Coatlicue

I found myself in Phillips Hall, a fortress on campus with a dark red brick façade, accented with white trim, peaked pediments and clustered windows. Situated across from Swain, it bore a resemblance to a Bronx elementary school built in the seventies.

Constantly under construction, its floor plan seemed designed to bewilder and entice unsuspecting wanderers into hidden stairwells. I recognized the familiar surroundings of Phillips Hall, recalling my past experiences in those classrooms with a pang of regret. Seated in the front row of the semi-auditorium layout, I occupied a chair with faded red upholstery. The wooden armrests bore the termite-like marks of previous occupants, scratched and nicked by the monotony of lectures past.

Every aspect of formal instruction felt like confinement, and this classroom in Phillips Hall amplified that sensation. Its cinder block walls rose starkly on either side, while the ceiling, a miscellany of acoustic tiles, bore evidence of past leaks.

The room felt perpetually dusty and musty. It is a smell that evokes nostalgia for some, but it invoked discomfort for me, and that was apparent, because I did everything during undergrad to avoid going to class. 

Yet here I was against my will. 

I sat in the classroom, oblivious to the identity of the instructor or the subject being taught. The whir of the struggling projector served as a backdrop to my presence there, motivated solely by a desire for further education or professional advancement.

I found myself in that classroom because I only held a bachelor's degree, leaving me feeling like an oversized high school graduate in today's world, or perhaps even worse—like an orphaned leper.

Seated beside me was another student, a seemingly mature man. He was impeccably dressed in a well-fitted charcoal gray suit with wide lapels, complemented by a matching vest, pleated trousers, and polished brogues. A neat tie, a navy blue pocket square, and a black felt fedora completed his ensemble.

As our eyes met, I noticed something unsettling about him. Despite his initial handsomeness, his eyes held no iris— glossy slate oblong pits.

"What are you staring at?" he spat at me.

"You were the one staring first, sir," I replied calmly. "What do you want?"

"I want to know why you’re here," he pressed.

"I’m here to get my life together. Right now, it’s a mess. I need to straighten out my path, or I’ll never reach the middle class—which is a fake class— or have a family. But I’m not sure if this will work, to be honest. It’s not as foolproof as it used to be. I’m in this lecture for the same reason you are," I explained.

"Well, you’ll never reach your goals looking like that," he scrutinized me with his iris-less eyes.

I glanced down at my outfit, a crocheted ecru dress. No slip, no bra, no panties. But oddly, I wore a tiny, sheer paisley arbor green cardigan from Ann Taylor Loft. It reminded me of my sexy but melancholic mother's cardigans. The kind of cardigan suburban moms wear while popping Zoloft and crying over daytime television, sipping Riesling from a Schott Zwiesel crystal glass.

"And it'sss not becaussse of your outfit," the hollow-eyed man sensed my unspoken concern, his tongue flicking between his lips. "It'sss becaussse you don't have our ssskin. You're not a Dinosssaur…"

I'LL SINK INTO DEBT AND TOIL AWAY JUST TO REPAY IT, ALL TO AVOID BECOMING ENSLAVED TO A FIGURE FROM THE ANGLOSPHERE WHO IS NOT TRULY A MAN BUT RATHER A DISTORTED GYNANDROMORPH—A THWARTED, RAPED CHILD. MY WARDEN WILL EITHER BE A MAN-CHILD OR A STATE THAT'S OUT TO KILL ME. EVERY MOVE I MAKE WILL BE AIMED AT ATTAINING SOME STATUS MARKER JUST TO SURVIVE. I CAN’T BE UNEXCEPTIONAL IN A SUCCESS CULTURE. IT IS A CRIME TO BE AVERAGE. I'LL NEED TO CONFORM TO ALL THE RIGHT BELIEFS TO HOLD ONTO MY JOB. I’LL HAVE TO CUT OUT MY TONGUE AND MODULATE MY LANGUAGE TO APPEASE FEEBLE-MINDED INDIVIDUALS WHO LIVE IN A BUBBLE WITHIN A BUBBLE, COMPLETELY DISCONNECTED FROM REALITY AND SHIELDED BY A FALSE SENSE OF SELF.

I heard a faint rustling, almost imperceptible, like the soft crackling of parchment being unfurled. The man's stiffness was palpable, as if he were chafing. His skin lacked the usual texture and physiological features—no blood vessels, no muscle definition, no pores or follicles. The immediate area around his eyes looked pink and raw, as if the skin further down didn't belong to him. There was clearly a discomfort with his own artifice.

"You look like you’re in pain," I commented.

He hissed loudly, then pulled out his stela and two books, both anthropodermically bound. But these bindings were poorly done, untreated skin mottled with stains, crude and uneven, with jagged edges and loose threads protruding from the seams.

"I’m going to politely excuse myself," I informed the man, grabbing my tote bag and striding down the hallway, which stretched in spectral pallor. The lights stuttered and flickered loudly, casting wavering shadows. A peculiar smell—simultaneously syrupy and rotting. I glanced down to find my studded platform clogs sinking into a mucilaginous mystery fluid on the linoleum floor. It had an oily indigo hue, and only after stepping in it did I notice the wet floor sign, bearing the warning "Piso Mojado."

Scraping the liquid off my heels and soles, I veered left and descended the main stairwell, dropping down a floor before turning right and slipping into a chilly, narrow broom closet. Inside were three steel desks, gray metal chairs, and welded bolt-to-floor leveling foot flanges. Two bookers from my Parisian agency were seated behind desks, each engaged in conversation with the two Serbian models I'd encountered in the Belgrade airport—sisters with ivory skin, chestnut brown hair, and beryl eyes.

I settled into the seat at the third desk, farthest to the right. The booker seated there was vaguely familiar, his recessed chin and donkey teeth—enhanced by questionable veneers. Thin, thread-like brows arched over droopy eyes, and he had a llama-like bleach blonde perm.

"Let me fill you in on your client options for the week," he whispered with a lisp, leaning in close. "Two potential Wave Exchange clients in Clichy and a beauty campaign possibility in the first arrondissement."

Suddenly, he seized my shoulder, jerking me towards him. In his hand, a palmful of spice—likely cumin—glittered as he sprinkled it before me in a hypnotic motion.

"If I'm honessst, you're a bit short and, well, fertile," he continued, his voice dripping with condescension. "You're bound to balloon. But there's a sssolution: the LSSSSAT."

"Will that really help?" I asked, caught in his strange trance.

"Oh yesss," he hissed, a sensation like a forked tongue brushing against my helix, exploring my ear's erogenous contours with unsettling precision.

As he continued with his sibilant speech, I glanced to my left, observing the two Serbian girls who were also anxiously considering their own options. Like two delicate oil paintings, they too seemed to be mulling over their inevitable expiration dates, their hands wringing with nervous energy. At that moment I told myself that I'd need to self-medicate with socially acceptable drugs to focus on anything technical or detail-oriented in the professional job market. 

Everyone in this country is on drugs, and I just have to choose the correct cocktail.

I scrambled out of the stiff metal chair and bolted from the broom closet.

"You know if you leave, it’sss over," the lispy booker warned me.

I nodded in acknowledgment and descended the staircase to the basement, where the Physics majors congregated for their classes. During undergrad, I suspected some of them were skinwalkers, harvesting souls to make better prosthetic arms from other students turned cadavers.

I hurried through the basement of the basement, yes you read that correctly, my dearest former friend, A, the basement of the basement of Phillips Hall, seeking the cramped, clammy tunnel that led to the underground carpark. A pair of car keys materialized in my hand, unlocking an old Toyota Highlander. 

I quickly left campus and headed to Open Eye, the hipster coffee shop nearby.

Unfortunately, the coffee there was disappointing.

EVERY PURCHASE YOU MAKE, EVERY INCREMENTALIZED LUXURY, WILL SERVE AS A FLEETING DISTRACTION FROM THE HARSH REALITY OF WHERE YOU RESIDE. THIS PLACE IS UTTERLY INHOSPITABLE, AND MOST EVERYONE IS A ZOMBIE READY TO SLASH YOUR THROAT OR BITE YOUR HEAD OFF OR GET YOU FIRED FROM YOUR JOB. YOU'RE FORCED TO PURCHASE A CAR AND CAR INSURANCE JUST TO GRAB A CUP OF COFFEE. YOU HEAD TO THE CAFÉ ONLY TO FIND WEAK BREWS MADE BY A MUZZLED QUEER, CHARGING SIX DOLLARS FOR AN OAT CORTADO THAT SENDS YOUR BLOOD PRESSURE SKYROCKETING. NEXT THING YOU KNOW, YOU'RE SHELLING OUT NINE HUNDRED DOLLARS FOR A BREVILLE ESPRESSO MACHINE FROM WILLIAMS SONOMA JUST TO ENJOY A DECENT CUP AT HOME. AND THAT HOUSE YOU THINK YOU OWN? FORGET IT. YOU'LL NEVER TRULY OWN IT. THE ENTIRE REAL ESTATE GAME IN THIS COUNTRY IS RIGGED AGAINST YOU. YOUR HOMEOWNER’S ASSOCIATION? THEY'VE GOT YOU UNDER THEIR THUMB. WELCOME TO YOUR VERY OWN PRISON.

As I sipped my weak coffee, I drove towards the grocery store, Sprouts. Along the way, I passed an intersection teeming with God’s forgotten—a cluster of sluggish, slouched over junkies loitering around a bonfire in front of a diner, likely trying to ward off the chill and have some fun. Nearby, a grimy white crossdresser in a magenta mini skirt and fishnet tights was engaged in a heated argument with a wiry black man in front of a payday loan establishment.

I pulled into the parking lot and shut off the engine. Today's agenda: grocery shopping and preparing a meal for a lover I'd wronged, a lover with no name. He could have been anyone. Or was he? I was unsure. The uncertainty of our situationship tore me bits, leaving me wondering if he still harbored feelings for me after our reconciliation. We were both navigating tumultuous times. I couldn't help but lament over how long this prolonged adolescence would endure. I contemplated whether it was feasible to escape with my lover to a developing country for a more continental pace of life. Why did I even care?

I WONDER IF EUROPEANS SEEK PLEASURE IN SEX, WHILE AMERICANS SEEM TO VALUE "SEX" AS AN ACCOMPLISHMENT. I HAVE NEVER HAD SEX IN MY LIFE BECAUSE AMERICANS DON’T HAVE SEX. IF YOU HAD SEX BUT DIDN'T TELL ANYONE, DID YOU REALLY HAVE SEX? MAYBE YOU'LL FIND SOMEONE SPECIAL, OR CONTINUE CHASING MONEY AND CAREER ADVANCEMENTS, CREATING ADULTIFIED CHILDREN. PARENTHOOD? A PRESSURED CHOICE OF SMOTHERING OR NEGLECTING. YOUR CHILDREN BECOME OBSTACLES TO YOUR PERPETUAL CHILDHOOD. STEP OVER YOUR NEIGHBOR’S CORPSE. GRAB YOUR CANDY. SCAM WITH SHITCOINS, COG CREDIT, AND MONKEYSHINE. HOPE FOR DREAMS IN A "HOOD RICH" AMERICA. EVERYONE IN AMERICA IS "HOOD RICH" EVEN IF THEY ARE NOT FROM THE HOOD AND EVEN IF THEY’RE RICH.

Pushing these thoughts aside, I set my sights on gathering ingredients for a stuffed Cornish hen or duck. Making my way to the meat and poultry section, I approached what looked like a duck or perhaps a small hen. I found a wrapped package of a stocky, compact body with short legs. The hen's thick, wrinkled gray skin and disproportionately large head caught my attention. It had small, round eyes and high-positioned nostrils and its broad lips hinted at where tusks might have once been.

That's because it wasn't a hen. It was a mangled dwarf baby hippo cunningly shaped to resemble a Cornish hen. Despite the label indicating two weeks until market expiration and a weight of two pounds, the truth was glaringly evident: "Cornish ‘Hen’" was a misnomer.

As I continued browsing, I realized the eggs weren't chicken eggs either. They were considerably larger, with smooth, elongated oval shapes and unusually thick cream-colored shells.

I headed to the meat section. No pork loins, but there were lion chops—large cuts, rich red in color, with visibly marbled fat. Also, there were robust hindquarters that resembled large hams, but upon closer inspection, I realized they were giant ground sloth meat, specifically megalonyx.

Woolly mammoth—Moa—Dodo—Passenger pigeon—Tortoise—Aurochs—Quagga—Steller's sea cow—Irish elk—Great auk—Tasmanian tiger—Haast's eagle—American mastodon—Glyptodon—Megaloceros—Harpagornis—Diprotodon—Thylacoleo—Homotherium—Dinornis—Gomphotheres.

Everything was vacuum-sealed and straight out of the Flintstones.

I knew I didn’t know how to cook with any of these exotic meats. None of it felt luxurious. These were all clearly substitutes for the food we normally ate.

Two young women around my age suddenly approached me from fifty feet away. One of them shouted, "I can see your entire snatch right now. You’re a loser. Get out of town!"

I immediately recognized them as my lover’s friends.

"I just want my skin to breathe," I responded. "I’m not a loser. I’m trying to become an adult!"

Their demeanor turned hostile as they pointed at me and marched closer, their forked tongues viciously darting in and out, licking their lips, jaws unhinging.

They too had craters for eyes.