Five Percent of Nothing

By Connor Nicolas

Liza Parker’s maxim was better read than bred until a series of beatings, disappointments and deaths caused her to fold into herself and live the tenet her mother pounded into her that a woman is only five percent of a being without a man. People who have been through stuff forget things that people who haven’t take for granted. We have all lived worse in the midst of the knowing better. Some make a career of it. When a final catastrophic event turned gift put a halt to living down the horror of her past and the mistakes of her present, the living better in the knowing better began. But can she flip the script she made her truth?

An unapologetic journey that surfs through rip-currents of funny and heart-breaking events, Five Percent of Nothing explores fairy tale obliteration, why self-esteem should be an addiction and how any door, or window if you must, is the gospel according to freedom.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Connor Nicolas
• Release date: Aug 19, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466092402

Connor Nicolas

My name is Connor Nicolas and I am an author. Hypochondriac. Vessel of weird phobias. I conjure fantastic worlds, compile sentences in my head and regurgitate them onto paper for your enjoyment.

Book preview

Five Percent of Nothing

By Connor Nicolas

Copyright 2011 Connor Nicolas

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard workof this author.

This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

For Him. Though despite valiant effort, you will not break me.

I have spread my dreams under your feet; tread softly, because you tread on my dreams.

William Butler Yeats

Your world either narrows or widens depending on who you wake up next to. Shouldn’t be that way, should it? You either open your eyes to the person that sucks the salt from your dreams or imbues the possibility of everything into your being. But here’s where things get tricky. Do you let the one who desiccates your dreams fold you? Do you allow yourself to make the one who distends your heart with the sweetness of the world your savior? Do you go your own way?

My mother told me a woman is only 5% of a being on her own. A man provides the 95% to make her whole. I tell you what, when that parasitic chigger of insight burrows into your brain, it’s a hard one to let die. I never began my life imagining it would become how it became. I believed in the parables that promised the spoils to the victor; that if I whispered frantic, obsessive-compulsive wishes over a cake aflame, I would be protected. Not only did I believe it, it was my truth.

You start searching for that other to lighten the load. Strength in numbers becomes the hero of the day. I shoved my tongue so far down the frog’s throat, I didn’t realize he bit it off until I tried to call for another prince. And the fight that makes your lungs collapse polishes your desperation into a diamond. The bullshit fairy tale becomes the tome upon which you open your veins. My delusion was pathological. But was it?

After the blows, questioning comes before the fall. Maybe the good stuff only happened to others? Perhaps some unseen deficit ensured that it wasn’t to be had by you. Because if the only people you encounter in your life are destructive to you, does it then not seem as if the whole universe is destructive? I know people who enjoyed my pain. I’m sure you do too. And you crust over like old honey.

The secret of dealing successfully with a child is not to be its parent.

Mell Lazarus

My mother’s theme song was Stand By Your Man. It didn’t take long for it to become mine as well. My mother believed my brain would be my downfall. When I was young, I dreamt of going to Harvard and becoming a lawyer. But my mother told me to dismiss that because I was too beautiful to ever have to worry about being smart.

When I was nine years old, I was reading novels in secret. I stole money from my mother or my newest uncle and bought used paperbacks from the library and hid them in my closet. She scraped her pennies together to buy issues of Cosmopolitan and Glamour. I read them to please her. Our mother-daughter girl time consisted of reading the relationship quizzes together. What I really looked forward to was the college issues every August. I dreamt of knee socks and dormitories and passing the bar exam.

My mother had many men in her life. Starting with my father, who went to Starke when I was 4 months old, to her fifth husband William. In between there were many men. All were unmotivated, unemployed, hard drinkers. I used to dream, to be honest I still do, that I was adopted. I thought my real parents were rich aristocrats who had to give me up, but were waiting for the right time to come and reclaim me.

I grew up in a trailer park and our lack laid a thick foundation of shame for me. People say that if you don’t know any better, you never think that anything is wrong with your life. The problem was that from very young age, I did know better. Did you know that there are some people who think being poor is a romantic notion? I suppose the idea of a family banding together and digging their heels in to get through the rough times could be considered wistful. But there are different echelons of poverty. There is that quiet dreamy conversation between a husband and a wife where they tightly hug and tell each other as long as they stay together, everything will be all right. And then there is the fleeting poor where you’re just going through a temporary rough patch and you may have to wait until another payday to afford those cute Manolo Blahnik’s in the window of Barney’s.

And then there is the engrained poor. The poor where you have to choose between paying the water bill or the telephone bill--but never both in the same month. The poor where you can’t eat dinner because you have only one piece of chicken and your kids have to eat first. The poor where you wonder if sleeping with the electric company guy, or at least offering to, would prevent him from disconnecting your power. That is my degree of poor. That unromantic, full of despair poor that you can’t get out from under that makes you lose unwanted weight because you can’t afford to eat and threatens to turn you into a hooker to keep your utilities on.

My lack of satisfaction with everything in my life was a great source of wonderment to everyone and a great source of frustration for my mother. I knew I was poor, however thought it beneath me to both acknowledge and accept it. At the time, I believed that education was the only way of making a better life for myself and I was obsessive about studying. It was my mission in life to convince everyone, including myself, that I was better than all who surrounded me.

I bought a used atlas when I was 12 and I would spend hours locked in my room until I knew every town, state, province and country in all 1556 pages. I would dream of living in big cities and prayed every night to be transported to another place. My mother always asked me if I’d rather be successful and alone or miserable and married. She was truly shocked when I would always pick the first. Soon, however I would be convinced that the latter was the only option.

In high school I spent hours pent up in the library studying for the most benign quiz and I was the only member of the National Honor Society in our town. At the end of my sophomore year in high school, I announced to my guidance counselor that I was applying to Columbia’s Secondary Summer school program. He stared at me in disbelief, but I already had the application hidden in my sock drawer and was confident I’d make the cut.

Well Liza, that’s very ambitious of you but, how do you expect to pay for this?

I’ve thought that through. There is financial aid based on need and merit. The need part is definitely covered. As far as merit goes, I am a National Honor Society student, I’m top in my class and I can provide excellent recommendations from my teachers. Besides, I’m from a white trash town and those people love to feel like they’re helping the underprivileged. They eat that shit up.

He giggled and cleared his throat trying to sound serious. Well, I do wish you luck. You know, even if you win a full scholarship, which I have no doubt you could do, you’d still need spending money. I don’t mean to rain on your parade Liza, but this is not a cheap endeavor.

I know that, I said. He was raining on my parade. I will get a job. I’ve already filled out a bunch of applications so by the time I finish my finals next week, I should be able to work full time through the summer and then after school in the fall. I have a whole year to work and save. Even without a scholarship, I should have the money for the program.

It looks like you have everything worked out, I’m sorry I underestimated you. I expect you to keep me informed on your progress. I want to be the first to know, you hear? Well after your mother of course.

Of course. I said sarcastically.

I got a job as a check out girl in the local grocery store. My mother expected me to give her my entire paycheck so she could save it for me, but I refused. I was the only checker there who had all of her teeth and could speak in complete sentences so I made about $2.00 an hour more than anyone else. After a week, they promoted me to work in the back office doing the books.

My mother criticized me for having a job.

If you got yourself a man, she said, you wouldn’t need a job. But since you have one, you need to start giving us money. Do you know how much it costs just to keep you girl?

I was nothing but a commodity to my mother; an asset with a price tagged to her head.

During that summer, I worked from seven in the morning until nine at night seven days a week. The store used to cash my paycheck and every week, I’d give my mother 50.00 and I would hide the rest in small wooden box I kept under my bed. I raced home every afternoon at 1:00 to check the mail to see if there was an acceptance letter from Columbia waiting for me.

About a month after my junior year began, I came home one night after work to find my mother waiting for me in the living room. She never waited up for me so I was confused to see her sitting there.

Sit down, missy-thing, we have some talking to do. She said.

I scanned the trailer to see if her husband was there. I wondered if he died. And then I saw the opened large envelope in her lap. A prickly cool sweat started to form on my hairline and my stomach became sour. She was holding a Pall Mall in one hand and the other was patting the envelope.

What you got there Mamma? I asked.

You tell me Liza. She replied.

Well, I can’t see what you’re holding. Just tell me Mamma.

She stood up clutching the envelopes and walked to the kitchen to make herself what was probably the tenth vodka and soda of the day.

Imagine my surprise girl when I went to the mailbox today prepared for nothing but bills and this beautiful envelope was waiting for me. What could this fancy thing be, I wondered when I first saw it. But then I noticed it was addressed to you. Liza won’t mind if I open it, I thought; we have no secrets. Isn’t that right girl? Now think real careful before you answer that.

Mamma, I was going to tell you but I wanted it to be a surprise. I wanted you to be proud of me.

Proud of you? She boomed. Why the hell would I be proud of you? Sneaking behind my back to send an application to a school? You really think you’re going somewhere girl?

She brought her attention back down to the opened envelope. It dawned on me that she knew if I had been accepted to the program.

Mamma, can you just show me what it says? I begged.

Now why’d I do that? You already walk around this town like you’re the most important person in the world. You think you’re special because you’re smart girl? All your life I’ve been telling you that just because you’re smart don’t mean you get anywhere.

Mamma, I’ve applied for full scholarship and wouldn’t have to pay for anything. Mamma, it’s an incredible honor. This will really look good on my transcript.

Listen Liza, you need to stay around here and be useful to me and William. You need to start paying your debt back to us, not giving it to these fancy people! You really think I’d let you go to a school out of the country?

She managed to double-talk me into confusion again.

What do you mean Mamma? I don’t want to leave the country.

Well obviously you’re not as smart as everyone thinks you are. I’m holdin’ right here a letter from Columbia. Even I know that’s not here.

"Mamma Columbia College is in New York, not in the country of Columbia."

What the fuck ever Liza. Bottom line is you ain’t going anywhere. If you want to keep your job, fine. If you want to finish high school, fine, but you’re not going to Columbia-- wherever it is!

But why not? What’s so bad about wanting to go there?

Because it won’t end there, that’s why. You’ll go off and see how these rich people live and you’ll be whining about wanting a car or bike or clothes or a big mansion. You’ve never learned to know your place. Everyone has a place and obviously it’s gonna be hard for you to get, but you better learn your place right quick or things like this are going to be happening a lot.

Mamma, I won’t ask for another thing from you for the rest of my life. Just please give me my letter or at least know if I was accepted. Just let me know that please. I was on my knees begging at her feet, but she just looked down at me and smiled.

She walked out the front door of the trailer with the letter in her hand. I knew what she was going to do. I knew when I saw her holding it. I blasted myself for not giving them the grocery store’s address for the reply. I watched her through the front window of the trailer. She stood over the fire pit William dug and stared at me as she began ferociously tearing the envelope. I watched the scraps of paper cascade down into the fire pit like the beautiful snowflakes that decorated the Columbia catalog. She doused the torn paper in lighter fluid and lit a cigarette. I stared into the pit as she threw her match onto bits of paper. My dreams turned brown and curly. I watched the smoke grey ashes rise and fly away through the sky.

I prayed that the fire would kick back and burn her eyebrows off. She never took her eyes off me. I didn’t cry; I couldn’t. I was beyond crying. William joined her at the fire pit. She said something to him and he came inside.

Your Mamma wants you outside now girl. Come on. William said.

I followed him outside and stood next to her. William drag one of them saw horses over here. She said.

William limped over to one of the junk piles that dotted our front yard. I looked around for any of the neighbors because I knew what was to come.

Come on girl, you know what’s next. She said.

I obediently bent over the saw horse as I had done many times in my life.

Give me your belt William. She commanded.

As the belt lashed against my back, I turned my head and concentrated on the hot embers dancing in the fire pit. By the time she finished, the red had turned to grey and there was nothing left but smoking dust.

She dropped the belt on the ground and signaled for me to get up. I followed her into the trailer and tried to sit down on the couch across from her.

Look at me now Liza. God knows you’re too old for whoopings, but why do you make me do it? You need to learn some sense. I’ll say it one more time and hopefully, this time it’ll stick: you are never gonna have those things because we ain’t like those people. We live in a man’s world Liza. And those with the men get along in the world. Don’t you get that? Get yourself a man and you won’t have to worry about being in some fancy honor society or going to some expensive college. She walked to the kitchen and made herself another drink.

Why do you make it so hard on yourself? Hell girl, look at some of those ugly old gals who have a man who pays their bills and takes them shopping. Now, look at yourself girl; you’ve won half that battle. You think a fancy college or job is gonna give you class? What do you think people are gonna think of you with those things, but alone? They’ll think there’s something wrong with you that’s what!

The blood that was running down my back when she first began her speech, started to thicken and itch. I felt the pain of it all and knew it was hopeless. She finally wore me down and my dream went from becoming a lawyer and possibly marrying a Kennedy to just marrying. I finally lost my fight.

That summer before my junior year began, I became a card-carrying member of the club that subscribes to the notion that nothing good in this life will happen to you without the support of a man. I now believed the only way I could arrive at my dreams was to fall into the arms of the man who whisked me away so I could at least pursue those dreams. I mean, if I was meant to be alone, why didn’t things work out for me when I tried to do them on my own? My mother had finally drilled into my head that all those losers in school were losers because they were alone.

I felt if I hitched my rising star to an equally shiny red wagon, it could only rise further through the atmosphere. Perhaps the only reason the poor and desperate and dysfunctional were so was because they were woefully and shamefully alone. I looked down