#23: Under Oath
A woman asked us where we were from. "Colorado," we told her, which she took to mean that we'd biked the entire way to New York from Colorado. We went along with it, explaining how we'd done it in about a month, and how Indiana was the worst section, surprisingly, in terms of boredom and terrestrial monotony, and how our quads had grown three inches in circumference during the time.
“In my head, I’m screaming,” Davis tells me, “Screaming until my eyes well up.” Those are the emotions that an officer does not express. Ideally, does not even feel. She tells me it is better to be cold and apathetic than angry and distraught. “If I allow myself to feel,” she says, “then I can’t do my job.” So Davis yells. She snaps. She sneers. But she does not scream.
And that’s when I heard it.
I sat on the hood with my silhouette in the headlights, and I listened to the song develop its seductive strings and penetrative synthesizers, luring me into a cold sweat and shaking me in euphoria.
Your name was Iris. At least that’s what sticks in my head. We roomed together for one semester at UNC-Charlotte.
Mouth interviews a campus celebrity.
But the sales meetings were loathsome and gaseous, expanding to fill however much time you gave them regardless of how inevitably little there was to be said.
We create kingdoms, we save the world from evil, we explore rainforests full of stuffed animals in our bedrooms. We are the center of our own universe, our parents and little brother blips on our radar. We are inseparable.
I entered Foco a single student. I leave with 372 followers and a new identity—Fruit of the Foco.