Gigi Fenster - Feverish

I have a friend who thinks a lot about Velcro.

Not in a sexual way.

I feel I must state this, though I cannot imagine how Velcro could possibly be used in a sexual wayits so clingy. But then, I cannot imagine how many things could possibly be used in a sexual way. My tastes, it seems, are vanilla.

And that, said my friend, was part of the problem.

We were sitting in a caf. She was telling me about Velcro. I was struggling to get on her wavelength. My vanilla tastes were holding me back. My vanilla tastes were preventing me from seeing the joyful potential of Velcro.

Just imagine, said my friend. For once, open your mind and imagine.

I said, Okay, okay.

Right, said my friend. I want you to imagine a long, thin room. Completely papered in Velcro. Walls, ceilings. Not the floors. Not the floors, she said again, not the floors.

Thats when I knew shed really thought the Velcro through. Shed imagined what would happen if the floors were Velcroed. Shed seen the problems this could present. I found this comforting. I told her so and she said, You bet Ive thought it through.

So, she continued, on one end of this long, thin Velcro room theres a giant catapult type thingbig enough to catapult an adult.

Not so comforting.

Theres also a trampoline, a ramp, balls of various shapes and sizes. Think of the possibilities, she said. Think of the possibilities.

And I did. I did start to see the possibilities.

My friend was talking about hanging off the ceiling, swinging from a Velcroed swing by her head, leaping off the trampoline. She was rolling down walls on Velcroed balls. Catapulting herself from one end of the room onto the Velcroed wall on the other end. She was Spiderman. Catwoman.

I listened for a while and it sounded like fun for her. But then I said, What if you got stuck?

Huh?

What if you got stuck? What if you were right up near the top of the wallyouve catapulted yourself there, you hit the wall kind of hard and your body is aching. Youve got bruises and youre stuck to the wall and you cant get down. What if that happened? I asked.

Why would I get stuck? she wanted to know. This is a fantasy, remember.

She sounded irritated that Id raised this possibility. She looked a bit sad. So I said, Forget it, forget it, you wouldnt get stuck. And if you did, you could always call Zoe.

Zoe is my friends teenage daughter. Theyd been fighting. Earlier my friend told me how her daughter was never home and, if she were, it was just to fight with her mother. Zoe was seeing some blokesome 20-year-old with a concave chest. Some kid who hadnt even finished school, my friend had said.

Mike, I said quickly, to distract us from Zoe. You could call Mike.

Mike? Ha! Mike would be outside in his studio. He wouldnt hear me. Id be stuck up there and no one would help me.

For a moment we sat quietly and worried.

Maybe you could free a hand, I said at last. Velcro-hair by Velcro-hair. You could free a hand.

But then what? she asked. What do I do then? If I use my hand to pull the rest of myself free, Ill fall. Ill fall and its quite a drop. No, she said, all freeing a hand would accomplish is give me something to wave with. She smiled and said, I could wave my hand. Like the Queen, or Michael Jackson. I could wave my little hand and call and call.

Your voice would get fainter and fainter, I said.

My hand would get tireder and tireder.

You might sing a little song to keep your spirits up.

I might try to reach a butterscotch lolly in my pocket.

That kept us busy for a while, and for a while it was as much fun as imagining the joys of the Velcroed room. But then she said, With you it always ends that way, doesnt it?

What? How? What with me?

It always ends with someone stuck to the wall.

I said, What? Huh? I put on a confused expression. But I knew what she meant, and she was right. Its because I have a limited imagination, I told her.

A writer with a limited imagination, said my friend. And I thought I had problems.

We thought about this for a while. Until she said, But its not limitations on your imagination thats the problem. The problem is your imagination works overtime, dreaming up worries. Thinking up fears.

My friend was right. I told her she was right and I told her how, when I was at university in the feminist club, there was this mania for masturbation. All the girls were doing it and talking about how if you were ever going to be sexually satisfied and a decent feminist you had to do it, and the whole thing made me really uncomfortable. Not the touching yourself, I told my Velcro friend, or the talking about it. But the thinking up the fantasy to go around it.

My friend was laughing. She said, I can just picture it. Youre lying there, surrounded by candles. Chris Isaaks playing. Youre telling yourself some story about how youre on a... a... houseboat. Youre on a houseboat on a Venetian canal and the man of your dreams is there and the water is lapping and your legs are splayed and you... youre

Thinking about how stinky the canals are. Worrying how Im going to get home, I said. And what was I doing there in the first place? Alone with some guy I hardly know in a country where I dont speak the language.

My friend laughed. I wanted to laugh too, but I said, Its because Im scared. I blurted the word out. I could hear how heavy it sounded. I tried to soften it by saying, Scaredy cat. Im a scaredy cat.

It still sounded heavy.

Maybe you are a scaredy cat, said my friend. So tell me, what are you scared of? First thing that comes to mind.

First thing that comes to mindending up in jail, obviously. Like I saidvanilla.

My friend put on an incredulous face. You? In jail? Why would you end up in jail? If youre so scared, youd never do anything criminal.

That may be, I said, but couldnt I end up in jail anyway? For a crime I didnt commit. Or without trial at all. I could end up in jail for being kind of odd.

Something Kafkaesque, said my friend, and I nodded, Yes, yes, something Kafkaesque.

But youd be okay in jail, she said. You dont have to worry about going to jail cos youd be okay there.