Jaimie Eubanks lives in Sycamore, Illinois. She studied Creative Writing and Dance at Knox College, and now works in Marketing and PR. She makes really good coffee.

Charismagnetic (November 20, 2009. Issue 11.)

I used to be a magnet. No, really. I pulled everything into me, and it was awful and wonderful and made me who I was. I’m not sure when that changed, but I think you did it. I think you reached over to me one night and felt it in that soft part of me just below my sternum, and you flipped my magnet over while I slept, knowing it wouldn’t work in the morning. I think you did it, and I couldn’t figure out what was wrong and couldn’t fix it and couldn’t pull in anything more; you did it to make sure nothing would push you out of the way. Well, fuck you. Flip a magnet over and it repels stuff, even you, and I’m stuck. What a terrible thing to do. Honestly, I don’t know what you were thinking. No. What I mean is: I know what you were thinking, but you never should have thought it.

You were never a magnet, and I think you thought that would be a problem. It wasn’t, not for me, because you were a person. Magnets are people, too, except dangerous, because magnets (the doctors won’t stop telling me) can make the world unstable. Something about gravity, molecules, everything falling apart, I don’t know. I was glad you weren’t a magnet. You were safe.

After you did it, I went to see the woman who had potatoes that she couldn’t get rid of—they might have been her babies. Or possibly she had babies that were really potatoes, I’m not sure.1 Either way, she couldn’t get rid of them, so I went to her to ask her what I should do to get back to being a magnet, like before. She just said she’d never been a magnet and couldn’t tell me a single thing about fixing it and really didn’t have time to talk to me; she had this potato baby situation on her hands. Would I please go home?

I was mad about her not wanting to help, so I went to buy some eggs to break over her stupid potato baby’s face. I also got a hot plate and a skillet, because while I was at it I might as well have an omelet. The cashier at the store asked me what was wrong, and I said I used to be a magnet and asked him how I could fix it. Was there any sort of repair kit in the store? He said, This is one doodle that can’t be undid, homeskillet.2 I said, You’re a liar and should be ashamed, and I shoplifted the eggs and the skillet, but forgot the hotplate. I had to wrestle the eggs and the skillet into a big canvas tote bag that I tied to myself, because not being a working magnet, everything kept on skittering away from me, and it was hard enough getting into the store and chasing everything around. I had to dive and tackle and grab and shove it into the bag and it was exhausting, really. The cashier didn’t even stop me. He didn’t think I’d get away. He thought I looked so funny. Well I got it alright, and I left in such a huff.

Walking back to Potato Baby Mama’s house, I stopped, because I saw Potato Baby Mama outside, and she looked very serious. She was lighting her baby potatoes on fire and kicking them far far away, and she furrowed her brow and I thought she might cry or laugh or something.3 Instead, she said, Good riddance, I hope that worked, and marched back inside, and I started walking again and wondered if she meant it. I didn’t walk so fast that she would see me, because I didn’t want to intrude anymore. I let go of the eggs and the skillet, crept up into her bushes and sat down, almost but not quite enjoying that the twigs and dirt and gum wrappers did not get stuck in my hair or my sweater the way they would a normal person’s. I stayed there, waiting outside and looking in her window just because.

Looking at her, sitting there, tired from all the kicking, I thought about how you’d tried to teach me soccer, so we could join a pick-up game your friends had going. Afterwards, you couldn’t look at me. You just stared at my left ear. It was like you were afraid to look anywhere else. Like you thought I might pull you in even more, and you didn’t want that. Maybe you were just mad, because I couldn’t play right, couldn’t take turns. The ball kept coming back to me. I was upset and so were you. Taking turns is important. I was sorry. I waited outside Potato Baby Mama’s house all night long and in the morning her babies were still there. She looked happy, almost, like she’s never really wanted them gone.4 All the fire and the kicking and the magnet flipping could have been an accident.

I figured I might as well ask.

I knew you’d be surprised, and I kind of liked that idea. You thought you knew me well enough to know that once I’m gone: I’m gone. You never thought I’d come back for one minute, not for any reason. I would be a surprise. Well, I sat down half waiting for you to come home, sitting on the steps of your building, not going to the door, not knocking, sitting, that’s when I knew, half hoping you were inside watching me sit on your steps, deliberating, half sure you’d moved away; I knew: the surprise would have to be bigger. I was many many halves when I was on those steps, more halves than is mathematically possible. All of those halves said to go away, buy you a present, a big one, and bring it back.

I thought: You like presents.

I know; I remember. My giving you a present was the thing that made you fall in love with me. How it took hours to get the box, all covered with glittery paper, from my hands to yours. Months later you told me that the look on my face, the determination, was the reason you decided to give me a chance. You loved that I’d worked so hard to give you something when I had everything. It wouldn’t be the same, now, not a reenactment. The struggle would show through.

You would remember how it was.

You’d tell me for sure.

You’d maybe even tell me how to put it back, but you might be lying.

If I got you a big present you’d maybe even be able to give me the answers I wanted without lying at all.

I didn’t know if I should get my magnet fixed first, so you’d tell me what I want to hear, or if I should ask you how to fix my magnet, and hope to get my magnet back. Also, I had to get you a present; I couldn’t forget the present. Either way, I should probably get my highlights touched up first. Beautiful people are more persuasive. Apologies are better when they come from beautiful people, not that I was going to apologize, probably. There was nothing wrong with being mad about a flipped magnet. It was justified. But if I’d wanted to apologize, it would be better if I were beautiful, like Kristen Bell. Everything is better when it comes from beautiful people. I went to get my hair did, and I knew I’d know by the time that was done whether or not to put in the effort of getting to the door in spite of my flipped magnet. 5 Really, getting on the steps took ages.