I spent a great deal of my time as a mermaid.

   People would ask me what I did for a living-- or you know, the kind of thing that I would put on resumes once every six months when I had the fleeting idea of bettering myself-- and I would always answer "model", living off of the delusion that was what I was doing with my life but that was a lie.

   Six days a week-- I was a mermaid.


   I sat on a large rock next to a small man-made waterfall inside of an upscale restaurant with an under-the-sea theme that was located on the pier.
   In some ways the place was a class act built to satisfy people's desire for nostalgic romance and provided them with an experience to cherish.
   The dining area was meant to look like an outdoor patio at night (even if there was daylight outside- one was never to know it- all hints to an outside world were intentionally and masterfully blocked out). The ceiling was domed and black with twinkling light giving off the illusion of an infinite starry sky. A false weeping willow grew out from a portion of the cobblestone floor and drooped its sad branched over the wrought iron and glass tables providing them with the soft glow from the colorful paper lanterns which adorned it.
   Every table had a beautifully crafted centerpiece that looked like a frosted jar fireflies.
   Ocean waves and cricket chirping was quietly flooded in from hidden speakers as white noise but the restaurant hired on a professional pianist who was so talented at being inoffensive and droll that most of the time one wasn't aware that there were hearing music at all.
   Back to my job. I sat on the rock. I was there every night from 5pm to 2am except for Mondays when the place was closed.
   I was there merely to add to the experience as decoration and a photo opportunity for the diners as part of a souvenir package they could add for an additional charge.
   I was an attraction.
  
   "Get your photograph with the lovely siren from the sea! You've never seen anything like her!"

   I would pause from whatever carefully scripted theatrics I was engaged in whether it be pretending to brush my long strawberry blonde hair, gazing in a looking glass, blowing soap bubbles, delicately sipping from a coconut, very quietly strumming a ukulele, stringing a necklace from sea shells and sunken treasure or simply just sitting there trying very hard to look "serene" and not "bored"-- to pose with newly engaged couples and business men with their wives who had just closed an important deal over a meal that cost them $130 dollars per person.
   I was only permitted to do a sultry closed lipped smile with cool bedroom eyes. No hamming it up or cheesecake poses and absolutely no fraternizing. I was to stay completely in character and once the photographer's flashbulb went off I was to go back to my mermaid business-- never to make eye contact or engage the patrons as they ate. It had been put to me rather bluntly that I was not a guest at their dinner but rather they were viewing me, unintrusively, through the glass at the bottom of a boat.
   The whole racket was based on Glynis Johns in the film Miranda and each night Zelda did me up as such by pushing my heavy bangs up off of my forehead and setting my hair in thick curls. The costume was a long rubber fin worthy of Hollywood special effects that sat just above my navel. (This was because we are to assume that it would simply be too complicated to explain how a mermaid is birthed-- hence, having an umbilical cord connected to a mother versus the lazy and whimsical theory that perhaps mermaids are just hatched.) Faux seaweed made of silk was strategically draped around my hips and upward to cover my breasts without looking as though there was strategy at all because, by nature, a mermaid would not care about modesty.
   Zelda had gotten me the gig.
   The owner, Guy, took one look at me head to toe-- front to back.
   "How old are you?" Guy asked, coolly.
   He looked like an aged, sophisticated young Orson Welles. As though Orson Welles had stayed thin but grew older.
   "26."
   "Really? You don't look it. Still get carded?"
   "Every time."
   "Good. How tall are you?"
   "5'8."
   "Weight?" He lifted his eyebrow as if to challenge my honesty.
   "126."
   "Consistently?"
   "Fairly. If it fluctuates it's very little one way or the other."
   "Don't go a pound over 130. You have hips so the weight suits you but remember that I'm paying you for your body. I want you to take 3 ballet classes a week. I'll get you instructions on when and where they will be and it will be billed to the restaurant, of course.
   Pay starts at $20 an hour plus overtime and tips. All tips will be left with the photographer. You are to handle nothing personally. You'll get your tips every night before you leave. Your paycheck every Sunday. Any questions?"
   "Did I get the job?"
   Guy paused, thoughtfully, "You are easy to look at without being distracting."
   Which was a very kind way of saying, 'You are pretty but not too pretty.'
   "Yes. The job is yours. Come in tonight with Zelda and we'll fit you for your costume-- see how you look done up. You can learn the ropes. Any other questions?"
   I could feel the question roll from my brain and out my lips like a boulder rolling down the side of a mountain with nothing to stop it and the promise of certain destruction.
   "Why don't you have a statue?" I blurted.
   All at once my veins went dry without a drop of blood to wet them.
   Guy appeared startled. He leaned towards me.
   "Excuse me?"
   "What?"
   "Repeat what you just said."
   "I'd rather not."
   "No. I think that it's important that you repeat aloud the inquiry you just made because I'm almost certain that you just asked me why I would give you a job... So," he took a step back from me, allowing me a stage for the drama to play out, "What was your question?"
   I was mortified.
   "Why don't you have a statue?"
   "Instead..." he waved his hand, urging me to continue.
   "Instead?"
   "Instead of what, my dear?"
   "Instead of hiring a girl?" I closed my eyes in terror.
   "Now. Now. Don't make that face. It doesn't suit a mermaid."
   I opened my eyes.
   "It was a very wise question," he continued, "From a not very wisely timed source," he offered a wry smile as comfort. During the chill of horror he was rather handsome in a black-and-white TCM sort of way, "Statues are cheap and the idea that people would pay to have their photos taken with statues is also cheap. I am not selling food or novelty. I am selling nostalgia. A memory for people to keep and reflect upon with fondness. Adults don't often allow themselves to believe in magic but for short bursts of time will submit to illusion-- therefor nothing here is to appear fake.
   Statues are obvious. The paint on them fades more every day-- but the world will never stop making pretty girls."
   I nodded my understanding without opening my mouth. My lips touching together was for the better.
   "I will see you tonight," Guy concluded.
   "Thank you-- again. Really," I extended my hand to him.
   His brown eyes viewed my hand as he would a joke on a popsicle stick.
   "Uh-huh," he tilted his head minutely forward. He turned to walk away, signalling the end of the conversation.
   I hurried in the opposite direction.
   "Oh. One more thing," Guy called out from behind me.
   I inhaled and held it in before facing him.
   Guy exhaled, "What is your name again?"
   "Edith."
   "Edie?"
   "No," I answered, firmly, "Edith."
   The wry smile appeared again, "Yes. You'll do fine, Edith never Edie."

***

   I traipsed into the walk-up flat that I shared with Zelda, who was the restaurant's fortune teller-- yet another additional service offered to create an atmosphere of whimsy.
   Only, I wasn't only living with Zelda-- I was sometimes living with Jackson-- because Jackson was Zelda.
   Which seems terribly confusing when trying to explain it but honestly was the most natural thing in the world once you could get your head around it.
   Jackson was born male but his character, personality and spirit were split into two equal parts the other of which was distinctly female and that he was perfectly at home in.
   Jackson had realized at a very young age that life was limitless so he refused to limit himself into being just one person-- that's when he created Zelda.
   Jackson was a very pretty 30-year-old 1960s looking mod boy. He was 5'6" and all bones. The only part of him that had any weight was his round face that housed his striking blue eyes and was framed by his dyed chestnut hair.
   He played guitar better than most anyone I had ever met and sang in a scream that sounded like he was exorcising a devil inside him.

   Zelda had been named after Zelda Fitzgerald-- and she was every bit as Jazz Age, fashion-conscious, fun, dramatic, passionate and insane as her namesake.
   Not to mention brilliant.
   Zelda was an outrageous charmer who wore  her hair in a perfectly waved bob and obtained lots of men's phone numbers but never called any of them because Zelda wasn't interested in men.
   Neither was Jackson.
   Though, it was rare that either of them was very interested in anyone at all.
   That's when I realized that it must have been terribly exhausting being two different people.
   "Hello?" I called out as I opened the door.
   "Hello!" Jackson answered back. It was distinctly Jackson's voice.
   I kicked off my heels in the hall.
   "Who's home? Jackson or Zelda?" I unrolled my pantyhose and dropped it in a ball next to the shoes.
   "Depends on who you want! I'm sort of inbetween right now! Mostly Jackson... in a dress slip. I'm getting ready!"
   "Either will do!" I yelled to he who was still unseen. I pulled my dress over my head and allowed it to fall where it chose, "But Zelda will be more pleased!"
   I padded through the apartment in my bra and panties to my bedroom. I picked some bobby pins up from the vanity and secured my hair on top of my head.
   Jackson stood in my doorway--sure enough, in a black dress slip.
   "You got the job?" He asked, excitedly.
   "Uh-huh," I nodded. I slid black chandelier earrings into my earlobes. I went to the closet and withdrew the white rabbit fur coat that had been my mother's. I entered it as though we were first time lovers-- slowly and carefully-- the sensation of the soft fur against my bare skin was every bit as satisfying and thrilling as good sex.
   Not that I would know. I didn't go much for sex. I was secretly a good girl who had learned the very hard way that I couldn't trust anyone who wasn't Jackson (or Zelda) and even though he (she) had all the love in my heart-- I still watched out of the corner of my eye with caution.
   Besides, what did I need sex for? I had a fur coat.
   "I told you that it was smart to wear your hair down. Much more like a mermaid that way," Jackson said.
   "Do we have any champagne?" I dabbed Burberry London on my throat and behind my knees,
   "No. The only things we have with bubbles are baths and Pellegrino."
   "I'll take the Pellegrino."
   "Wise choice," Jackson started towards the kitchen. I followed him.
   He pulled the green glass bottle from the fridge and poured two tumblers full of the fizzy water. We clinked glasses.
   I took a sip, "Guy is sort of intimidating."
   Jackson smirked, "I assure you he is a kindly tyrant."
   I paused before taking another sip, "Handsome, though."
   Jackson froze. He set the glass down on the counter.
   "No. No. No. No. No. Edith, don't do that."
   "Have you got a cigarette?"
   "On the coffee table," he answered, momentarily distracted.
 
   I picked up the pack of Benson and Hedges Menthol Deluxe 100s and shook one free, pursing it between my lips and torching it with the gilded antique desk lighter.
   I plopped down in the brown leather arm chair, draping my right leg over the side.
   I inhaled smooth mint smoke.
   "Edith," Jackson demanded my attention. I looked up upon exhale.
   "What?"
   "Don't do that."
   "What?" I questioned, defensively.
   "Don't call Guy handsome."
   "You're starting to sound more like Zelda," I brought the cigarette to my lips.
   Jackson stole it from between my fingers and took a drag; clearly nervous.
   He knelt down in front of me.
   "You only ever say a man is handsome when you are already sure that you like him..."
   "I do not."
   "... then you fixate on him, let him dick you around, read books about the laws of attraction, go to church to light candles, find out he's been fucking someone else and I have to pick you up from a week long stay in a mental hospital after finding you when you've washed down a whole prescription of Percocet with an Old Fashioned."
   "Ugh!" I threw my head back.
   "Listen to me," he placed a hand on both sides of my face and tilted it down to look at him, the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, "You're too sweet."
   Jackson took the cigarette from his lips and placed it between mine. He kissed my forehead as he rose to his feet.
        "Now, what should I wear tonight?"
   "Zelda wouldn't ask me that."
   I drowned the cigarette in the remainder of my mineral water and set the glass on the coffee table. I placed my hot cheek against the cool back of the chair and hugged myself in my coat.
   "You're right. You've got me all mixed up."
   Zelda was becoming more evident as the conversation continued.

   I inspected the grime underneath my fingernails. I tore the top off the cigarette box and used the corner to remove the black dirt-- attempting not to feel any resentment towards Jackson for the cautions.
   He was right-- of course he was. Jackson had known me for ten years-- since we were kids growing up in Raymond, Washington-- well, I was a 16-year-old kid and he was 20. He left Raymond for New York City when he was 22 to join a band-- which got very big-- signed to Columbia Records and the like-- and when the band received their signing advance-- he sent for me.
   It was a letter that simply read,

   "E-
     Don't go to fucking Olympia like its the "big city". I'll show you the big city.

         (heart)J"

   My mother thought that Jackson was in love with me and this worried her to death,
   "He's so frail and small-looking, Edith. Don't you want a man? A big, strapping man who can sweep you up?"
   "You just described the Brawny man," I told her.
   "Well, doesn't he seem nice?"
   "He's fictional," I was appalled.
   She sighed, lament, "Why are you always so difficult?"

   It was impossible to explain to her that I was not a pixie-like brunette who hid from the daylight with a guitar and therefor of no romantic interest to Jackson.
   Also that Jackson was preoccupied with himself.
   It felt as though Jackson and I had been born as the same person then split into two halves-- after that, Jackson's half also split into Zelda-- and the three of us knew that we never wanted to be without each other.
   This was what made Jackson wary when trouble found me.
  
   I have been fortunate that it was Jackson who confronted me about Guy and not Zelda.
   Jackson spoke to me as a man speaks to a woman that he cares for and is protective over.
   Zelda had a tendency of speaking to me as a nagging mother does to a teenage daughter who has broken curfew.
   And she absolutely abhorred it if you asked her if Jackson was somewhere inside there and could you speak with him.

   Zelda emerged from her room with her shiny curled bob side parted and the heavy section affixed with a beautiful jewelled clasp.
   As usual, she looked every bit the porcelaine doll. Her face was smooth, moisturized and patted down with ivory powder. Her cheeks were rouged. Her wide eyes blinked with black false eyelashes.
   She had a very long string of pearls strategically looped several times around her neck to conceal her Adam's apple with the slack end draped between her small, stuffed bosoms.
   She was wearing a 1920s long sleeve black silk sack of a dress with high-heeled black leather mary jane shoes--all of which suited her perfectly and made me sick with envy.
   Whenever we went some place it was always Zelda who caught the eye and I don't think there was a soul alive who suspected that she was born as Jackson.
  
   I frowned, still stuck in thought about Jackson's concerns.
   "Don't you dare look so severe," Zelda scolded, sweeping up earrings from the kitchen counter and clipping them into place.
   I furrowed my brow at her.
   "Why aren't you dressed?" She demanded, "Are you wearing that out tonight?"
   I bit at the skin at the tip of my index finger.
   "I haven't a thing to wear."
   "I can't stand it when you sulk. It's depressing and somehow it manages to depress everyone else. I've never witnessed such moods...quit chewing on your finger like that. It's disgusting," Zelda sighed somesort of defeat, "Get dressed. I'll tell you about Guy--," she hesitated, "But only what to expect from him as your boss-- I would rather join a cult that requires mass suicide and honest-to-god sweatpants than what we went through last year."
   Zelda lifted the pack of cigarettes from the coffee table and lit one up. She delicately exhaled.

   The previous year had been the Percocet incident.

   Which was a gruesome little thing that doesn't warrant further explanation-- at least for the time being-- because it practically explains itself.

   I rose from my seat and shuffled toward my bedroom. Zelda followed me in.
   I stood before my closet, staring at the contents the way someone would stand before a painting they can't understand passes for art.

   Zelda sat on the edge of the bed.

   "Guy is very difficult to read."
   "And here I thought you were clairvoyant."
   "You know damn well the only clairvoyance I have is that the sun will eventually rise and rent is due on the 1st...anyway..."
   I pulled a dress partially from the closet and shrugged. Zelda shook her head in the negative. I pushed it back in.
   "Guy does not emote much," Zelda continued, "He rarely smiles and if he does it's always weird-- like he knows something that you don't..."
   "Yeah, I got that from him."
   "He is good about encouragement. He thanks everyone at the end of a shift--will tell you that you are doing a good job and reward you handsomely for it. He practically lives at the restaurant. There will never be a time where you are there that he is not--but he doesn't hover--so it's not stressful or nerve-racking."
   Zelda approached the closet, clearly tired of watching me struggle, and withdrew a 1960s long sleeve cream colored short dress made of an embossed fabric so thick it could have been made out of old drapes.
   She handed it to me and I put it on without question. Zelda zipped me up in back.
   "You should take your hair down," She suggested, "They'll need to try it out different ways tonight."
   I pulled the pins out and shook it loose. She got on her hands and knees on my closet floor, searching for a pair of shoes.
   She produced a pair of silver one inch heels with a strap that wrapped around the ankles.
   I tugged them on as she stood upright, brushing the palms of her hands together to rid them of dirt.
   "Once you get your first paycheck-- we are getting a cleaning lady. It's terrifying down there. Like your rabbit coat had bunnies but they're all dust."
   "Can we get a cook, too?"
   "Oh, I'm sorry, darling! Is pouring your own Life Cereal exhausting you?"
   "Only a little."
   She held her arms akimbo and rolled her eyes.
   "Other things you should know: Never cross Guy. He doesn't believe in second chances. Always be honest with him when you are in trouble-- he will help you. Chances are he will never have a conversation with you pertaining to anything that isn't work-- and... you aren't allowed to eat at the restaurant during business hours because it will shatter the 'illusion'," she exhaled deeply, "You'll learn it all in time. Now, grab your coat. If we don't catch the next train-- you'll be sea foam."