Why Visit America

by Matthew Baker

  The Master was a sightseer, the same as he was. She had been traveling nonstop almost half a decade. By now she had seen the entire country too.

  Kaveh woke up at noon on the day of the gig, sprawled across the mattress of the foldout couch in his cabin. He felt anxious but no panic. He ate some cereal, did some pushups, did some crunches, did some squats, took a shower, got dressed in an indigo work shirt and some faded black jeans, and then went out to the truck. Rachel must have had the ticket by then, the actual physical ticket to the gig. Kaveh wanted to swing by the ranch to talk to her, just to see the ticket in person, and hear her geek out about getting to meet her hero, and make her swear to tell him all the details afterward, and maybe pitch her the idea about being her bodyguard someday, but just as he was getting into the truck his phone rang. Layne, his neighbor, needed help dragging an ancient water boiler out of her basement. Carrie, her new girlfriend, was over there to help with the water boiler too. So instead of driving to the ranch, Kaveh went next door and spent the next hour grunting and straining and wiping grease and dirt and flecks of rust from his hands onto his pants, helping maneuver the water boiler across the basement to the staircase. Like everybody else, Layne and her girlfriend wanted to gossip about The Master.

  “Rachel won the ticket, right?” Layne said, sitting on the steps, taking a break.

  “Rachel, like from the brothel?” Carrie said, leaning back against the banister, breathing hard.

  Kaveh was resting against the water boiler, which was so massive that the bottom had gouged a jagged line into the cement floor. He still felt anxious but no panic.

  “She’s going to be famous someday too,” Kaveh said.

  “I slept with her once,” Layne said.

  “Rachel?” Kaveh said, turning to look at her.

  “She really should be famous. Chick’s got some legitimate talent with a clit. On a totally different level than the rest of the hoes at that place,” Layne said.

  Hearing that she believed in her too made him even more sure that the hundred grand had been well spent.

  “Come on, let’s get this upstairs,” Carrie said, standing.

  Kaveh helped try to hoist the water boiler up the staircase, but after another hour of struggling, the steps were scuffed, the banister was busted, and the water boiler was still in the basement. Layne finally announced that she was ready to quit. Carrie said that she was ready to quit too. Kaveh didn’t want to let the water boiler win. As he was standing there staring at that massive cylinder of rusting metal, a car backfired out on the road, echoing through the house like distant gunfire, and the anxious feeling tingled across his skin, and now there was a current of panic. The sight of the water boiler suddenly made him angry. It infuriated him. It enraged him. It suddenly seemed to be threatening him. He wanted it out of that house. He wanted to try again.

  “I’ll just have to pay some people to come through and haul it out,” Layne said, wiping sweat with a bandanna.

  “We can do it,” Kaveh insisted.

  “Kaveh, there’s no way,” Carrie said.

  “Just help me push,” Kaveh snapped.

  “It’s too heavy, man,” Carrie said.

  And he kept arguing about the water boiler for so long that eventually the others actually got mad at him for refusing to let it go, and then he gave up on the water boiler too, and left. As he got back into the truck he sent a message to Rachel, asking her what time that she was going to head to the gig. He would have just driven straight to the ranch, but he was hungry again, and he didn’t have any food in the cabin except for cereal, so he drove into town, where he swung by the bank to get some cash. The flagpole at the bank was bare. He tried not to get angry but he was already angry by the time he went into the lobby. He went over to the teller at the counter.

  “What happened to the flag?” Kaveh said.

  The teller smiled awkwardly. Gary, the custodian, was supposed to raise the flag in the morning, but he had called in sick at the last second, and none of the other custodians on staff had been able to cover his shift, and the other employees at the bank were all too busy to do his job. So the flag was folded up in a box in the broom closet, where the flag had been all day. Kaveh offered to go out and raise the flag himself, but the teller said that she actually couldn’t let him raise the flag, because, like, legally the bank just couldn’t allow that, because if he got injured somehow, like twisted an ankle or something, then he could sue the bank, and the bank didn’t want that, obviously. Kaveh tried to convince the teller that he wasn’t interested in suing the bank, that he was only trying to help, but the teller said that was exactly what somebody who was interested in suing the bank would say, and the bank was closing soon anyway, and then the flag would just have to be taken down again, and so there really wasn’t any point. Kaveh was about to argue that yes, there was, but then a jackhammer started slugging pavement somewhere near the bank, making the knob on the door to the office behind the counter rattle, and the sound of the knob rattling made that feeling of panic rise, and he wanted out, so he gave up, just withdrew the cash and left. He went over to the grill to get a cheeseburger and sat next to a family with a kid who kept throwing plastic toys at passing servers, and whose parents did nothing to intervene. He went over to the creamery to get a milkshake and stood in line behind a customer with an eyebrow piercing who kept swearing at the cashier, and whose friends did nothing but snicker. Somebody had spilled a gallon of motor oil back out on the street, and then had just abandoned the mess, tub and all. The maddening pop music that had been blasting over the speakers at the grill and the creamery was stuck in his head. And that was why he hated being between jobs, hated being caught in a standstill back at home, not because there was anything horrible about that town in particular, but because that town was just as horrible as everywhere else.

  By then the sun was sinking toward the horizon. Rachel still hadn’t responded to the message he’d sent. He was walking back to the truck when he saw a couple of people in leather jackets jabbing a screwdriver into the tire of a convertible parked at the bakery across the street.

  “Hey, what the fuck?” Kaveh shouted.

  The people bolted, and he chased the fuckers, and the fuckers outran him, and hopped onto a motorcycle, and revved the engine, and both got away, speeding off toward the highway, and when he went back to the bakery to warn the driver that the tires on the convertible had been slashed, the convertible was already gone.

  “Goddamnit,” Kaveh murmured, staring at the empty parking space.

  Rachel would have to leave for the gig soon. She didn’t answer when he tried calling, which might have meant she was already on the way to the hotel, but he drove to the brothel anyway, still hoping that maybe he would get to see her before the gig. He kept expecting to pass her on the winding dirt road from the highway to the ranch, but he didn’t pass anybody at all. Quail were darting between cottonwoods. The meadow was turning gold. Fuck, he was in an agitated state of mind. He bit his cheeks to suppress the feeling. All of the usual cars were parked at the brothel. Rachel’s janky powder-blue hatchback was sitting in the shade of the hickory tree at the edge of the parking lot, with fallen catkins caught between the wipers and the hood. Dust exploded around his boots as he hopped out of the truck, heading toward the porch. He realized that he’d forgotten his phone in the truck when he heard his phone chime, but he was already moving, and he didn’t go back. His phone was ringing in the truck as he stepped into the ranch.

  “Is she still here?” Kaveh asked the bouncers, who were playing liar’s dice in the lobby. Blake nodded yes, Wayne grunted yes, and then the bouncers went back to peeking at the dice under the cups. Delilah, the manager, was taking an appointment over the phone, jotting down info with a silver pen. Kaveh said, “Why hasn’t she left?”

  Delilah made a face at him, doing an eye-roll, as if he wouldn’t even believe how ridiculous the answer to that question was, and then returned to logging info about the appointment.
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br />   Kaveh strode down the hallway. The hallway was dim, lit only by the sunlight streaming into the ranch through the windows back in the lobby. Every door in the hallway was shut. From behind each door came muffled noises. A giggle. A whimper. A moan. But when he reached the door at the end of the hallway, her bedroom was silent. He knocked, and waited, then knocked again, and then waited. Silence.

  “Rachel,” Kaveh said.

  Finally he heard movement in there, the squeak of bedsprings, a creak of floorboards, as somebody came toward the door.

  Rachel peered out of the bedroom into the hallway. He’d only ever seen her in silk robes, satin slips, hourglass corsets, lace babydolls, fishnet teddies, push-up bras, high-waisted panties, g-string thongs, leather pants so low on the hips that the dimples in her back peeked over the waistline, flimsy vintage dresses buttoned so low that her cleavage spilled over the loose hem of the neckline, jacquard bustiers strapped to ultra sheer stockings by garters so tight that the bands thrummed when plucked, bright lipsticks, colorful eyeshadows, diamond earrings, pearl necklaces, and bracelets and anklets made of lustrous gold, but tonight she wore a baggy soccer hoodie with the name of a nearby school district, wrinkled cotton shorts stained with a smudge of jam or chocolate, and a mismatched pair of socks. Her hair was a mess, her nail polish was chipped, and though he’d never seen bags under her eyes before, the skin under her eyes looked dark and puffy.

  Kaveh stared. “Doesn’t the gig start soon?”

  “I’m not going,” Rachel said.

  Kaveh laughed. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m being serious,” Rachel said.

  Her voice sounded strangely monotone and depressed.

  “What did you do with the money?” Kaveh said with a frown, suddenly realizing that she must have spent the hundred grand on something else.

  But she hadn’t. Reaching into the pouch on her hoodie, she took out a ticket printed on metallic gold cardstock with glossy black lettering. She showed him.

  The Master, Grand Hotel, June 1, 9 Oclock, Sundance, Wyoming.

  Rachel reached across the threshold to tuck the ticket into the pocket on his shirt.

  “What are you doing?” Kaveh said, staring down at the ticket in confusion.

  “I already transferred the ticket to your name,” Rachel said.

  “No.”

  “You should have just gotten a confirmation,” Rachel said.

  “You need to get dressed.”

  “All you’ll need is the usual paperwork,” Rachel said.

  “You’re going to be late.”

  “I just called you to tell you,” Rachel said.

  “I can drive you there.”

  “Kaveh, I already decided, I’m not going.”

  “This is your dream,” Kaveh exploded.

  Rachel turned away from him with a look of misery.

  “I’m not an artist,” Rachel said sadly, and then shuffled into her bedroom, easing the door shut behind her.

  “Rachel,” Kaveh said through the door.

  He felt the door shift in the jamb as she sank back against the wood.

  “Rachel,” Kaveh shouted, pounding on the door.

  Troubled faces appeared in doorways just down the hall. Imani, Penelope.

  “What did you two say to her?” Kaveh shouted.

  Jezebel, Emilio, other faces appeared in doorways further down the hall.

  “What the fuck did you all say?” Kaveh shouted.

  He was pounding on the door to her bedroom again when the bouncers appeared. Blake grabbed him around the waist, Wayne grabbed him by the ankles, and he felt a heart-stopping lurch of gravity as the bouncers flipped him into the air and lugged him off down the hall.

  “Rachel,” Kaveh shouted, clawing desperately at the wallpaper, the faded runner, the wooden trim, the bearskin rug on the floor of the lobby, watching helplessly as her doorway at the end of the hall receded and vanished into the shadows.

  The bouncers carried him out onto the porch and tossed him into the dirt. The steer skull hanging on the door clattered as the door slammed back shut. He coughed into the dust.

  Meadowlarks flitted away from the roof. Crickets were chirping at the sunset. Looking at the linen curtains hanging in the windows of the ranch, the muted violet-orange light shimmering across the ripples in the handblown glass, he realized with a sense of despair that none of the other prostitutes at the brothel had said a word to her. Nobody had convinced her that she wasn’t an artist. She’d believed that she wasn’t an artist all along. She was the only person he knew with a dream, and she was too afraid of failing to try for it. She would die in that town.

  * * *

  He drove, pressing the pedal to the floor of the cab, catching air on the bumps in the road, slamming back to the ground with a thud, skidding around bends, scattering flocks of swallows, speeding back toward town in a whirl of dust and fury, with no time to swing by home, no time to bathe, no time to change, still wearing the indigo shirt and the faded jeans he’d been wearing when he’d tried to help move the water boiler, and when he’d gotten jerked around by the bank teller, and when he’d tried to chase down the tire slashers, and when he’d gotten thrown out of the brothel, streaked with grease and dirt and rust and dust, and he was still furious about the water boiler, and he was still furious about the bank teller, and he was still furious about the tire slashers, and he was furious at Rachel, but nothing, absolutely nothing, infuriated him like The Master. Her whole act, the hidden face, never talking, acting mysterious, it was all a scam, just hype and gimmicks, and the people who had spent a night with her were too scared to admit it, too afraid of the repercussions, too afraid of the humiliation, having dropped a hundred grand on a hustle. He was sure of that suddenly, and it filled him with rage, and he was glad that he had the ticket now, so that he could experience the letdown firsthand, and he could expose the truth to the world. When he got to the hotel he parked the truck in the middle of the empty parking lot, crookedly, because he could.

  Her bodyguards were waiting at the desk in the lobby, both wearing tuxedos, both looking impatient.

  “Boots off.”

  “Socks too.”

  Kaveh padded barefoot over to the desk. Her bodyguards scanned the black-light watermark on the paperwork from his physician, and then had him sign a liability waiver, which was standard, and a nondisclosure agreement, which was not. He was forbidden, among other stipulations, from taking photos of her, from recording videos of her, from ever making sketches or paintings or any other visual representations of her from memory, and from ever speaking publicly or privately about her, either out loud or in writing.

  Her bodyguards stared at him.

  “Kaveh, did you read this carefully?”

  “Yes,” Kaveh said.

  “Then you understand what will happen if you break this contract.”

  “Yes,” Kaveh said.

  “You’ll never be welcome at a brothel in this country again.”

  After he’d deposited his keys and his wallet and his phone into a lockbox, her bodyguards waved him with a metal detector, patted him down, looked him over, and then finally nodded with approval, gazing at him like a couple of farmers admiring a fleeced sheep.

  “Don’t talk while you’re in there.”

  “And remember to mind your manners.”

  “Don’t you need the ticket?” Kaveh asked, taking the ticket out of the pocket on his shirt.

  He had never, ever, seen either of her bodyguards smile before, and when her bodyguards smiled at him, the smiles were horrible.

  “That’s your souvenir.”

  Kaveh climbed the grand staircase alone, tucking the ticket back into the pocket on his shirt. He’d lived in that town for his entire life, but he’d never once set foot in that hotel. A gigantic chandelier hung over the staircase. The wooden banister was riddled with a constellation of bullet holes, maybe from a shoot-out in the frontier era. Crystals tinkled softly as a draft passed t
hrough the chandelier. The hotel was eerily quiet. He felt nervous now that he was there. The doors upstairs were all thrown open, but every room was pitch-dark, except for the room at the end of the hallway, where lights were glowing in the master suite.

  Aside from a tarnished mirror on the wall, a massive bed with a plain white sheet, and a pair of nightstands topped with flickering oil lamps, the master suite was empty. Beyond the windows a full moon was rising over the plains beyond the town. He walked over to the windows. He had only been standing there a moment when she entered the room.

  Kaveh had forgotten how powerful of a sense of presence that she’d had in the parking lot of the convenience store. He had read once that just like stars and comets and planets had a gravitational field, every object in the universe exerted a gravitational force, even human bodies, but he had never felt the pressure in a room shift the way that the pressure in the air shifted around her. She was wearing the hooded cloak. From that close the rippled texture of the scars on her hands had a visible topography. He had seen scars like that before. Seared flesh. Burned skin. The mark of flames. Gracefully, so gracefully that she made no noise at all, she eased the door shut, and then she crossed over to the windows. She stood so close to him his pulse quickened, and as she reached toward him his heart leapt, but instead of touching him she tugged loose the braided ropes that had been tied around the curtains behind him, and the curtains swung across the windows. Then, before he could speak, could somehow greet her, she moved behind him. She reached around him, raising her hands toward the buttons on his shirt.

  “I can do it,” Kaveh said, but she hushed him.

  Her fingers were nimble. She pushed buttons through holes with the care of a tea master straining clumps from a scoop of matcha, of a master mason scooping mortar from the crevice between bricks. She was careful to apply no pressure to him. She had touched only the fabric. She had not yet touched him. His shirt dropped to the floor in a heap of indigo, and then her hands moved down to his jeans, where her fingers deftly thumbed the button through the hole and then peeled apart the zipper, slowly, as if she was savoring every click of the parting teeth. His jeans dropped to the floor in a pile of denim, and then her hands moved down to the legs of his boxers, where her fingers pinched the fabric at the hems, gradually pulling his boxers down, past his hipbones, past the buzzed bristles of his pubic hair, over the fat round hump of his buttocks. His cock was hard, straining against the cotton, and as the waistband on his boxers slid down past the head of his cock, his cock bounced stiffly into the air. She let his boxers drop to his ankles, and then he stepped out of the mound of clothing, glancing over at his reflection in the mirror, trying to see his body like she would, for the first time. The buzz cut with the slanted line of bare flesh scarred into his scalp. His big eyes. His sharp jaw. His blunt chin. The shadow of stubble on his face. His wide shoulders. His curved biceps. His hairy forearms. The bulging veins on his hands. His hairy chest. His round navel. His knobby hipbones. The bulging veins on his cock. His smooth buttocks. His sturdy thighs. His hairy shins. The bulging veins on his feet. He looked like a feral animal. He heard the hooded cloak drop to the floor.