by PW Cooper
He watches the lights sweep across the rainy sidewalks and he feels like he is alive.
October 11
They live in a dreamy world, bodies entwined, minds submerged in a ceaseless bliss.
He lays there, eyelids fluttering, fingers twitching, muscles tightening. His lips quiver.
She watches him, his long thin body. His shape. The needle still pushing towards the vein. The rubber still wrapped around the bruised upper arm. She unwraps the tube and slips out the needle. He shakes.
A fire burns in the old fireplace. Faint heat. She can hardly feel it now. This world is all shadow. She can see it above, far above, the dim flicker of some faint truth. Some final awakening. She wants to touch it, float towards it. She wants to transcend herself.
The tip of the needle gleams silver in the firelight.
Her brother twitches. He's been sick lately. She doesn't know what it is. She is beginning to worry. She tells him not to go out anymore. She blames the cold, growing as it is more severe every day. She blames the johns, filthy strange men with sickness clinging to their bones. She strokes his forehead. He groans, writhes. She strokes his hair, his soft short hair. He murmurs, convulsing, twitching. Feel this happiness.
“It'll all be okay,” she says, running her fingers through his hair, “everything will be better soon.”
His mouth opens, the lips parting. “I... I... I...” He is very far gone from himself, drifted away, floated out of his body. She aches to follow.
She flicks the lighter, holds it under the stained silver spoon. Waits. Watches the liquid boil and the stuff melt down.
She has lived here in this house with the brother for almost eight years now. Mother died. Father left. Nobody ever came for them, nobody. Here they are in the empty house out beyond the edge of the city. A lonely satellite of the greater being. The paper is peeling off the walls in long low strips; it hangs toward the floor like tears of the weeping. Garbage gathers in the corners, under the porch, all around. She doesn't know where it comes from. It simply is. Their bed is an island in the chaos. The mattress stained and torn, dark with old blood and urine.
She hates this place. Hates the dirtiness of it, ordinary dirtiness. She longs to escape all this. She longs to be above. She knows only this one way to escape. Nothing else has ever worked.
Needle pressed against a bit of cotton. Filthy liquid into the needle. She holds it, fingers clenched. She stares into the fire.
There was so much she wanted to do, to be. She had dreams once. A thousand little dreams. I will make something of myself, she promised. And then she dropped out of school, settled for a job. Then she quite her job, settled for this. She gave up piece by piece on everything she had wanted. It slipped through her fingers one sliver at the time and she'd not noticed it going until there was nothing left. She had dreamed once.
Eventually, It rules everything. It is a jealous master and It is a sea of pleasure. The sea swallows everything it does not love.
Her brother shakes on the bare floor. She sits beside him. She is half-naked, she realizes. No pants or underwear. She reaches down and touches herself, plunges her fingers into a nest of pubic hair. What am I? she thinks, searching for some part of herself.
She lives in a state of pleasure and pain, alternating grays and color. She presses the tip of the needle against her skin and pushes in. Feel the rush, the sharp clear bite. The veil of real slides away. She sinks into the world, floats up towards the glimmer of light. Everything around her drifts away. She can feel it moving in her.
All the world is connected.
December 21
It's dark. Middle of the night. He's just over the border, blinking away sleep. Snow falls in dicey wet sheets, big scraps like torn paper. They're talking on the radio about the end of the world. How high is the body count? They can't keep track anymore. How does it spread? They're still not sure. All we know is that it kills, it kills baby, it kills.
He lifts a fistful of pills to his mouth and washes them down with bottled water. Just to take the edge off. Keep awake. Nothing serious, he doesn't touch the serious shit himself. Admires it, maybe, but doesn't touch it. Only business. The lights of his semi blaze out across the wintery parking lot. Mounds of soft snow gathered, shaped. It's nearly empty, a few trucks, bleary-eyed travelers stumbling in and out of the restrooms, pushing quarters into vending machines for stale cookies and flat sodas, scratching their bald heads over crumpled maps. The shifting lights on the highway are all a blur, a smooth tapestry of light. He watches.
No cops in the parking lot. Not that he expected any. They've got more important things to worry about now. Order is breaking down, chaos leeched into the world.
He steps down out of the cab. His boots crunch over crisp cold snow. It falls on him, dancing under the wide brim of his hat, whirling about his face and clinging to his beard. He goes towards the rest stop, a long low dark building. One light burning over the door.
There are picnic tables covered over in snow, handicap parking signs pasted-over white. Sheets of cool ice hanging heavy off the sides of the roof.
It's quiet inside. The faint hum of out-of-tune electronics. A light sputtering. A little stand stuffed with out-of-date tourist pamphlets. Highway maps and faded pictures of national parks. There's writing on all the walls, scrawls in red and black of the usual inane variety. An old man is asleep on the padded bench; all the stuffing is spilling out between his legs, seat cushion bleeding. A girl is sitting on the floor. Long tangles of dirty blonde hair. Thin face, scrawny body. Firm white breasts pushed almost out of her loose halter-top. There are goosebumps raised all along her narrow legs, bared to the mid-thigh by her shorts. She looks at him closely.
He ignores her, goes into the men's room. The door swings shut behind, doesn't even go still before the girl's already pushing in. She bursts through, looks away shyly when he sees her.
“Men's room,” he says.
“You don't remember me?”
“Should I?” He stands at the urinal, legs wide, and pulls out his cock. He can smell piss, not his own.
“I've come here before. I remember you.”
“How's that?” He stares at the wall. The faded stained tile. More scrawled marks in marker and pen, halfheartedly washed away.
“You sold me some stuff before?”
“I don't sell anything, girlie. Just a driver.”
“Come on, help me out.”
“What do you want it so bad for?”
She snorts. “What else is there? My brother is dead. What else is there? We're all going to die.”
“This stuff I supposedly sold you. How much?”
“Eighty.”
“Yeah?”
“See, the thing is, I-”
He cuts her off, “Get out.” He starts to piss, deep gurgle of liquid mixing with liquid.
She shifts by the door, hands wringing.
He hears her move. Hears her come close. Turns. She is crawling across the floor, knees to the tile, hands spread out, fingers wide.
He watches.
She is at his feet. She lays her head down. She kisses his boots. Tongue on the leather. Long slow lick up the cowhide. Looks up at him through lacy lashes. Hurt eyes, lost in themselves. Liquid filled eyes.
He shakes off his cock. She's only a girl really. Small body like a toy, fragile breakable thing. She holds him by the hips, her nails sliding across his jeans. He guides her mouth to him.
Slow wet thing. He leans against the wall. Appears to shut his eyes but keeps one open. Always keep one eye open in a place like this.
Hand pushes into her hair, fingers close, pull tight. Muffled whimper.
The door opens. A man comes in. She tries to pull away, he stops her, holds her in place. On her knees.
Middle-aged man, balding without grace. Weary circles under the eyes. A young boy behind him, his son. Eyes wide when they see. He puts his arm around his son's shoulders. They hesitate, in a confusion of half-sleep. He starts to
pull his son away; the boy squirms, squeezes his thighs together. His father stands between him and them as the boy pees. He ushers his son out, turning back to spit. “You should be ashamed. Fucking whore!” A flicker of inborn shame at the curse. This is a good man. His watch gleams on his wrist, his shirt is starch white and shoes new, uncolored. He is unused to curses, to dirty things. He calls himself a good man. He ducks out the door and into the winter's night. His son carries something inside which is killing.
The truck driver leans against the wall, breathing slow. The girl is crying. Fat liquid tears rolling down. He pushes her down. She doesn't try to stop him. Pulls her shorts aside, pushes himself in. She weeps, grips the edge of the urinal. Her nails are painted aquamarine blue.
It's over quickly. She slumps down, curling on the floor, rocking.
He looks at himself. He is wet, slick with her. The water of love. He tucks himself back into his pants, zips up, reaches into his pocket for the little parcel. He tosses it to the floor and she closes her hands around it, clutching it close to her body. She coughs, a grotesque cough from way down in the throat. He leaves her there. He's not afraid of the sickness, not anymore. He's already dying, everybody is, everybody always has been. Death is the fate of all life, that's plain enough.
He goes out into the cold. The snow has stopped and the world outside is eerily still. The only sounds the far off murmur of the highway and the crunch of snow under his boots. He climbs into the cab and his truck rumbles back to hot life. Lights spill out. He puts it in gear and pulls back out onto the highway.
He drives. Hours of silence. Night breaks and azure dawn rolls out across the sky. He drives. The familiar signs and sights of the endless road come up on him through the morning fog, like something out of a dream. Something of half-known childhood now lost forever, now left far behind.
* * *
Fragment
You know how it is. Some people are just off, and you know it right away. Like this one guy. Long twisted braid hanging down his back, eagle feather over one ear, big metal belt buckle the size of a freaking dinner plate, you know? Short guy, not too big, not too imposing, but kinda wiry with a lot of crude tattoos up and down his arms. Easy-going guy, seems like, nothing special, but he's got this edge, you know? Like he could go off any second.
Anyway, he comes by every once in a while. Brings his woman with him. She's this odd doughy thing, kinda wanders around with her mouth open a little too wide, looking at things for a little too long. She talks slow, too thought out, sounds like her tongue's too big for her mouth. You know she's got some kinda damage, right? Not all there upstairs, you know? Not exactly a retard, but she's slow. She's pliable. And he, like, guides her, fingers gripping her fleshy upper arm and kinda maneuvering her around the place. She points at stuff she likes, says in her thick too-loud voice that she wants something. Says it like a child, like a baby almost. Real simple.
You know looking at them that he's fucking her silly. Like, that's why she's there. That's why he puts up with her. You can just see it in your head, can't you? Scrawny wiry guy wound too tight, and this big slow fleshy woman. You can just see him with his lips curled back, hurling himself against that body. She's just, like, just holes. All empty inside. Like, you're not sure if she really understands what's happening when he's doing it.
It's all so dirty. Makes your skin crawl, makes you shiver. And it makes you jealous. You hate that it makes you jealous. You think that maybe, just maybe, he's got a good thing going. He's got it figured out, man. He knows what's what.
Makes you wanna fucking puke to think about.
* * *
Slaves
The earth shakes around him. Planes rise like ash into the riven darkness of a foreign sky, into a deep endless black pricked by flares of electric intrusion, multicolored landing lights and warning beacons and the slashing headlights of rusted automobiles pulling endlessly through the narrow arrival lane.
He picks flakes of long-dried semen off the leather seat and lets them fall to the stained linoleum floor. They tumble down like snowflakes, wafer-thin and cracking into stars. He wonders where they came from, and how long they have been there. From whom did this seed once issue, and where is that man now? Dried cum, uselessly spilled out like a prayer to the universe. He scrapes away the stain from the edge of the leather seat. He finds it all built up under his fingernail, dirty gray stuff like dandruff or corroded battery acid in the compartment of an electronic toy left too long alone. He cleans it from under his nail and flicks it away; and it comes to him only then that it is a repulsive thing. He wipes his hands on his pants but still feels dirty.
He leaves his seat and goes to the window to watch the planes. He does not wonder about the people onboard. They are rising from the confines of a foul world, rising to a place of pure cloudy dark. He does not wonder where they have been or where they are going. Their lives are nothing to him. He is thinking only of her:
His hand is cold and stiff, trembling. She takes it and she puts it against her bare thigh, prickly two-days ago shaved. Her skin is so warm. His breath comes in shakes, his lips quiver. She presses her mouth against his, warm and then wet. All she is is open to him. His hand moves up her leg. She pulls at her skirt. His fingers touch the hem of her cotton underwear, pull and push to be beneath. Her skin is so hot. She breathes against his mouth; her breath is warm and damp and stale with coffee. She is pulling him close, speaking in his ear. The blood roars in his head; he can't hear a word. He bites her neck, his teeth tugging at the skin, his tongue to flesh. His hand finds her beneath her clothing. She is damp with sweat and lust. She wants him. He wants her. They fall together, clutching and raking and squeezing at each other. They scramble desperately, all pretense falling away. He tugs her underwear down in a tangle around her knees. He pulls her thighs apart. She is hissing through her teeth. When he is inside her he forgets everything. He is no longer himself, but something far far better. He is something which transcends such a sallow being.
He walks through the airport concourse with his head down. He will not let himself met the eyes of other travelers. If they look to him he turns away, if they speak he mutters wordless things. The voice calling out over the speaker system is wholly alien to him, he knows neither language nor purpose. What country is this? He feels in his pockets for the ticket stub which he knows is not there. He tore it to shreds more than a continent ago and let it scatter in the wind.
There is a terrible silence through the airport, the ghastly breathing machine of an institution after nightfall. Like a quiet hospital floor or an empty school building. The sounds of his shoes on the filth-blacked floor seem to fill the space around him, and the thrum of pallid light builds to an ache behind his eyes.
She beats her hands against his chest. “You bastard! You bastard! You bastard!” He tries to talk but the words are thick and stupid in his mouth. His mouth is all full of her kisses. “You bastard! How could you? You bastard!” He wants to explain. He wants to understand it himself. He catches her hands by the wrist. Her wrists feel so thin, so delicate. The muscle is tense beneath, the bone sharp. He wishes he could explain.
He walks through a swinging door, back into the hidden recesses of the airport. He is swallowed into the bowels of the great machine. Heavy ventilation ducts hang above, intestinal coils of thick wire lay piled on the floor. There is a rattling hum that fills the air, fills his head. He wants to push his fingers under the skin, rake the flesh away. His penis throbs with latent energy. It drives him horribly on, groans in his blood. His body is screaming. He is wholly subservient to want.
A strange man emerges from the industrial gloom, clasps him by the arm and propels him, babbling all the while in his mysterious language, back through the doors and into the sun-burnt halls of the airport lobby. “Go!” he says, pointing, “Go! Go!”
He waves the man off and goes where he is bidden, no longer sure what he was looking for through the swinging doors. The feeling had been so strong, ha
d felt so right. Now there is nothing, and he is left emptied.
His throat is dry. He wants a drink. He wants a fuck. He looks around him. There are women all around. If he could only touch them, put his hand on their shoulders, caress their smooth backs and arms. If he could just brush his lips against them, could breath in the scent of them. He wants to weep and to be held, to disappear inside a women's giving body. He wants to tear her clothes off and shove her down, wants to bash her skull in like breaking a china doll to millions of beautiful pieces. If he could gather the shards and swallow them he would do it, something to cut away at the empty place howling inside him. His desire is running hot through him like a poison and a fire, burning corruption to shining white. If he could just stroke his knuckle against her cheek. If he could just close his lips around the swollen bud of a woman's naked breast, he would suck the life until it ran like water. If he could only have her.
He walks through the terminals, past the arrival and departure gates, sees families greeting each other with laughs and kisses, or else parting in tears. He feels himself move past them like a shadow on the wall. If they would look and turn their gaze might flow right over him.
He walks through an elevated walkway all enclosed in glass and comes out the other side into a dim sort of lounge. Dull music throbs and pulses, off-duty pilots nurse weak beers and overpriced liquor as if it is the last drink they will ever taste. Women worn from travel lay exhausted on shoddy upholstery.
He sits and looks at the bottles against the wall behind the bar.
He had some kind of hope once, burning like a flare in his throat, bursting to get out and spill into the world. He doesn't remember when he lost it, only that it died out by degrees. He'd been able to feel it die over the course of his life, had felt it slipping away. He would have done anything to keep it burning. It was all gone now. He could remember the things he'd dreamed he might one day become, but he remembered them only distantly, as one might recall a bedtime story heard in childhood or a song caught halfway-finished on the radio.
