MOLLY
MOLLY PINCHED OFF THE RIGHT NOSTRIL on her face, took a deep breath, and blew with all her might. Phlegm shot out like a bullet from the left opening and landed on the ground. No one saw, but no matter; the presence of others has never had much impact on how Molly has behaved herself.
When she was born, her parents, Joe and Lulu, gave her one name: Molly. No middle name, no last name. Just Molly.
Molly is left handed.
One day Molly ate her watch. A number of years earlier, she had read about a man who had eaten shopping carts, chairs, a microwave oven, and even an entire automobile one time. It’s not as bad as it might sound: the shopping cart–-as well as most of the other items--had been melted down into small ball bearing-sized morsels that were easy to swallow and--though not so easily digestible--at least passed through his system with a minimum of difficulty. Molly used the same method; she didn’t even have to chew. She said the watch tasted "metallic."
There’s a map of the world in Molly’s room. To most people it looks upside down: North America and Europe and Asia at the bottom; South America, Africa, and Australia up near the top. To Molly, however, it looks fine; it looks beautiful. Further, it has helped her to realize that the Indian Ocean is much bigger than she had always been led to believe.
Molly often found bullets-–live rounds-–on the playground at the elementary school. In junior high she found them in the classroom, usually on the floor, off to the side, next to the wall.
Molly and her brother Columbus one day constructed a box, a small glass box of mirrors, all facing inward. The sides were easy to assemble, as was the bottom. Before putting on the top cover, to seal it up, they both peered deep down inside. The bottom mirror, of course, reflected back up into their own smiling faces, but the sides were more difficult to look into. Molly placed a finger inside--in the very middle--and then she got down real close and looked and saw four fingers going off in all four directions. When she saw the fingers disappear around the curve in the distance, her curiosity stirred. She wanted to somehow get inside to see how far the fingers would go. Molly and Columbus made plans to one day build a larger mirror box, one that they could crawl into to see off into the distances.
When Molly turned sixteen, she did not get her drivers license.
When she was fifteen, she wanted to play the tuba.
Her teachers in elementary school--and beyond--never knew where to place her on their role sheets.
Molly did not like cucumbers; they hurt her teeth, she said.
Her favorite flower was the dandelion.