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In Transit
by Ute Carson
At 25, Bryan McMurphy, a shy, good-looking young man, boards a bus in his hometown in Texas to join a band in Canada. On the way, out of cash and stranded in Montana, he meets childless, middle-aged Blanca, who gives him shelter. Sharply intelligent but deeply wounded, Bryan responds to Blanca's attentiveness. She feels compelled to discover the undercurrent of his troubled escapades and risks being drawn into his self-destructive world. In Transit is a story of the heartbreaking consequences of damaged childhood trust and a touching attempt by two very different people to mend a broken bond.
Praise for In Transit
"As I closed your book... I indeed had goosebumps up and down my arms. Your descriptions are so beautiful, poetic... I kept thinking of the borderline personalities, the transvestites, transsexuals, transgender and the other generally 'messed up' by their genes, their environment, their traumas that I used to talk with... You have written, I think, a most penetrating story... the ending was so skillfully and satisfactory done from my viewpoint. I am in awe of your creation."
- Deborah, Psychiatrist, Retired
Read an excerpt from In Transit
The internet, a secret friend, validated my compulsion and never got impatient or frustrated. I was disgusted with myself but I was ensnared by my new distraction. As if my good fortune had never happened, I once again built my identity on my desire. When I finally got up to eat or drink something, the seat of my pants stuck to my butt.
Maybe I would have slipped from my pleasant stupor into a saving sleep if Blanca hadn't come in. I didn't hear her knock, though there was a large brass knocker at the door of my new apartment.
I felt a hand on my shoulder as on the day when I had fallen asleep in the library. I twitched under her touch like a skewered fly.
"Why didn't you answer your phone? We worried about you," Blanca said.
How long had she been standing behind me? Had she watched? Her words broke through my numbness.
"I thought you knew the female anatomy by now."
Then Blanca bent forward, her lips pinched together as if she had eaten something bitter. She moved her hand from my shoulder onto her right hip and dismissed the screen with her eyes. As if I had uncovered the secret to a magician's disappearing act, my arousal went poof.
"Sometimes I don't understand you," she hissed, no longer restrained.
"Men are visual," I said in my defense. "If I had a young girl I would take care of her. I promise."
"Exploiting these girls." Her voice faltered.
I tried to explain.
"They were exploited before I saw them on the screen."
"Does that make it right? Does it? Does it?" Her words were claws. They ripped.
Then she stood there staring at me wildly. Finally she said,
"Let's take a walk."
Blanca must have thought me crazy. Though she seemed to want to put up with me, I saw her disapproval. A mixture of worry and fury flashed in her eyes.
As if to further protest against my depravity, Blanca's skirt swished furiously against her legs as she marched out of the apartment, down the steps, along the corridor, out the front door, holding its heavy sides long enough so it wouldn't slam on me, never breaking her big strides on the sidewalk in the direction of the park at the end of the street. I followed her in silence, dreading her cold demeanor, the predictable lecture, but I obeyed and walked. Once I pleaded,
"Look at me." But she never did.
The winter cold had stripped all the leaves off the branches. Now fresh snow began to stretch its soft coat over them. There was white cat hair clinging to the back of Blanca's green suit. I brushed it off without slowing us down.
Blanca's breath still came hard and fast when she finally slowed her pace in the park. I hung my head and waited for my punishment. To my surprise she said,
"I saw some Picasso drawings done in his eighties. Picasso had been preoccupied with sexual images all his life. As his sexual powers waned he became obsessed with female anatomy. Vaginas were drawn ugly as ragged, gaping mouths, hissing copperheads or fire-spewing gargoyles. No longer was sex a life force to be celebrated but a menace, an overwhelming danger. Guernica was all I could think of."
I knew immediately what Blanca was trying to tell me.
"When sex is safe, it's boring," I said.
We walked on and said no more.
Uncle Otis's Diary from World War II Prison Camp.
Summer 1946
How can I feel desire when I am exhausted, hungry and tired and with waning hope? But my desire is alive and well and it bothers me even as I lie, sweat-bathed and work-beaten on my straw mattress. The mattress smells of rotten wheat and unwashed clothing. I shield my eyes against my fantasies and let them fly to my beloved Emma. What might she be doing? Ironing the starched bed sheets? Do they have starch among their rations? Or is she about to bake her delicious sour dough bread which rises slowly in a large wooden bowl? If Emma is going to bake bread, I know she will have covered the dough with a cheese cloth to let the air filter through. We need air in the bunker. The heat is stifling.
Suddenly an image arises out of the misty past. Emma and I are at the pond in the park. It is a tender summer evening and no one else is in sight. We have finished the picnic that her mother prepared. We have eaten and shared a bottle of lovely, light Schwäbische white wine. The wine must have gone to Emma's head. With uncharacteristic frivolity she challenges me,
"Let's strip."
Off comes her skirt. She tosses her shoes, and then sheds her blouse and hose. She stands before me in her bra and underpants, suddenly shy.
"Your turn," she yells and then instead of waiting for me to undress she sprints toward the water and plunges in.
The lake is covered with algae. We call it duck algae because the ducks gobble it up like fresh greens. It makes a perfect cover and only Emma's head bobs above the surface, like a water lily. I never got another glimpse of Emma's beautiful body. I dive in next to her and we swim until it gets dark and then we slip from the water without another glance. We giggle as we walk home, the picnic basket between us and our underwear stuck to our skin.
My sex troubles me. It stirs beneath my flimsy, patched trousers. I fetch a sheet of paper from underneath the mattress and start writing. I smell the fragrance of Emma that night, a bit of algae, a bit of damp hair, and I see her mischievous smile. I am with her as I write this and I kiss her sweetly.
Suddenly my eyelids feel heavy and I know I can sleep after I have carefully hidden my worn-down pencil and this one piece of folded paper. I have to be very miserly with my paper. I hope my dreams will be of Emma.
She appears and I dream of kissing her lips, moist as a juicy peach. The thought makes me thirsty even as I sleep. Maybe tomorrow we will get a single cup of water before we set out for the quarry.
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