The Internal Self by Steve Portigal

"San Francisco Fountain (detail), Ruth Asawa" © Steve Portigal

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” The annoyed, vaguely threatening inquiry came as a surprise, like a rush of air where there had just been a vacuum, like blindness from light too bright to see through.

What was I doing? I really didn’t know. There was only this very moment and even the moment just before this one didn’t seem to exist. Did not exist. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. The challenge seemed to have whisked away any awareness beyond this one.

But surely I could answer the question. I was Daniel Algado, 37 years old, an electrician and vegetarian, bringing home soup for my housemates. No, that’s just…random bullshit. I was Samantha, or Sammy to my friends, a high-schooler and fan of boy bands, their sweet sounds coming out of my one AirPod. But I wasn’t. Sammy may have been real, but Sammy wasn’t me. I was wearing grease-stained coveralls, a sodden rag poking out of my back pocket like an offset squirrel tail. A stitched badge over my breast indicated my name, but it was smudged over. I was carrying a vinyl box filled with lunch orders through a revolving door. I was an anxious usher as the lights were going down in a crowded symphony hall. I was a gardener, scraping the mulch back into the furrows, keeping the seeds moist and protected. I wore the tightest bicycle shorts, whipping down a sunny mountain road, the frothing ocean beside and below. I was a heavyset man with a thick beard, reclining on a couch as a tiny puppy stood on my chest and licked my face, its wagging stub of a tail making a whuzz-whuzz sound in the warm air. I was a leatherback sea turtle, sweeping grass and mollusks into my mouth. I was a peapod, moist and laden. I was a summer wind, carrying scent of renewal to those around me. I was the purity of thought, electrons in a brain, a Duchenne smile.

But I had a self, I had a body. I had eyes. I opened them. I saw you. A tilted face with furrowed brows and pursed lips. Raised color on the cheeks and earlobes. Narrowed eyes. Mouth curling down, then up, lips parting.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

I…I don’t know…what? I could make words appear but just barely.

“You can’t do that by yourself, little baby, let me help you.”

Your hands came towards me, wrapping around my entire torso—I had a torso—squeezing me firmly, and lifting. I was held aloft, high up in the air, I could see oh so much.

“I got you, my baby. I got you."

ABOUT:

Steve Portigal has published Occupied Minds, a science-fiction novella of interconnected short stories on Amazon Kindle. His non-fiction books include Doorbells, Danger, and Dead Batteries and Interviewing Users. He lives with his partner and their needy dog in a small coastal town near San Francisco.

WRITER'S SONG PICK: Let the Mystery Be - Iris DeMent