The Statue of Liberty Wants to Kill Herself
Arie Dupree
Tom’s been looking at me extra weird today. He wants to fuck me. He’s always staring at my boobs. He’s at the bar every night, and he’s ugly. I’ve never seen a face so disturbing. His nose is oily and crusted with yellow boogers, his eyebags have eyebags and he has the thinnest lips in New York. Tonight he has a boil on his chin and I can’t stop staring at it. As he babbles about the high-clearance defense job he retired from, I hope the boil leaks pus, but it never does. He always gets a double Jim Beam and Coke and tells me to keep em’ coming. Sometimes he’ll down one in the amount of time it takes me to refill the ice box. It would be impressive if he wasn’t such a loser. I do shots of water with him every hour, pretending that it’s Tito’s. I like to act like I’m fucked up too, it helps the tips roll in. Disgusting men love a girl that can’t handle her liquor. At eleven, he’s talking about his wife; midnight, his daughter; and by one AM he’s begging me to be his mistress. I kick him out at two and sweep the sticky floor. Nobody threw up tonight, but there’s always a little vomit wedged between the barstools and the counter. When Sandra hired me, she told me I’d have to mop nightly, but I never do. Are these barflies really gonna notice one more layer of filth? They don’t care, they’ll come back every night until the world ends. And even then, they’d probably line up outside for one last drink.
As I lock the door, I hear tweakers fighting from the bus stop. Since I moved here six years ago, Red Hook has gotten nicer. The rich finally discovered New York City’s secret but the tweakers refuse to leave, and that’s beautiful to me. It scares the worst of the yuppies away. I can’t imagine living in a neighborhood without tweakers–they’re the ultimate shield to total gentrification. I walk past them to Valentino Pier, yearning for my nightly ritual of stillness next to the water. The bar is good money and all but it’s loud, and their childish conversations permeate my brain long after I close. Grown men discussing their favorite boob shape and the thousands they’ve lost to trading crypto, drunken complaints about their wives and children, laughing and farting, I feel like a camp counselor. I hate the men that come into the bar but I can’t help but pity them. It’s sad to know nights like these make up their entire life. It’s sad to know this is my life too but I push that thought to the deep caverns of my subconscious.
“I’m helping them.” I repeat to myself as I pour their poison.
When I get to the pier the glare of the tug boats reflects in the water, swirling together a mirror of oil, dragging light through the water like calligraphy. And there she is standing in the distance–huge, green, proud, stranded on her tiny island. America is a lonely woman in the harbor, reaching towards heaven, rooted in dirt. I tell a joke at work that the Statue of Liberty is slowly getting closer, inching towards the shore every day. I don’t have a punchline, I guess it doesn’t matter what happens when she reaches land.
Tonight there’s a group of French guys smoking weed on the furthest point of the pier. That’s my spot. Disappointed, I wait on a bench for them to leave. They laugh, take pictures, squeeze each other’s shoulders. One eats a Snickers bar and throws the wrapper in the water. I check my phone–2:45 AM. I have a Tinder date at noon, and if I don’t get eight hours of sleep I’ll be an absolute menace. I brace my feet on the ground, clutch the sides of my bench and think as loud as I can “Go away, go away, go away.” Eventually they get my message and amble off, singing as they vanish into the night. Finally just me and the green goddess. I walk to the edge of the pier and think, as I always do, of jumping over the ledge into the black water. I never will, I’m afraid of dying, but it’s fun to dream.
I reflect on my day, my night, Tom with his fucked-up face, his gross friends. I think about my date tomorrow, some redheaded film studies girl. She sent me a picture of her boobs and I didn’t feel anything, but I’m still hoping she buys my lunch. I think about going home, my bed, my cat. I close my eyes and sit still in the cold dark night. Then I’m hit with searing pain in my temple, like a dull drill getting wedged into my skull. I double over on the pier, clutching the ledge to keep from passing out. I haven’t had a headache since I quit drinking, but this one is so unbelievably bad that I’m afraid I’m having an aneurysm. I reach into my pocket for my phone, but I’m shaking so hard it falls out of my hands and bounces off the pier into the black water. I’m on the ground, and all I can see behind my closed eyes are bright flashing lights. I’m grabbing my head, trying to scream, but I can’t even muster the strength to whimper. The sound of waves crashing on the beach are completely drowned out, replaced with a high-pitched drone, the noise dogs hear when their owners blow that ultrasonic whistle. I’m dying. I’m dying and these French people will find my body and I’ll ruin their night. I’m dying and I’m embarrassed that I smell bad and I’m wearing ugly clothes. I’m dying, and I haven’t done anything with my life and my mom’s gonna be so mad at me.
Then it all stops. I’m curled in on myself, on the ground, my entire body trembling. The lights behind my eyelids are fading and the sonic drone is gone. I’m okay. In the recesses of my brain I hear a voice.
Help me.
At first I think it’s myself, or maybe one of the French people. I reach for my phone, and remember it’s gone. I try to stand, but my legs wobble. I’m laying in total darkness, and the water’s reflecting a starless sky.
Help me please.
I grab the railing and pull myself up slowly.
“Hello?” I squeak out. I sound pathetic so I deepen my voice. “HELLO??”
I look around, not as scared as I should be. I have an eerie feeling I’m about to die, though I’ve never heard of a psychic serial killer that deals out aneurysms. I run my fingers through my greasy hair, if I’m wearing ugly clothes at least my hair has to look good when I die.
“The police are coming and they’ll kill you!!!” I scream into the night.
I wish that were true. Thank god you can hear me. I’ve been trying for weeks.
I was so afraid of going schizophrenic in my twenties, and now it’s finally happening. Figures. Right when you think you’re out of the woods, the trees start talking to you.
“Are you in my head?” A pause…then a deep sigh.
I guess…But I’m real. Unfortunately. Don’t freak out. Look into the harbor.
I look out into the dark night. The tug boats are gone, the night is quiet, and the only thing I see is the Statue of Liberty in the distance, lit up by her spotlights. I squint. It almost looks like she’s waving her torch, just barely but
Hiii. I’m waving, can you see me?
Ok so I’m crazy. I wave back. “Hiii…Am I…Am I talking to the Statue of Liberty?” You can hear me!!!!
“Yippeee!” I cheer, caught in the excitement, then I immediately cringe. I’ve never said yippee before. “Okay…Uhm…I have to go to bed…Or the psych ward.”
NO DON’T LEAVE.
The bomb goes off in my head again, this time much lighter. I grab the sides of my temples and double over on the bench, breathing deeply as the pain subsides.
I’m sorry. I won’t do that again, just….please don’t go.
I sit still for a moment. If I’m crazy, I won’t have to go to work, I won’t have to go on dates, I won’t need to sleep. If I’m crazy, I could just lean into it tonight, deal with the repercussions tomorrow. Do crazy people think rationally like this? Is this even rational thinking?
If you stay I’ll do whatever you want.
“What if I don’t know what I want..?”
Then talk to me. I’ll help you figure it out.
My face feels saggy, eyelids heavy, my downy bed in the corner of my mind. What I want is too cringe to say aloud, it’s gay and it’s stupid. I shake my head and retie my shoes. I hate thinking about myself.
I need your help. Don’t you want to be needed?
“I could be anyone.”
But you’re here every day. You’re not just anyone. I see you.
“Oh.” That’s embarrassing for some reason.
No it’s not.
“You can hear my thoughts?” My feet are sweating through my socks, and I retie my shoes again.
Don’t worry. I can hear everybody’s. I’ve gotten good at tuning people out, but you’re interesting.
The only people who think I’m interesting are alcoholics and off-putting lesbians. I catch myself smiling and immediately feel like a manic loser. I look at the shore, I need to touch grass, I’m acting insane on a pier, trying to figure out if a statue is flirting with me.
I won’t listen to them if that makes you feel better. Don’t go yet. Please.
“Okay…so…uhm…what’s up?”
This is gonna sound crazy
I laugh. Crazy acknowledging crazy. I hear her laugh too. She has a nice laugh, a low timber, husky and motherly.
I know…But hear me out. I know we just met, but…ugh now I’m feeling shy. “It’s okay to be shy!”
I’ve never talked to anyone before. Not really…I don’t know how.
“Uhm…Well…Tell me what you’re thinking. I’m listening.”
…I…I think…I don’t think I want to exist anymore. Do you ever think about being destroyed? Oh! I wasn’t expecting that from her. Now this is a topic I know about.
“Okay. Yeah, that’s…Totally normal.”
It is?
“Yeah. Like dying? I think about dying all the time.”
She lets out a deep sigh of relief.
Dying. That’s it. Dying. Thank God. I thought I was…I don’t know…I’m tired. I hate my job. I nod. “I get it. Really.”
I just stand here, waiting. Being stared at. Pictures and people and boats and noise. I’m sick of it. I’m used all day, and I’m not even from here. I hate this place.
“It’s not so bad here. Better than Ohio.” I shut my mouth before I embarrass myself more.
I was never meant to be here. I’m second hand, passed around, cracked and crumbling, and for who? Ants, swarming around my feet, taking what they want. What about what I want?
“Well what do you want?” I’m locked in now.
I want it to end. I don’t want to…be…anymore.
“Maybe you’re just lonely…”
Lonely? I suppose I am…I used to love being alone…but now…
Are you Lonely?
I watch a bug crawl onto the bench and let it stumble onto my open palm. It’s cute, with orange spots and weird legs. It flies off my palm and straight into the ledge of the pier, smacking onto the ground with a splat.
Hello?
“I guess…I’ve always been lonely. As long as I can remember.” I watch the bug die in the cold and try to remember the last time I went to therapy. Maybe this counts.
Really?
“Really.”
Maybe we’re not so different, you and I.
My heart flutters and I feel something in the depths of my gut. A pang. We’re not so different….I shiver…from the wind, or maybe something else. Something lighter, something glowing in my stomach.
You should go to bed. I freaked you out, I’m just a mess and…Thanks for talking to me. I’m sorry.
“Don’t apologize. I want to stay.”
I wait. Radio silence. Across the harbor she looks small, like she’s shrinking. I wait for five minutes, then ten, maybe an hour. I’m shivering and I start to nod off.
What are you thinking about?
“I…I know what your pain feels like. I’m sorry you have to feel it all alone.” You’re sweet. The world doesn’t deserve you.
I blush. The wind whipping my cheeks even redder. “It…it gets better.” I immediately cringe again. A Dan Savage quote is the best advice I can offer? This is why I don’t have friends.
Who is Dan Savage?
“Forget about it.”
…So when you think about it, dying… How does it play out for you?
“Well I guess I think about jumping in the water. Being swept away…or something fast like a car crash. What about you?”
It would be nice to explode. Into a million little pieces, scattered around this terrible place. It’s disgusting here, do you ever notice?
I look around. In the dark water I see coke bottles and plastic bags, the Snickers wrapper from earlier bobbing up and down in the white crested waves.
“Has America always been like this?”
In the beginning it wasn’t so bad. When I arrived from France, I had a purpose. The people had dreams so big I tried to stand tall enough to keep them safe. I tried to be proud. But their dreams morphed and twisted and they took away my light. I was never given the chance.
“To dream?”
To live. I’m decaying. I miss my home. I miss the life I could have had.
“Have you always wanted to die?”
The feeling grows stronger every day. Haven’t you?
I stare at my boots, damp and glistening in the dewy morning, and I nod. We can help each other. Wouldn’t it be nice to let yourself go? To become a part of everything?
I pang again. My armpits get warm and I look at the dead bug. I had the same dream last night that I’ve dreamt since I was a child. I’m in the water on some tropical beach, and a Tsunami is rushing towards me. There’s a woman on the shore, yelling for me to get out, but as the waves thunder closer, I stand waiting with my arms outstretched. When the ocean sweeps me up, it feels like a warm tight hug. The waves tighten, tumble and tuck me under, and I am held as I fade away into the dark. I always wake up from that dream smiling.
“Maybe you just need a friend.” I whisper, flexing my toes in my soaking socks.
And there’s nothing. No voice, no headache, no pain. Just the sun peaking over the harbor, the boats starting their morning routine, the sound of the birds circling the trash covered beaches, and me…tapping my wet boots against the cold hard pier.
I wake fully clothed in my bed the next morning, no idea how or when I got home. It’s three in the afternoon, and I can hear the bustling city outside my window. I guess I missed my Tinder date. I reach to check my phone, and it’s not there. Proof of something I suppose.
“The statue of Liberty wants to kill herself.” I say aloud, testing the sentence, seeing if it makes sense. My cat’s ears perk to the side. “Yeah you heard me.” She darts out of the room. I remember the Kamikaze bug I saw diving straight into the ledge. If he had a tiny bug bomb, maybe he could have done some damage to the pier. I write in my journal “STOP BUGS WITH BOMBS!”
I pull myself out of bed, take off all my clothes, and stretch in the afternoon light. My cat comes back to participate, doing far better than I ever could. I don’t normally stretch, but the sun feels warm on my face and my body feels electric so I have to try. I lift my arms towards the sky and root my feet on the ground. I move freely, gliding through the air with ease. My cat copies my pose almost exactly, squinting in the sunlight. Then she plops down into a ball and pretends she’s asleep. She’s even luckier than I am. I have a shift at four so I shower, eat leftover pizza and get ready for the day.
At the bar, Tom is my first customer. His boil is smaller today, he must have lanced it. He orders a double Jim and Coke, and immediately starts talking about a girl he loved in the 80s.
“Have you ever made a bomb?” I ask him, cutting him off before he gets too nostalgic and horny.
“Yeah.” He says without hesitation.
“I don’t believe you. Show me.”
He looks apprehensive, and for a second I wonder if I’ve gone too far. Then he chugs his drink. “Another Jim. And a pen and paper.”
He draws me the blueprints to make a bomb, extensively detailed and simpler than I thought. Turns out you can make a bomb with supplies from Walgreens. He looks proud.
“Why you askin’ anyways?” He downs his second Jim and gestures for another.
“I don’t know. I guess I’m just bored.” I hand him his drink, and he looks at me with crystal blue eyes. I could see him being handsome at some point in his life, probably in the 80s, with that girl he’s still obsessed with. He shrugs and continues drawing the prints.
The shift comes and goes like a dream, and all I can think about is the lady in green. Do you ever think about being destroyed? A tsunami rushing towards us as we stand hand in hand. I’m giant, or she’s small. She kisses me and I slip a finger under her robe, the water swirls around us as we-
“Good night kid!” Tom mumbles as he teeters towards the door. “Make good choices.” The door closes and I’m alone. I don’t mop the floor, and hurry out of the bar, almost forgetting to lock the door. I rush past the tweakers and run to the pier. There’s no one at our spot, and I clutch the railing until my knuckles turn white.
“Hello? HELLO??” The silence is deafening and my eyes start to well.
You came back. I wasn’t sure you would. I thought…I thought I might have scared you. This thrills me. “I’m not scared.”
I wish I could see you.
I squint into the night, imagining what she looks like up close. I’ve lived in New York for six years and have never done the Liberty Boat Tour. Fifty dollars is a lot, and I hate being herded with a crowd.
“You can’t see me?”
It’s only a feeling. But it’s a good one.
“It’s good for me too…I think I can help you.”
Oh? So you’ve decided friendship isn’t enough?
Oh she’s cheeky! My lips curl into a smile as I pull my hoodie strings close. She was listening last night.
I thought about you all day.
My throat catches a breath and I choke on my tongue.
“I learned how to build a bomb.” I whisper, my voice cracking, barely audible. Atta girl.
“Are you sure about all this?”
I’ve never been so sure of anything else. I’m tired of being seen. I’m tired of being. I’m tired. “This is like…terrorism…right?”
I suppose. Consider it a favor…for a friend.
I nod. Terrorism for a friend. I’m fucking insane. I put my head in my hands and groan. What’s wrong?
“I’m freaking out.”
Think of it like a warm tight hug. We’ll finally be free as we break apart together. After that, we’ll wake up somewhere new, smiling.
“I thought you weren’t gonna read my thoughts.”
They’re too beautiful to be left alone.
I hide in my hoodie.
I need it to be you. I need you. I wish I could hold you.
I wrap my arms around myself, and shake back and forth as I imagine her warmth, her arms strong from holding the light. To be held by someone who needs you. To be needed. To need. We’re not so different, you and I.
I’ll see you tomorrow then.
“Wait! Stay up with me. If this is our last night…” I light a cigarette and offer one to her in the distance.
Funny.
We talk all night, and she tells me stories until dawn. Stories of love, nature, the past. Of what she’s seen, though her eyesight isn’t great because she can’t turn her head. Her sculptor was in love with a married muslim woman, and sculpted the statue in her image, every groove chiseled with the yearning of forbidden love. He couldn’t bear to look at her when he finished, and shipped her off to whoever would take her. Rejected by Egypt, she was re-gifted to America. She tells me of New York being built, torn to the ground and built back again. Of people tossing bodies at her feet, holding babies towards her torch, of magic and horror and the mystery of man. She’s seen whales breach and ships sink on her way across the Ocean, the color of the sky turning more yellow with each passing year. They took away her torch and gave her a fake one, hiding that part of her away in a museum. I try to stay up but start to nod off around five.
Thank you. For Tonight. It’s rare in this world to be heard. To sit still and listen is a gift. I nod, and nod, and nod off into a dream. The brisk night is cold, but I am held, and I feel warm.
The next morning I wake up on the pier. A family is snapping pictures of my lady, posing in front of her with bunny ears and peace signs. I hurry to Walgreens and gather supplies, racing back to my apartment with glee like a kid getting ready for the Science fair. Following Tom’s blueprint, building a bomb seems too easy, I feel like I’m doing it wrong, so I spend half the morning on Reddit checking incel forums for reference. It takes me almost all day to piece it together, and I strap it on my pelvis. It’s tiny, my little bug bomb, and I can’t help but feel it won’t do anything at all. But I’m not a quitter, and I believe Tom knows his explosives. He was so good at his government defense job he has to down six drinks a day to forget about it. I slip into two pairs of tights and stare at myself in the mirror. I look fat. Great, so is everyone else on the Liberty Tour. My cat meows at me and I kiss her before letting her outside. She takes a bitter look at me before sauntering into the yard. She’ll be okay, she’s a tank and she’s addicted to hunting baby rats. I found her on the street a year ago, and I have no doubt she’ll find someone new to scream at.
I buy my tickets for the tour and wait in line. There’s a security checkpoint at the ferry dock to Liberty Island. I hold my breath, expecting to be caught. I’ve never been to Prison and I don’t think I would do well there. As I approach the metal detector, I start to sweat. She didn’t warn me about this, though she can’t turn her head so I guess she wouldn’t know. I try to reach her with my thoughts, but she’s elsewhere. Three people are ahead of me, the first two walk through, cleared, but the last guy is huge and can’t fit through the detector, so they take him to the side and check him with the wands. I slip out of line and speed walk to the nearest Target, the bomb shifting with every step. I scour the aisles for large pairs of tights and undershirts, shopping next to a mother and daughter arguing about prices. The little girl looks at me as I scramble with the packages, dropping one to the floor. Her tiny hands pick it up and hand it to me, and I almost burst into tears.
“Are you okay?” She whispers to me. I nod, gather my stuff, and hurry to the checkout before she can see me cry.
Half an hour later, I’m back in line, five times my original size, stuffed with fourteen layers of tights and undershirts, the bomb drenched with sweat and pressed against my vagina. I approach the metal detector, praying to Liberty this works. I’m too big to fit. The agents gather me to the side and lazily wave me with wands, chatting about their breakfast and some woman named Cynthia who apparently has a fat ass and BPD. I’m through. Amazed, I board the ferry and take one last look at New York before I destroy my life. I’ve never felt like I belonged in this world, but now…Now I have a purpose, I have a reason, I’m part of something. Fuck it I’ll blow up the Statue of Liberty. I stare at her in the distance, edging closer and closer.
You made it.
I put in my headphones, so it looks like I’m talking on the phone. “Where were you earlier, bitch?”
Oh so we’re name calling now. Terrorist!
“Shh!!!” I laugh. “You’re rotted, you know that?” I’m giddy, feeling almost high, my legs are trembling.
Well, look around. I am what I see.
“I don’t want you to go.” She doesn’t respond. “Hello?”
I know. I can read your thoughts, remember?
I blush. “So what am I thinking about?” I think about climbing up her legs and into the crevice between her robes.
I think you might be the rotted one.
The ferry docks at Liberty Island and the tourists start to file out. I take three deep breaths and follow. I approach the pedestal of my Lady in Green, and watch as the group follows the guide into her spiraling staircase. I get jealous that they’re going all the way inside her.
Get your head out of the gutter and into the game, nasty girl. Are you ready?
I swallow hard, trying to keep my heart inside my body. I look around and see no security, no dogs. I reach into my tights and pull out my little bomb, dripping with sweat.
Oh my. I can’t believe it’s happening.
She sounds gleeful and it makes me sick. My entire body shaking, I hold the bomb at her pedestal, wavering on my feet, lightheaded, sweating. My blood feels like it’s going 140 MPH down a veiny highway, and my stomach is a car crash.
“I don’t think I can.” I whisper. I throw up in my mouth a little and swallow it quickly. Just do it. Or else what’s the point of all this?
What’s the point? The point is that I’ve never felt this way. The point is that I’ve shredded myself open for someone. Suddenly I feel empty. I look at the bomb and start to cry. Little tears at first, then body racking horrible heaves, sobs from deep within my gut, sobs that grind my bones together and shake my teeth. Before I can stop myself, before I can second guess, I toss the bomb as far as I can, hearing it plop onto the beach. I reach for her base and hold on. I squeeze her, wet her with my tears, my sweat, whatever else is pouring out of my body. I hold her as tight as I can, my fingers bleeding from the granite grip.
“I can help you. Just not this.” She doesn’t answer. “Please not this.”
A security guard tries to rip me off of her, another at the beach, searching the water, a tourist pointing to where I threw the bomb.
“I’m sorry…I’m sorry, please don’t go. Please don’t leave me.”
She doesn’t respond, and as they rip me away from her, I feel how cold she is, how bare. I know she’s hollow inside. Tourists gather around me, red faced, leering, phones recording, staring and whispering as the security guard drags me through the trash covered dirt. Plastic and aluminum scrape my tights open, seagulls swoop down to shriek at the scene, and there she stands tall, reaching towards heaven, pitted in the filth of the earth. In a huddled mass, tired and poor, I look up at Lady Liberty, but she doesn’t see me. She’ll never see me. Her eyes are focused ahead, staring, dreaming of the next girl that could break her into a million pieces. And here I am, rotting in this disgusting land, rotting and begging at her feet. Here I am, destroyed.
Arie Dupree writes queer stories about strange situations. He Loves water, tiny things and dancing. This is his first published story but he has many more in his notebooks. He was born on the equator and has lived all over the world. One day he’ll be a boat captain. He lives in Brooklyn and his email is arie.d.thompson@gmail.com.