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"
Even
the
good
kind
that
do
n't
run
,
"
Marla
says
,
"
they
snag
.
"
Nothing
is
static
.
Everything
is
falling
apart
.
Marla
started
going
to
the
support
groups
since
it
was
easier
to
be
around
other
human
butt
wipe
.
Everyone
has
something
wrong
.
And
for
a
while
,
her
heart
just
sort
of
flatlined
.
Marla
started
a
job
doing
prepaid
funeral
plans
for
a
mortuary
where
sometimes
great
fat
men
,
but
usually
fat
women
,
would
come
out
of
the
mortuary
showroom
carrying
a
crematory
urn
the
size
of
an
egg
cup
,
and
Marla
would
sit
there
at
her
desk
in
the
foyer
with
her
dark
hair
tied
down
and
her
snagged
pantyhose
and
breast
lump
and
doom
,
and
say
,
"
Madam
,
do
n't
flatter
yourself
.
We
could
n't
get
even
your
burned-up
head
into
that
tiny
thing
.
Go
back
and
get
an
urn
the
size
of
a
bowling
ball
.
"
Marla
's
heart
looked
the
way
my
face
was
.
The
crap
and
the
trash
of
the
world
.
Post-consumer
human
butt
wipe
that
no
one
would
ever
go
to
the
trouble
to
recycle
.
Between
the
support
groups
and
the
clinic
,
Marla
told
me
,
she
had
met
a
lot
of
people
who
were
dead
.
These
people
were
dead
and
on
the
other
side
,
and
at
night
they
called
on
the
telephone
.
Marla
would
go
to
bars
and
hear
the
bartender
calling
her
name
,
and
when
she
took
the
call
the
line
was
dead
.
At
the
time
,
she
thought
this
was
hitting
bottom
.
"
When
you
're
twenty-four
,
"
Marla
says
,
"
you
have
no
idea
how
far
you
can
really
fall
,
but
I
was
a
fast
learner
.
"
The
first
time
Marla
filled
a
crematory
urn
,
she
did
n't
wear
a
face
mask
,
and
later
she
blew
her
nose
and
there
in
the
tissue
was
a
black
mess
of
Mr.
Whoever
.
In
the
house
on
Paper
Street
,
if
the
phone
rang
only
once
and
you
picked
it
up
and
the
line
was
dead
,
you
knew
it
was
someone
trying
to
reach
Marla
.
This
happened
more
than
you
might
think
.
