Yee-howdy, I'm Gender Kenvy. Based on the name, you can safely assume my specialty is the Barbie movie and my main squeeze (blorbo? is that what the youths call it these days?) is Ryan Gosling's Ken.
I'm ace and probably aro, too, so I tend to explore that a lot in my writing. My pronouns are *exaggerated shrugging*
I am 35 and rediscovering my love of storytelling after a long drought in writing. (Sorry! I am an internet elder and very, very not hip with the times. But Margot Robbie and I are the same age and that's kinda cool.)
I mostly publish over on Ao3 but have cross-posted a couple of things here.
Quick links:
Just a Girls' Doll in a Man's World
[the one that got me writing again <3 ]
Ao3 Link
Summary: Ken is called to the Real World through a portal to his very own human, except that the problem they're facing is one he caused, himself. Now he's taking classes, trying to learn how to be better and mend the rift. It just so happens he's taking some of the same courses that Barbie is. They figure out how a doll and a human with a half-century relationship behind them can help each other grow as people.
Summary: Barbara Handler finds an abandoned doll on a park bench - except he's not a doll anymore. Ken is homeless, but doesn't seem to mind. As time passes, it's clear that he's hiding something: he keeps going missing, only to pop up again acting strangely, can't hold down a job, and won't stick around in the same place for very long. Barbie is determined to figure him out so he can finally have the life always denied to him as a doll. But he has to let her help him.
Rating: T
Length: 175k words
Status: In Progress
Duckling
Ao3 Link
Summary: The Ken x El Esposo de Gloria fic you didn't know you needed. Processing a divorce because his best friend is happier with Barbie, Owen is left treading water, lost. He's happy for them, truly. No hate. But who even is he, anymore? Thankfully, ducklings float - and one is heading right for him.
Rating: M
Length: 70k words
Status: In Progress
One-Shots
Barbie:
Ascension | Ao3 | Tumblr | PG-13 | 1.8 k words | Crack fic/Absurdism. Gloria and Aaron are sent to Barbieland after it was cut off from the real world.
"Sometimes they don't come home at all" | Tumblr | PG-13 | 3.5k words | Ken accidentally gets drafted to Nam. Barbie &co. bring him to the correct time, but he's not the same doll anymore.
The Piece Fits Perfectly (It's From the Wrong Puzzle) | Ao3 | Tumblr | PG-13 | 1.7k words | Kensposo. Prompt: if Sasha was 10 years younger.
worn and useless thin | Ao3 | PG-13 | 7.1k words | Zombie AU. Barbie's only hope for her family is a man with no hope left.
defanged | Ao3 | Tumblr | Teen | 2.3k words | QPR Barbie/Ken. [Divergence from I Could Be Honest, I Could be Human] What if Someone Else found out about Ken?
doomed (gently) | Ao3 | Tumblr | G | 546 words | Kensposo (Liam x Ken #1) | Liam's peace was already broken before an unexpected visitor appeared on his doorstep.
hang the moon in the sky | Ao3 | Tumblr | Teen | 800 words | Kensposo (Liam x Ken #2) | Liam's house guest is experiencing a lot of firsts right now -- luckily he's actually the perfect person to walk him through it.
Ex-mas | Ao3 | Tumblr | Teen | 5k words | Kensposo (Liam x Ken #3) | Liam must navigate the holidays as his divided family comes to visit. At least he has Ken...for better or for worse.
Will you be mine? | Ao3 | Tumblr | Teen | 1.4k words | Kensposo (Liam x Ken #4) | It's Valentine's Day for Liam and Ken...but they're still figuring themselves out.
hand in hand | Ao3 | Tumblr | G | 1.7k words | Kensposo (Liam x Ken #5) | Prompt: Weddings (and Funerals) | Liam wasn't living until Ken came into his life.
Wicked:
I hope it brings you bliss | Ao3 | Teen | 6.2k words | Elphaba & Fiyero | Fiyero's "appreciation" of poppies has him in a downward spiral disguised as bliss.
Project Hail Mary:
Fox!Grace AU: Ao3 | Tumblr: 🦊|🦊🦊|🦊🦊🦊
Various Prompts & Blurbs!
Right here on Tumblr!
Note to self: also add goose groupie challenge fics in here!
Chapter Four: I get up to this feeling (keeps me on the run)
<<< Chapter Three | Chapter Five >>>
Words: 3,760
Summary: Ken stays with Barbie while he heals from his injury. They try to prepare together for a new future
Additional Tags and Warnings: Minor/unintentional self harm
Barbie hadn’t completely, consciously considered that the dog wearing her scarf had at some point been Ken – that idea had sort of solidified as the creature had walked home alongside of her. Its features, its location, and its possession of her scarf had percolated into the conviction that it was him, somehow, without knowing why. The internet had provided the rest. The full moon, the bite-infection, the weakness to silver.
But there’s a lot of fiction out there, of course. And historical accounts obviously were hard to prove. They were never recorded by the sufferer himself, but by witnesses, or audiences of witnesses – fearful, murderous stories detailing how to destroy a monster. Not how to help a loved one.
(Loved one. Huh. She turns to regard the man on the couch beside her, injured foot propped on the coffee table, his lips shaping unfamiliar words as he puzzles through an article. “How d’you say this one?” he points, angling the page toward her.
“Lycanthropy.”
He twists his lips, fighting a smile. “That can’t be right. Pretty sure it’s Ly-ken-thropy.”)
Now they’re working through it together – finding information. Trying to figure out what the rules of his condition are. What options there could be to live a life that’s still worth leaving dollhood behind.
Because he doesn’t know a lot about being alive yet, except how to make it to the next day. He doesn’t know how to cut his hair; while she prepares their meals, he watches videos on how to shave, how to wash, how to brush his teeth, when to change or clean his clothes.
He struggles through the classifieds for something simple and reasonable. (Barbie had gotten it out of him that he attempted a taxi service with no license or driving experience; and bussing tables. The second had gone miles better than the first, but had begun very near the full moon and his consequent unexplained absence – made longer by lack of resources and unfamiliarity with his own condition – had cost him the job. He’d tried and failed to start three other jobs since then, two of which had required paperwork he didn’t have.) What kind of no-experience stuff would be understanding of his taking several days every month – sometimes even twice a month – to recover from turning into a monster? And if there isn’t one… how is he supposed to build any kind of a life for himself?
X
“Two nights, Barbie?”
“What’s the problem?”
“I just – two nights of not really having your own bed or your own space, or your own anything-”
“Technically it’s three.”
“Huh?”
“Three nights. Your wolf stuff was on that side of the bed, and you did technically sleep in the same room.”
Ken pulls back like she just tried to hit him, brows curving dolefully toward one another. She regrets opening her mouth.
“I’m not counting the days, I was trying to be funny! Ken, I mean it – like, really really mean it – when I say I’m okay sharing my home with you while you get better, for however long it takes. Your leg is bad and you can’t go out there like that – you need time to heal, somewhere clean and safe. And I know what your deal is, so there’s nowhere safer for you than here.” Barbie grasps his forearm with both hands, entreating. “You act like I should never have to share my space with you, even though you’ve never had a space of your own. I’m sorry I acted that way in Barbie Land, but we’re not dolls anymore and I want you to get better. I care about you.”
“…Oh.” There’s feeling behind the word – heavy, overwhelming. A meaning larger than those letters. A myriad of thoughts well beyond the simple, inarticulate syllable. She understands all of them.
And if she has to keep her thumb over him to make him stay, she will. She tells the office she’s working from home for the rest of the week so she can keep an eye on him. It’d be just like him to slip away while she was out.
X
Ken consents to have his hair cut. Barbie had been a little too excited – how long has she been thinking about this? – and sits him on the toilet lid with a towel around his shoulders to trim it back with a pair of shears, down to the new growth.
The hair that has grown out is still blond, but of a darker shade – a sandy sort of gold. The bleached locks slowly fall away, and Ken catches one in his palm like falling snow and pulls it quietly to his chest, silent tears beginning one by one to roll down his cheeks.
“You okay?” she murmurs, combing her fingers through his hair.
“Yeah,” he sniffs. “It’s just the last thing I had of him, you know? The Ken I used to be. Feels like saying goodbye.” He stares into his reflection in the corner of the mirror. “That guy is a stranger. I don’t know him yet. It’s like I got here and then…”
“And then everything changed.”
He nods. “Figuring out how to stay alive – and how to be- how to be what I am – I haven’t had a chance to figure out just… me.”
Barbie finishes brushing away all the loose locks, ruffling his hair a little. She smiles gently. “We could bleach it again, if you want.”
He shakes his head with a grim smile. “Nah. Not yet.” He twists the pale hair between his fingers and thumb. “I think I need to get to know this Ken.”
Barbie opens a drawer on the cosmetics tower and pulls out a necklace with a locket that has a window – she’s had it forever and not found a use for it yet. (Wait, is it silver? No, pretty sure it’s gold-plated.) Gently taking the strand of hair from him, she ties it into a neat knot and places it carefully, and snaps the tiny door shut. She presses the pendant into his palm and folds his fingers around it. “So you don’t lose him.”
He smiles weakly at her. “Do you ever miss it?”
She knows he means Barbie Land. “Sometimes. I see it in my dreams every once in a while. And whenever the weather’s bad, I can’t help thinking about how nice it always was, or how beautiful the sunset would always be. Sometimes something will randomly remind me of one of our friends, and I’ll think about it the rest of the day, missing them and wondering how they’re doing. How did you cope when you came here?” she turns it back to him. “I had Gloria and Sasha – you didn’t have anyone, did you?”
Ken frowns thoughtfully. “First couple of days, I was just trying to figure it out. Thought if I could go to the right place and do the right things, I’d find people. Frankie found me, morning after I got bit. Showed me the ropes a little. Kept me away from the police. He assumed I was just, y’know. Not all in my head. Clueless. Which I was, so that’s fair. …But I miss everyone. A lot. I don’t really know how to stop.” He exhales, slowly, like it hurts to breathe. “I knew I couldn’t go back, but I guess- I hoped- it’s like I’m slipping further and further away from them. It feels like they’re gone forever, even if they’re not. It feels like they’re Frankie.”
She strokes his hair soothingly, no longer for shearing’s sake. First his doll friends. Then his own life. Then real, true death. Her poor Ken is so marked by grief and loneliness, she’s surprised he remains as bright and energetic as he generally is. She’d be too exhausted to go on.
X
Something Ken starts doing a few days into his stay is, whenever they are inert next to one another – scrolling, watching something, dozing – he will gently grab her hand and place it in his hair.
He seeks it out now, needy and affectionate, eyes squinting shut with pleasure when she curls her nails gently into his scalp.
So yeah okay, the werewolf likes to be pet. That's a thing.
She wonders about other dog things that might transfer to his man shape. “Can you eat chocolate?”
“Nn?”
“Does chocolate make you sick? I mean you can smell as good as a dog, so maybe other stuff is similar, too.”
“I can have chocolate,” he assures her. “What do you mean though - you can smell stuff, right?”
“Human noses aren’t as sensitive. It’s like,” she casts around for an example. “It’s like when you found that little girl in the canyon, remember? We needed to find footprints and clues and stuff, but you didn’t, did you? You smelled what she ate for lunch and followed it.”
“It smelled so loud though. You can’t smell peanut butter?”
“I can, but not peanut butter that was consumed several hours ago and then traveled half a mile inside of someone.”
He blinks at her a couple of times. “So then your house doesn’t smell this way on purpose.” Her eyebrows come together with a questioning smile. “It’s just so…chemical? I don’t- like too much perfume and fake smells and soap. Layers and layers and layers all mashed together.”
She considers all the things he wouldn’t have had much exposure to until her. Shampoo, conditioner, lotion, body spray, scented candles, hair spray, laundry detergent, dish soap, dryer sheets, scented trash bags, mouthwash, air fresheners, body wash, toilet bowl cleaner, bleach, floor polish, hand sanitizer, deodorant; an entire chem lab, and that’s just what she uses day to day… “Has it been bothering you this whole time?”
He shakes his head. “Not as much now. Not any more than my smell bothers you, I don’t think. Unless you can’t smell me.”
“Oh no, you’re still stinky. I just got used to it.”
That startles a laugh out of him. “That. I’m getting used to it.”
X
“How’s it looking?” Barbie peeks around the bathroom door.
Ken glances up from the wrapping of gauze around his leg. “Itchy,” he hisses through grit teeth. “I just wanna chew it.”
“Don’t chew your leg.”
“Yeah yeah.” Ken had seen her face go white as a ghost when a scab had parted and begun to bleed, and he’d insisted on taking over wound care from then on. He has no plans of making more blood happen in front of her, at least as much as he can help it.
(Scratching is as much instinct as intent, though. Sometimes you don’t even know you’re doing it. Multiple times a day, she has to reach over to pull his arm away from his mouth, where he teethes absently at the bite on his wrist just enough to inflame the skin around the scabbing. But even Barbie is surprised with how quickly it’s healing. The itching must be maddening.)
He tucks the end of the bandage and wipes down the sink before limping over to meet her.
“You’re dressed extra nice today,” he comments carefully. He still isn't sure which words are patriarchy and which ones are genuine. Saying she looks more or less pretty feels like a trespass. She’s in a stylish skirt-suit with her hair pinned up – and up til now, she’d mostly been wearing sweats and pj’s (Ken still can only call them pajamajams, so he clings to the abbreviation) with her hair in a messy bun. She’d put on some mascara now and then for video meetings, but otherwise – she’d been soft and comfy. Now she’s hard angles and arched brows and stiff fabric.
“I have to go in to the office today – they only let me work from home so many days in a row unless I state a medical reason or request leave,” she tells him as they sit down to breakfast. She’d introduced him to cereal, and he’s crazy about it. Breakfast soup, he had called it the first time, hopelessly endearing.
His head lifts sharply at her words. “Okay. I can be outta here in five minutes.”
“Ken?”
His teeth click around his spoon as he takes a hurried bite.
“You don’t have to leave just because I’m not in the house. I’m not asking you to. You’re not better yet. I just have to go to my job.”
He gawks at her, brows creased. “But aren't I a no-good-freeloader?”
“What?”
“I don’t have a job. I’m not contributing anything to this…” gesturing vaguely, “This. I’m taking up your space and using up your resources.” He pushes away his bowl as though she’d take the crumby milk back.
“You’re literally injured, Ken. You still can’t walk, and I forbid you to try and put a shoe on it. Your job right now is to rest, and to heal, and to learn about yourself. This is the place where you do that, okay? Keep using the tablet to do research. Watch some tv. Sit out on the porch if you need some fresh air – the swing is nice.”
“But-”
“You have to get well if you want to start doing more. So focus on that part, and we’ll figure it out from there. I have to go. Finish your breakfast.” She pushes the bowl back to him, ruffles his hair, and hurries out to catch the train.
+
Ken watches her leave, feeling wretchedly small.
It just
It feels like Barbie Land again.
Where he’s useless and she does everything. She used to hate that so much. She used to hate him so much.
He can’t bear that. She's all he has now. Frankie’s dead. Ken and Ken and Ken and Allan and Ken are gone forever. Dan and him have an understanding, but they will never be close. And he likes Angela, but can’t spend much time around her. The police don’t like the color of her skin, and the color of his just seems to draw more of their attention to her. He worries his presence just attracts more trouble.
A lot about him attracts more trouble, apparently. A lot about him is trouble.
Up til Barbie, he’d thought he was okay with that. Flirt with trouble, gently bother his peers, survive to the next day. Now he has something like kinship and it’s so, so good, he doesn’t know how to breathe without it.
But Ken can't help the sense of uselessness. He's never had to work before, but he has a pretty good sense of how much it takes to have to survive – maybe more than most at this point. He's had enough folk approach him on the sidewalk to tell him things about himself: like that he's a freeloader or that he's lazy, a drunk, a parasite, a blight on society. That his presence lowers the value or lessens the beauty of any place he is in. That kind of thing.
He's used to moving around throughout the day to find the spots with the right kind of activity, or to check up on his fellows, or slip into some place for a quick bite or sink-shower. All this sitting still is driving him crazy.
He does spend part of the day on research – even searching the things he wouldn't with Barbie around. How to deal with the whole genital situation. What to do about corn-chip feet, because apparently that’s not a good thing. But also wolf stuff, though he has a hard time telling what's pop fiction and what's a sighting.
All these books he’s been miserably sounding out say he’s a man-eating monster, mindless and bloodthirsty, a terrible danger to everyone near him.
So he should go far, far away from people. Topanga’s a small place, but he’s sure he can find somewhere bigger, somewhere less populated.
He seriously considers it. Settles on the porch swing, swaddled in blankets except for his injured foot, which dangles in the cold air, rapidly going numb. He doesn’t care. He can’t take the walls a moment longer. How do people live like this? Like yeah, okay, it keeps the cold out, but – you can’t see or hear anything. How do you tell when a threat is coming? How do you say hello to your neighbors when you get out of bed? How do you sing the same songs or join each other’s dance numbers when everything is just a closed box?
He shudders at the reminder. Doll stuff makes him uncomfortable, sometimes. Like that he started out in a box instead of being born. That knowledge feels viscerally wrong and even without the werewolf thing, would that still keep him from being all the way human? Because he wasn’t made right?
Avoid the question.
Look, open land options! Denali is a big one. Lots of options in Alaska, really – some very isolated, and some with very low proportions of visitors. Cold though. Maybe BLM lands? He wouldn’t get in trouble for sleeping there, that’s a plus. But that means lots of tourists and van-lifers and stuff. And water might be a problem? Maybe he can hop the border into Canada, apparently that place is pretty sparse. He could live in the mountains. Build a nice little cabin somehow – he should look up how to do that next. Hunt whatever he can catch. Never see another person for years and years. Never have to worry about hurting anyone.
And be completely alone. Forever.
Ken sets aside the tablet and hugs his knees, staring blankly out into the neighborhood. An entire life with nobody feels hollow to him. It makes his chest hurt the way it had when he found Frankie all stiff and gray. He squeezes his eyes shut to expel the unwanted image, but all that does is pin it behind his eyes. He opens them again, and they feel wet this time.
Fuck. He wasn’t- this wasn’t supposed to- he’s fine. He’s fine.
Look, he’s healing so fast. He probably could take off right now and not suffer dire consequences. He’d walked out with less forethought before.
So why isn’t he?
Why’s he dangling on a swing, wrapped in a cushy blanket in clothes someone else paid for?
We’ll figure it out.
That’s what she’d said. Together. Either where life would lead once he was healed, or how to deal with the werewolf stuff. Whether he could get schooling or a job or a place of his own, or contribute to the household in some way; how to not have to pickle himself in the desert just to keep the wolf away from people, or how to recover more easily because it’s been days since he turned back and his muscles still burn with soreness.
He’s better fed than usual, which is nice. Usually he lays somewhere for two or three days incapacitated by pain before he can drag himself back to town, trembling and desperately hungry, fleeing the consequences of whatever atrocities his other self had committed in the night; fleeing the monster he can never get away from.
He wonders how different recovery would be in a cushy house instead of a rocky canyon.
He wonders whether he could have a life.
+
There wasn't really confirmation on what time Barbara would be returning, but Ken is aware that sometimes she isn't home when he comes to the front porch, even into the evening. She must already be so tired from catching him, taking care of him, having to teach him everything all the time.
What if he takes care of dinner this time? He can stand for longer periods – being at the counter doesn't require much movement, nor stretching of sore muscles. Yeah! There's good stuff in the fridge. He can figure something out.
And it’ll be good to do something with his hands instead of just his brain. He’s about to start clawing the walls.
+
When Barbie comes through the front door, there’s a baked lasagna cooling on the stovetop. It doesn’t have the right kind of cheese, but it smells good. When she pulls back the foil after getting changed, half of it is gone – a lot, really. She wonders if she’s been underfeeding her guest; if his metabolism is faster due to the wolf thing – or if it’s just that he still feels insecure about his next meal. How long would it take for him to get over that kind of thing?
She takes a more modest helping, heats it briefly, and sits against him on the couch. “Thank you,” she says, chomping on a forkful. “You have a good day?”
“I dunno how to answer that.”
Maybe that’s a fair response. He’s injured, dealing with a very scary condition, and not in control of most aspects of his life right now. He’s been merely surviving since day one. She wonders if he’s ever really had a good day – even in Barbie Land, his Perfect Days were subjectively less perfect than hers. Dependent on someone else’s existence, someone else’s attention. Hers. She pushes her hand through his hair affectionately, and the corner of his mouth tilts upward. “We’ll get there,” she promises.
X
Barbie wants to start preparing for the next full moon so there’s time to get supplies. It’s a little over two weeks away, and there’s no way she’s letting Ken have her scarf a second time, if it can be avoided. Ken agrees wholeheartedly, even if the procurement of an alternative causes him stomach-turning guilt.
She has to talk him out of a silver-plated collar. “But it’s functional. It has a leash and everything!”
“I don’t think it’s meant for dogs,” she points out.
“Why wouldn’t a collar be for dogs?” Sweet summer child. “Besides, neither is a scarf.”
“Why not a necklace?”
“Too small – too thin. What if it snaps real easy? It’s too nice.”
“You can have nice things.” Ken frowns at her. “I’ll give you nice things.”
He squirms, looking like he wants an escape. “Please don’t,” he pleads.
“I’ll bury you in them.” He makes a tiny noise of distress.
Really, the only way for him to see reason afterward is to order a long, sturdy foxtail chain (almost specifically for the pun) and assure him it was cheaper than the collar. It’ll arrive by next week.
The delivery date cements the reality that he’ll be spending the next full moon here. That he’ll be transforming somewhere in this house, with this woman who has been supporting him wholeheartedly. It’s not a hypothetical. It’s really happening.
Tags and Warnings: Homelessness, Mystery Illness, Complicated Relationships, Ken Logic, Barbie Being Determined, Barbie Being Stubborn, Violence Against Pigeons (mentioned), Sharing Food, Disordered Eating, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Concerning Behavior, This is not going where you think it is
Summary: The pile of rags draws breath, curled on its side. Ripped boots, frayed jeans and tattered jacket. The blond head pillowed on folded arm is messier, wavier than she remembers, and darker - the roots have grown out, and the bleached tips look sun-kissed this way. But she recognizes the shape of that unshaven face, the absurdly long eyelashes, the planes of cheek and forehead, the lines of nose and brow. The pile of rags on the park bench, after all, had once been a doll.
Chapter One: I hold your hand (for goodness' sake)
Words: 4,225
Humanity exists on a broad, broad spectrum in every aspect of life. Where there might be ends and limits, there are always exceptions. It came to Barbara Handler with a full range of just everything. Color, sensation, noise, emotion, and spinning, unwinding chaos. If dollhood had had any performative ripples in its perfection, it was negligible compared to real life. Terrible people, and amazing ones, but mostly average ones (except that there’s no such thing as average, no such thing as normal, no identical levels of mediocrity, and that’s what makes anything average and normal at all!) Skin color and culture, clothing styles, personality! Ancestry, and family, and community. Not that there wasn’t community among the dolls, but it was automatic - not like people coming together for the love of the same thing, or sharing something in common - a belief or a struggle or history. Even the neighborhood-liness of the doll world didn’t seem as deep or as genuine as the same community for real. One was a script to be acted; the other was lived.
On this sunny Los Angeles afternoon, Barbara Handler walks through the park, one ear bud in, taking her scheduled exposure to nature. There is a small band busking in the distance to a scattered crowd. Dozens of people in various states of running, jogging, or attempting fitness up and down the paths. Someone lifting dumbbells in the grass beside a blaring stereo. It’s set to a radio station, and over Paramore’s Hard Times in her ear she can hear a news report - another staticky segment on coyotes causing trouble for local pets again. Plenty of people are out here with their dogs though, so it doesn’t look like anyone is particularly concerned.
She spins the PokéStop at the flagpole so she can gift Sasha, and takes a minute to just glance around. The sky is blue, the sun is warm, the trees are green. The land is alive and teeming with activity, and one tiny part of it is her. What an honor that is.
There are plenty of benches here, of course. One has a pile of rags abandoned on it. She watches it for a moment, steeling herself, then reaches into her satchel for the paper bag.
It’s a minuscule thing to do in the grand scheme of things. She knows she came into this world without most of the human struggle, born into privilege even while coming very literally from nowhere and nothing. But she likes to pack a meal to share, whenever she’s out. Sandwich, snack, bottle of water. If there isn’t anyone who could use it, it’s hers. If there is -
There isn’t a paper bag in her satchel. It must still be sitting on her counter, forgotten.
The pile of rags draws breath, curled on its side. Ripped boots, frayed jeans and tattered jacket. The blond head pillowed on folded arm is messier, wavier than she remembers, and darker - the roots have grown out, and the bleached tips look sun-kissed this way. But she recognizes the shape of that unshaven face, the absurdly long eyelashes, the planes of cheek and forehead, the lines of nose and brow. The pile of rags on the park bench, after all, had once been a doll.
She crouches to get a closer look, heart twisting as she confirms that it is, indeed, him.
She touches his arm, and gently calls his name. “Ken.”
His breath whistles in his nose as he rouses, then groans quietly. “Sorry Officer, I’m on Malibu time.”
The sound of that familiar voice after all this time is like hearing a ghost. “Malibu is only half an hour up the coast,” she reasons, smiling despite herself.
“Mm, sounds like I have half an hour then,” he muses sleepily, shifting like he’s trying to get comfortable again.
“Ken,” she says again, a little more firmly.
His eyelids crack open, revealing two narrow ribbons of blue, and his face falls as he takes her in. “Oh.”
“Hi.”
“Hi Barbie,” he returns, smiling cautiously, and pushes himself upright with a grunt and rubs the sleep out of his eye. He has a messy beard shadowing his jaw, and something smeared across one cheek. He’s so dirty and unpolished compared with the pristine plastic she’s used to, he barely looks like the same person.
Barbara’s stomach sinks. “How are you?”
“I’m great!” Is he being ironic? He doesn’t seem bitter. Timidly happy to see her, even. “How ‘bout you?”
She doesn’t know how to respond. He’s acting like everything’s normal. “So you’re human now, huh?”
His mouth slants in a way that’s so familiar it hurts. “Something like that.”
Barbara can’t say she’s missed him, per se. She misses everything, but you know, not specifically him. She remembers well the days of trying to avoid more conversation than absolutely necessary, of having her joy go slightly flatter every time he walked into the room. And of course, she remembers him trying to ruin everything.
But she’s pretty sure they’d both come out on the other side as bigger people, and no amount of weird ex dynamics could ever make her wish him harm. She doesn’t like seeing him in this situation.
He scratches at his neck, wary of her silence. “I didn’t try to follow you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Why is he acting defensive? She didn’t even say anything. Of course he’d inject frustration right into her pity. “Then why did you come?” she replies a little more snappishly than she had intended.
“Kinda hard to figure out who you are when all you have is your name,” he explains. “I wanted to be someone - and for that person to be me. I couldn’t have that as a doll.”
This man came into the world just to sleep on a bench in filthy clothes, and thinks that this is life. Barbie can’t accept that. “Do you want to get some lunch?” she offers, trying to keep her voice bright. “I live down the street. We can catch up! You can use the shower too, if you like.”
He eyes her for a minute, scratching at his scalp, then shrugs and pushes to his feet.
She’d forgotten how tall he was - or maybe it’s the first time she’s stood beside him in flat shoes, to realize how short she actually is by comparison.
His boots barely hold together, the laces on one just wound around the ankle because the rivets had broken off, and as he trudges along beside her, she can see more of the layers - the greasy-looking but mostly-intact hoodie under his jacket, the tails of a flannel shirt poking out from beneath it; the thin, unraveling scarf stuffed into the overstretched neckline of the sweatshirt. The nights haven’t been too cold lately, but winter is coming fast on the heels of this balmy autumn and nights in the desert are nothing to sneer at.
True to her word, the walk is short, but she still manages to get some information out of him - like that he’s been here for a couple months already, and that he occasionally sleeps in the dunes or migrates from park to park. He says it so easily and so openly that she realizes he does think it’s normal. That his living situation before reality wasn’t all that different from now.
He sneezes when they step through the front door of her bungalow, hiding it in the collar of his coat and sniffing a little as he glances around. It’s not a huge place, but big enough, painted in whites and pale pinks to make it feel bright and airy - and it’s all hers. Mattel had pushed a check at her with her birth certificate, and being assistant to the executive for a high profile investment firm was a high-reward career that had put a down payment in her pocket extremely quickly. There’s a little flowerbed languishing under the tiny front porch - she’s still learning how to keep plants alive, and too often chooses ones not suited to the climate - and everything inside is open concept, decor neat and orderly, broken only by an island in the kitchen.
She points Ken into a stool there, and places half a sub on a plate before him - the lunch she had forgotten to bring to the park. “Oh wow,” he says appreciatively, and proceeds to devour it with concerning speed - she’s not sure he chews, is astounded he doesn’t choke, and wonders how he isn’t out of breath afterward. “That was great, thanks Barbie!”
“When was the last time you had a decent meal?”
“Oh no, it’s fine, I had some squirrel yesterday.”
“You. . . ate a squirrel.”
“Yeah,” he says with a dreamy grin. “I couldn’t light a fire at the park so it was a little rare but it tasted fine.”
“So you just, what, catch wild animals to keep from starving?”
His brows come together, recognizing an accusation under her question but unsure what it is. “Sometimes? People hunt for their dinner all the time though. They always have.”
She’s pretty sure it’s illegal? But then, a lot about being homeless is illegal. She doesn’t know how people survive out there, especially in a city. “You need vegetables,” she says helplessly.
His face relaxes in understanding. “Oh. Well there’s this great spot behind this restaurant down that way, end of the night they get rid of all their leftover food. It’s rad! I had salad there the other day. I like salad. It’s slimy.”
Dumpster. It has to be a dumpster. Her breathing is coming faster, and it’s perfectly impotent panic on his behalf, panic stemming from a clawing, desperate pity that just keeps growing. “Stay here,” she says suddenly. “Just for a little while. Just til you get your feet under you.”
He tips his head, smiling puzzledly. “I know where my feet are, Barbie,” he assures her. “But I will use your shower, if that’s still cool, cuz I definitely have fleas.”
She nods, unable to find the words for him, and he heads off without needing to be told where.
“You got a razor I could borrow?” he calls back, his voice echoing off the wall tiles.
“Under the sink,” she whispers past the lump in her throat, and he couldn’t possibly have heard her but she hears the cabinet creaking open anyway.
She puts her face in her hands as the water starts to run. He’s so stupid and so oblivious to his own condition. Is he trying to be stubborn and keep to whatever path this is? Or is it just that he doesn’t know any better? Nothing’s changed!
Except something has: tiny things in his demeanor that are both strange and familiar. (Maybe she’s that way, too. Maybe that’s humanity.) His eyes seem so clear, so present. Actually looking at her - rather than watching to react and reflect. Alert in a way she isn’t used to. Having thoughts and motivations unrelated to her. Conscious, but - relaxed. At ease, even in this situation. Even being gently confronted about it. Even by her.
When he comes out, hair damp, wearing his filthy clothes but carrying a wrung-out shirt he’d clearly washed in the sink, he at least looks a little more familiar. It’s the beard. He hasn’t made a neat job of it - maybe he’s never shaved before, and her disposables aren’t exactly suited to facial hair - but it’s closer to his face than it was; more boyish.
“Thanks, Barbie. It was good seeing you,” he grins at her as he passes, clearly not interested in remaining much longer.
“You could stick around,” she offers once more.
“No thanks,” he says brightly, glancing around the room from the front door. “Walls make me uncomfortable.” Then he’s out the door. He heads a new direction this time - not back toward the park. She wonders where he could possibly have to be.
X
Maybe it’s good that he didn’t take her up. Barbara has grown accustomed to living alone, pleasing no one but herself. She loved the brief time she spent with Gloria, but something about the lack of control of her surroundings caused her at least a little anxiety. Now she can decorate, and clean, and organize in ways that suit her. Ken being here would mess that up. Especially a Ken that doesn’t seem to know anything even after months. A Ken that doesn’t seem interested in entering society, despite his transition to humanity.
He isn’t always at the park that she goes to. Maybe it’s just that he has another place to stay once in a while; he said he moves around from place to place, but she has no idea how many or how often.
But sometimes he’s there, in varying states of squalor yet somehow lacking in the expected misery.
He always brightens when he sees her, that age-old excitement making his eyes sparkle bigger and bluer. She always offers him what’s in her bag. He usually declines, and leads her to someone else in the park who ‘has been struggling.’
But occasionally, when she offers up her shower, he accepts - and then she can claim she has too many leftovers to eat before they spoil, or a chance to practice a recipe she hasn’t gotten to make yet, and give him a warm meal. He doesn't learn to eat slower.
“How’s the job hunt going?”
“Hunt?” he peeks out from the towel scrubbing his hair dry. Barbie had a few spare sets, but she’s been deeming this one the Ken towel - as evidenced by its transition from white to something closer to yellow, despite thorough cleaning.
“You know, to start making some money.”
Ken grimaces for the first time, breaking the smile streak at last. “I can’t hold one down. Keep getting let go. I never know enough. I’m never human enough. I don’t know if I’m the kind of person that can work.”
“But you’re smart, you can learn! And determined, when you set your mind to something.”
He considers her, watchfully. She realizes that complimenting him is not something either of them are used to, but she’s being honest! And she wants him to succeed. But there’s this tiny little smirk to him, like she hasn’t understood, like she’s not in on the joke, and what the heck does that mean? “There are supposed to be places that can help you figure it out - shelters and stuff.”
He shakes his head resolutely, hanging the towel and shrugging into his jacket. “No way. I am not the kind of person those places want around.”
He won’t elaborate, so she’s left to speculate. She’s starting to worry he’s gotten into drugs. Nobody is that optimistic about everything.
X
Ken has friends, Barbara learns.
There’s Frankie, a recipient of the bagged lunch now and then, swaddled in hats and scarves and blankets that do nothing to conceal the way the bones in his hands stand out stark beneath stretched skin, or to hide the rasp of his breathing. It’s a terrible shock to learn that he’s only nineteen.
“Frankie’s great! I like Frankie. We play cards sometimes. We share whatever we drum up, when we can.”
“How did Frankie get where he is?” she asks delicately, over a meal in her home.
Ken shrugs. “Parents kicked him out. Something about liking other men? I couldn’t understand it. But he’s real sick now. I dunno.” His last statement contains multitudes this time. Questions of mortality, of survival, of uncertainty. Whether his friend is going to get better or even live.
She frowns at all of it. That parents could be so cruel. That health care was inaccessible with no address and no money. That Ken was watching a friend struggle. That Ken could be next. “What games do you play?” her voice is a little rough as she asks.
“He has this one called skippo. I’m not very good and some of the cards are missing. It’s fun though.”
+
Dan, from both looks and description, is an addict - but one who has a fishing pole he’ll let Ken use in the reservoir, and they will often trade resources. “I keep tellin’ him not to kill them pigeons, man.”
Ken scoffs good-naturedly. “You enjoyed the last one I brought you.”
“Cuz you cooked that one! And I wouldn’t say enjoy, thing needed salt or sum'n! How many times the cops gonna wag their finger ‘fore they haul you off for good? Killing the birds in public park where kids’re at.” Dan eyes Barbie, imploring her to take his side. “He wouldn’t last a day in lock-up, not with a face like that.”
“Well I can’t have the ducks! They got so mad when I got a duck, they wouldn’t even let me keep it.” All Barbie can do is shake her head with a sheepish smile. They’ve both tried to reason with him, and neither has succeeded.
+
There is also Angela and her son Marco, who Ken regularly gives his change to, when he can spare it. Angela had lost her job just before her husband had died, and medical debt had led to foreclosure on their home and pushed them onto the streets. From a distance, one chilly day, Barbie watches Ken help her rig a tarp tent, pasting over tattered holes with duct tape; ruffling Marc’s hair and making him laugh, all goofy smiles. They play rock-paper-scissors and Ken keeps losing dramatically.
When Ken finally spots her, as he walks away, he looks apologetic. They fall into step, hands in their pockets. “I get scared for Angela sometimes,” he murmurs. “She’s got the kid, but he can’t keep her safe, y’know? Patriarchy out here is actually, like, real scary.”
X
It becomes a routine, more or less. Not particularly stable, but every few days, Ken either follows Barbie home or arrives on her front porch. Sometimes he stays to chat, or to shower; sometimes he only gulps down the food and leaves again, anxious and uneasy. Is it still the walls? Does he feel confined when he is here?
X
“I’m just worried it’ll make you sick, is all. City animals are full of disease and germs and, like, plastic.” Everywhere, life is full of plastic. It’s disheartening. And learning that she - that the brand - had contributed no small amount to the plastic in the environment had been heartbreaking altogether. The videos of birds feeding garbage to their babies always reduces her to tears, and wins her monetary donations.
“Well, I tried this soup kitchen place. But they wouldn’t let me eat without listening to them talk for an hour about how this dead dude needs to climb inside of me so I can go to the sky when I die or something? They were real weird. I kept trying to ask questions but they just got mad. They didn’t even have any soup.”
X
“No, we’re not doing this again,” Ken interrupts as she opens her mouth to ask her usual questions - jobs, what he’s eating, where he’s sleeping. “It’s your turn. What is your job? How well do you sleep?”
“Most of the time I sleep excellently, thank you, because I have a cushy mattress I can afford with my amazing job with a big paycheck.” It’s a little immature, but no less than he was, and they both seem to be taking it with humor. Even where he is, he’s grown - and obviously so has she.
“What’s the rest of the time?”
“Ugh, all the dogs on the block barking and howling in the middle of the night! I’m assuming it’s because of that coyote that’s wandering around, it’s been all over the news.”
His eyebrows rise with wary intrigue. “I don’t hear the news.”
“Well, watch out. That thing has been stealing housecats and killing wildlife left and right. Makes me glad I don’t have any pets! They said it took down a deer in one of the canyons, based on the bite marks. It must be huge!”
“Whoa!” Maybe he’ll be worried enough about being eaten to seek better shelter. “What’s a coyote?” Nnnope.
X
It’s been weeks. Barbara hasn’t seen her - is friend the right word? Beneficiary? Sponsee? The current subject of her attention? Not at the park. Not at her front door. Not anywhere in town.
Maybe he found a place to crash. That’s the reasonable conclusion. Barbie’s revolving mind conjures other, more worrying explanations: maybe the cops picked him up. He’s complained about them before, not letting him get a decent night’s rest. [“It’s always when I have the most comfiest spot, too!”] Could be their patience had run out. Maybe he’d gotten sick, at last. Eaten one too many rotten salads, or expired steaks, or diseased pigeons. [“Do you know how easy it is to just grab a pigeon? They’re like tiny chickens. So good.”] No amount of explanation or firm assertion on her part could convince him to stop eating the wildlife. That’s maniac behavior, circling back to the police taking him. Maybe he was injured. What if he was dead? There are half a dozen scenarios her mind readily supplies, rather against her will, and often in the middle of the night.
Can she call in a Missing Person on him? It’s hard to tell if he’s here legally - if he has any paperwork, that is. She’s not sure what kind of jobs he had tried to work, but if they were less than official, he might not have needed proof of citizenship or anything else. Would it just get him in more trouble?
What she tells herself, ultimately, to make the circular thinking at least pause in its deepening tracks, is that he’d already been here a while before they’d come face to face. He’d somehow managed to evade her for months, until then. [What if he’s evading her now? What if her nagging and interrogating has pushed him away? Is she acting too much like her old self?] Maybe he’s just moved somewhere else for a little while.
She’s going to have to eat this extra food herself. Or see if Frankie or Angela are around. She has to be careful, though. An occasional bagged lunch doesn’t draw much attention, but a tureen of pasta definitely will. Being kind and helpful is illegal, after all.
X
Ken appears on her front step, gaunt and dirty. His face is thinner than she remembers, but the thing that’s more worrying is his expression. The whites of his eyes show all the way around the iris, and the lines of his throat are tense cords, teeth gritted behind his lips. He’s on high alert, his eyes darting quickly around the space as she invites him in.
“I was worried about you. Where have you been?”
“Canyon,” his answer is terse, and his voice crackles with dryness. He looks strung out. Is he high? Barbie pours him some water, and she hears his teeth clink against the glass as he throws it back in a few painful gulps.
“Which one? Did something happen?” she prompts as she sets a plate in front of him.
But Ken dives into the food with such fury that her question falls, forgotten, into the dust under the oven. He hunches low over the plate, shoveling with a desperation she hasn’t seen from him before. Her stomach twists with a mix of horror and disgust, and she releases her grip on her mug - shifts in her space, not even near him, and he immediately shoves an arm around the front of his plate as though to defend it. His eyes fix on her, dark and suspicious, without lifting his head. The hairs on her arms rise. “I’m not going to steal your food, calm down,” she snaps to cover her unease. He’s totally unrecognizable.
She watches, unable to tear her eyes away, as he licks the plate, wipes his mouth on his sleeve, then sucks at his sleeve.
This is when he seems to come back to himself, the muscles in his face tightening, flushed skin draining of color. His lashes are wet when he opens his eyes, unfocused, dirty sleeve still between his lips. He takes in a shaking breath through his nose.
“What is it, Ken?” she pleads. “Are you in trouble? What’s wrong?”
He shakes his head mutely, releasing the tooth-rumpled fabric at last and pushing back from the table. “Shouldna come.”
“It’s okay. I’m glad you’re here,” she assures him gently, trying to keep the worry out of her voice. “Can you tell me? Please don’t leave again. I want to help.”
“You can’t,” he says baldly, not meeting her eye. “No one can.”
He shoves through the door. She calls out after him, but he doesn’t turn back, disappearing into the night almost as quickly as he’d materialized.
It has to be drugs, nothing else about this is making any sense, and she’s more worried than she was before. He’s alive, but at what cost?
Barbara had lost everyone she knew, once - had decided to leave them, but that doesn’t mean it was painless. She misses them all, and often. This heavy sadness in her stomach is a new feeling altogether, solid and cramping, like set concrete. Is this how grief feels?
