a million songs and a thousand things to eat and a million places to step in stride with her personal angel, her god of a baseball player.
A car whisked by and honked. She jumped at the unexpected sound and the wind sent her tumbling off the curb. Somewhere nearby, a few boys laughed and said something she didn't understand.
Mamimi scowled at them. She was good at English but even without hearing them clearly, she knew what they wanted to see. She knew they were glad to get a clear view of her on her hand and knees with her shirt open. She was glad she traded in her dumb uniform for jeans.
She struggled to her feet, like a fallen tight-rope walker cautiously swings himself back on his wire. She pulled on her blue sweatshirt and memories flooded into her mind's eyes, like God's storm had flooded the land around Moses' boat. The shirt smelt of Naoto. It smelt of the green grass from under the bridge where they had made out. It smelt like his father's bakery. It smelt of machine oil from Canti. These were the smells of home.
There, around her stomach on along her esophagus, were the faint contractions as her heart gave birth to homesickness.
The sun went dark and thunder rolled.
Mamimi looked up at the sky. A couple drops of water landed on her cheek. People were already scurrying for someplace dry, to wait out this sudden storm.
The heavens split and a waterfall of Heaven poured onto the streets. It drove Mamimi from the curb to a bridge down the road. Even though the bridge didn't block the wind and the cars driving above roared like dragons, it was at least better than in the open.
Mamimi felt water dripping down her face and it wasn't raindrops.
She sang, "Oh, beautiful, for spacious skies . . ."
By Ruby Fire
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America was the place of dreams, right? It was full of wide open spaces and amber fields and purple mountains majesty, right? Big parking lots and big cars and fashion designers and really awful movies and rainbows and big people and landmarks both man-made and natural.
Mamimi looked over her shoulder at the plain-looking talent agency building. It seemed like a logical place to start. But the receptionist looked disapprovingly at her when she admitted she didn't have a mailing address or even a place to stay.
The moment that fat, stupid American saw her pictures, he showed her the door. He glowered at her when she handed him her drugstore-developed pictures. He said she should have a proper portfolio, whatever what was, with glossy photos and not something done by a disposable camera.
He looked really angry when she said that it was her own camera. Just because it was drop-off film didn't mean it wasn't good.
Now she was in the road and glaring at the temporary office building. The kind of building that has the stapled in thin carpeting with boxes and plastic wrapping strewed about the rooms as things are constantly being packed or unpacked with no middle between the two. Coming or going, no staying.
Mamimi thought that was pretty much all America was going to be. People were always just arriving or immediately leaving. For someone who had stayed her entire life in a town that was trapped in its own little world, she wasn't used to either. She wasn't sure if she liked it or not.
She just decided to forget about this temporary parasite of a talent agency. There were a million other places to give her beautiful pictures to.
She walked down the street and surveyed the scene. Maybe she would find something to take a picture of since she had only tried to line up potential shots so far. Yeah, her first set of pictures in America. In California. In a beautiful city full of bizarre people and bright places and strange, new things to photograph. Perfect.
She felt like the camera around her neck was like some sort of badge. As soon as she had stepped off the boat, people were trying to get in her line of vision, especially once she had lined up a shot. It annoyed her after awhile but it provided some interesting material.
Mamimi had always envisioned America to be just one big sweeping plain of wheat with mountains to the far north in the foreign world of Canada. She knew it had fruited fields and shinning seas. She knew these things because her English class had to learn that America the Beautiful song. The times she bothered to pay attention, she thought the tune was irritating. She thought the lyrics had described a perfect world.
She wondered why the lyrics had forgotten about the transvestite dancers in head-to-toe sequins and crack dealers.
She had a bad run-in with a couple of prostitutes that had make-up on so thick that you wondered if they were kabuki actors. They were screaming at her to stop attracting people to her, as if she were some kind of threat to the oldest profession, until they saw her camera. Then they sweetly asked her to take some pictures of them. When she tried to tell them no, they had pushed her away and dug their fake painted nails into her skin until she fled to the safety of the other side of the street.
It was amazing how vain some people were. Despite that, Mamimi liked the sense of power that this simple little camera brought her. People smiled when she had that thing in her hands. People stepped around, instead of pushing her once they saw that black machine hanging around her neck.
She walked on street curb, arms stretched out like she was a high-wire walker. This place was a circus anyway.
She was just now starting to wonder where she was going to stay. She'd had a plan: get on a boat, step off boat, get some more money, get an apartment, and find her boyfriend. She wasn't sure if she would move into his place, wherever that was, or he'd move in with her. She hoped that it would be his because she wasn't going to able to afford anything very fancy or big.
But money was something that she didn't have a whole lot of in the first place. She had brought most of the things she needed, like a few clothes and film and a toothbrush in her backpack, but a big part of her savings went into buying a boat ticket and food was something you always needed a lot of money for.
As for a place to live. . . .
She smiled up at the blue sky. Ok, it had a few faint yellow spots in some places but she didn't care. It was quite warm this far South, especially along the oceans. There were a million benches to sleep on and a hundred bridges to hide under when it rain. By the time winter came, she'd be rich and famous living with her boyfriend.
She laughed to herself and closed her eyes and spun around. Through her eyeslids, she saw red light filtering through. It alternated with darkness as she spun like a top on the edge of a curb.
Yes, she'd live with her boyfriend. He'd forget about whatever girl he found. He just needed a substitute, and that girl would be gone the second Mamimi appeared in his life. Substitutes were needed sometimes, just like she had needed Naoto once her angel had left. Naoto was a sweet kid but he was just much like his brother, which was his real appeal.
But she'd move in with her baseball playing god and they'd be rich and comfortable with a cozy apartment with a TV and a million video games to play and beautiful silk sheets and expensive Christmas presents for each other every year.
She'd go and attend all his games and take pictures, just like she did back home. Newspapers and magazines and fans would demand pictures of her baseball playing god in action.
America was going to be a perfect world. Here they grew the biggest and juiciest watermelons and the plumpest pumpkins. She heard that one night a year kids went to houses begging for candy. She and her personal athlete god would dress up and go too. America was the place of dreams. A million and a thousand things to photograph and never run out of material. A million angles and angels and a million songs and a thousand things to eat and a million places to step in stride with her personal angel, her god of a baseball player.
A car whisked by and honked. She jumped at the unexpected sound and the wind sent her tumbling off the curb. Somewhere nearby, a few boys laughed and said something she didn't understand.
Mamimi scowled at them. She was good at English but even without hearing them clearly, she knew what they wanted to see. She knew they were glad to get a clear view of her on her hand and knees with her shirt open. She was glad she traded in her dumb uniform for jeans.
She struggled to her feet, like a fallen tight-rope walker cautiously swings himself back on his wire. She pulled on her blue sweatshirt and memories flooded into her mind's eyes, like God's storm had flooded the land around Moses' boat. The shirt smelt of Naoto. It smelt of the green grass from under the bridge where they had made out. It smelt like his father's bakery. It smelt of machine oil from Canti. These were the smells of home.
There, around her stomach on along her esophagus, were the faint contractions as her heart gave birth to homesickness.
The sun went dark and thunder rolled.
Mamimi looked up at the sky. A couple drops of water landed on her cheek. People were already scurrying for someplace dry, to wait out this sudden storm.
The heavens split and a waterfall of Heaven poured onto the streets. It drove Mamimi from the curb to a bridge down the road. Even though the bridge didn't block the wind and the cars driving above roared like dragons, it was at least better than in the open.
Mamimi felt water dripping down her face and it wasn't raindrops.
She sang, "Oh, beautiful, for spacious skies . . ."