Madelyn May
Thesis by Lolilta
I hate the number 27. It’s nowhere except within me. Slit my belly open; I’m sure it would slip out, ooze to the floor, meaty, raw, aged, there—but surprised to be seen. Would you believe me if I told you I have tried to find scholarly evidence for my hatred of the number 27? Yet once again, it’s nowhere. At least, it is nowhere of significance to me.
I have discovered it’s a Smith number and a Harshad number and the atomic number of cobalt. I have discovered that it’s also an unfortunate number for the likes of Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin, and Jimi Hendrix, among others, although the misfortune hit them in a more obvious way. The type 27 vacuum tube was the first tube mass-produced for commercial use with a heated cathode. 27 Nakṣatra in Hindu astrology, 27 books in the New Testament, 27 letters in the Spanish alphabet. I’ve seen 27 Dresses and know the Yankees have won 27 World Series. “Weird Al” Yankovic thinks 27 is a funny number, and it shows up in at least one song in almost every album of his.
I feel I’m beginning to bore you; at least I am beginning to bore myself, for none of this helps in the slightest in uncovering the mystery of 27, which has caused me much misfortune. I got to know the number Twenty-Seven at Thirteen. But I’ll get to that later.
I shall hope I am forgiven for my scrambled and frenzied penmanship. Let me start more formally. I will start with an introduction to this thesis, something that I learned in school, and something I hope will “hook in” my audience. Before unraveling the question of Twenty-Seven, I’ll start with unraveling the question of my name: Lolita.
The reader may be wondering if Lolita is my real name, to which I would respond by saying, “is ‘the reader’ your real name?”
The reader may be wondering if I am the Lolita, but the Lolita, as far as I am aware, is nothing but a myth. She’s a sleeping nymph, a celestial nymph, a land nymph, a wood nymph, a water nymph, or an underworld nymph.
But as Hermes loved Dryope, Humbert loved Dolores, and Twenty-Seven loved Thirteen, myths can be the base of reality.
The reader may be wondering how old I am now. First, I hardly think that matters. One is only a physical Lolita for a short time. A truly more accurate title of this thesis would be “Thesis by a Former Lolita,” but I’m of the belief that once you are a Lolita physically and mentally, the blister always stays with you. So I am not going to bother putting my pen to paper about my current age.
I expect that the reader is also wondering how I know I am a Lolita. I dare say, moved by the sincerest of American tendencies—narcissism—I know and somewhat always knew. But five years after I was a physical Lolita, over breakfast pancakes, the name first came out of my mother’s lips after I told her about Twenty-Seven. Panic hit me like a bucket of water. First, there was the shock of it:
“Well, you were kinda a Lolita, honey.”
Thoughts of self-reflection ran like a river through my veins. Did Thirteen lead Twenty-Seven on? Was it Thirteen’s fault?
Then the liquid seeped into my clothing. Lolita, is that so bad? Thirteen was pretty. Thirteen was mature. Why shouldn’t Thirteen have strived for pretty and mature? Every other number does.
Lolita: a light, a fire, a sin, a soul. Lo-lee-ta, like the utterances of Twenty-Seven pulling Thirteen into the darkness.
C’mon, let’s play.
Lo. Lee. Ta.
I could be plain Lo, scurrying like a mouse to ballet class, watching Twenty-Seven smile as I yank open the door. I could be Lola during dress rehearsals, made-up, perky, and costumed. I could be something different at school, quiet, lonely, even unwanted. I had to be different on the dotted line, but I shan’t talk about that.
However, in the arms of Twenty-Seven, I was suddenly and always Lolita. There might have been no Lolita at all, had Twenty-Seven not loved, one summer, Thirteen, a ballerina in pink tights.
Finally, I think, should I wipe the water off? Was my mother offending me? Or should I let the water stick to me, moisturize my skin? Is “Lolita” a compliment? A justification?
Now, we have reached the point of confusion, the reason for writing, the dilemma, the disorder, the divide.
At 13, we take trips to Sephora and smear our skin with Aphrodite’s paint.
At 13, we punch and tease to capture attention.
At 13, we crave to be maidens, Cinderella, Aurora, and Snow White, bewitching travelers with our youthful gaze. We invite the look, love the look, bask, roll around, and play in the look.
When Twenty-Seven looked at Thirteen, she felt special.
When Twenty-Seven talked with Thirteen, she felt smart.
But when Twenty-Seven pulled Thirteen behind the curtain one late night, Thirteen stopped feeling anything at all. Numbness came to mind, and darkness. Secrecy, naughtiness, sweat, stillness, and shame also came to mind. Emerging from the curtain, Thirteen saw the other ballerinas scurrying on stage to dance the part of the nymphs.
Ironically, Thirteen did not play the role of the nymphs in Balanchine’s show. Thirteen only performed a pas de deux, one night only, in the title role of the nymphet just behind the curtain.
Balanchine was not the first time Thirteen encountered the idea of the nymph. At the age of 11, Thirteen was called a nymph by Fifty-Five. Fifty-Five was her teacher, and Thirteen (at the age of 11) just laughed at the unknown phrase.
At the age of 16, Thirteen saw Twenty-Seven (now 30) again in a restaurant downtown. “Oh, look it’s _____,” my mother screamed. Seeing and not wanting Twenty-Seven to see me, I ran.
Although no longer Lolita physically, I ran, because like I stated above, the scars of a Lolita endure.
“Is that why you hauled ass when we saw him at that restaurant a few years ago?” my mother asked me that day over pancakes.
I nodded, swallowing down the fluffy cake.
Perhaps my hatred has been blistering since I was 11.
But it is only now, as I recall that day over pancakes on Pike’s Place, where I feel the meaty, raw, aged hatred. And nausea. And that nausea I feel, the sensation of my throat beginning to tighten and cheeks beginning to flush, is fuel in the fire of my hatred of 27.
Will I ever let another number get close? I want to. I dream about getting close, like all other numbers. But at my current age, I still dream about getting close, like I was at Thirteen, maiden-like and naïve with twinkles in my eyes.
I want to get close to a number again. I hope to get close. One day, I hope I will. By writing this thesis, I have gotten closer to the words, describing, dissecting, depicting the show behind the curtain.
Lo. Lee. Ta.
So I think that’s a good start.
Madelyn May is an essayist, playwright, and poet based in New York City, with a BFA in Screenwriting and History from Chapman University. She has worked across television, film, and journalism, and currently works in the Art Department at HarperCollins Publishers. Her written work has appeared in Dreamworldgirl Zine, Anti-Heroin Chic, and Chartium Magazine among others.
Banner Art:
Edvard Munch, Summer Night. The Voice., 1896, Wikimedia Commons
