“Who is this?” he asks through the crackling, muffled intercom.
“It’s Luke, man. Come on, just buzz me in,” I say, still scratching away at my left hand, strips of dry skin curling up like pink crepe paper and falling to the concrete.
“Luke?”
“Yeah. Jesus, it’s Luke. Let me in. I’m hungry and I’m tired and I just want back in my cell, Rainbow Meadows. Open up, compadre. Exprechen eee doytch?”
“Luke? Luke who, man? There’s no Luke in the building, man,” Sir Flower Power says, and I can tell he’s just about to drift back into his weed-induced coma.
“Enough fucking around,” I say, no longer finding anything funny. “It’s Luke. I’m in motherfucking 4G. Luke, motherfucker. Wake up out of your skunk-junked haze and let me the fuck in! I just want to go home. Let me in. Now.”
“Sorry, my friend—”
“We’re not friends!” I yell.
“…but you’re going to have to sleep this off somewhere else.”
“What the fuck are you talking about, Charles? Jesus. Let me in! Quit fooling around!”
“You don’t live here, man. The park’s a good place to sleep. Go catch some Zs under the stars, man. You’ll figure out where you should actually be after you sleep this one off. You might even learn something about yourself. Best of luck to ya, buddy.”
“Charles? Charles!” I yell, but he doesn’t respond so I buzz his apartment a hundred times, completely freaking out every time I have to touch the button on the intercom covered with this quivering grey film.
By the time I pull my left hand away from the intercom, all the skin’s gone from it. It’s just muscle, sinew, and bone, and it glistens in the moonlight and smarts with every mild breeze.
“Fuck!” I yell and kick the door and back away into the street, which is mostly free of cars but for a few lurking taxis and foot-dragging zombies. The traffic lights at the intersection click from green to yellow to red, anyway, putting a halt to ghosts on their way home.
My phone’s in my left pants-pocket and when I reach for it I howl out in surprised pain, forgetting the state of my hand, so, I awkwardly reach across myself with my right hand and dig the phone out and call Kevin. It rings only a few times before he answers, as he’s probably up talking to Christy and smoking a million cigarettes and telling her fascinating stories about one of the times he fashioned a perfect heart atop a perfectly crafted cappuccino.
“Hey, Kevin, it’s Luke. I’m locked out of my apartment.”
“Luke? Um, dude, just buzz your building manager to let you in. Why are you calling me?”
“Listen, genius, I already did that. Don’t you think I already thought to do that? Fuck! That hippie fuck couldn’t remove himself from his everlasting pot-smoke cloud long enough to meet me back in reality,” I say, now scratching at my right hand, which holds the phone to my ear. “Come on, I need a place to crash while Prince Charles of the Poppy Fields sleeps off his stupid drug-induced life.”
“Um, Luke, is it? Luke, I really don’t know who the fuck you are—”
“Don’t even start with the funny guy routine, Kevin—”
“…but I don’t know how you got this number and I don’t know why you’re calling me this late at night and—” I hear Christy laughing in the background, telling him to just hang up on the fucker and come back to bed.
“Kevin! Come on! I just need a place to crash. I just need a place to crash, man. Let me come over and I promise I won’t make a scene or get in your way with Christy. I’m cool with that. I’m cool with that, you understand me? Whatever. I don’t even fucking care right now that you totally stole her away from me. I really don’t care!”
“I’m hanging up now,” Kevin says and he does and I’m holding back the urge to riot and burn down this whole fucking city by myself.
Instead, I walk a few blocks down the city hill, deeper into the Tenderloin where Sanchez lives, and ring him up on my phone. I’m standing in front of his building on O’Farrell and Leavenworth. It’s a dull pink building and the cockroach-infested sandwich shop he lives above has had its windows broken out. His window a few stories up is dark but lights up after the first couple rings.
“Sanchez, it’s Luke. I’m locked out of my apartment. Can I crash on your floor just for the night?”
“Luke?” he asks.
“Yeah, it’s me, man. Sorry. Shit. I know it’s late. But, fuck, just let me up. I need a place to crash.”
“What the fuck is wrong with your hands?” he asks, and when I look up at his window I see Sanchez standing there in his wife-beater and pajama pants.
“Never mind about my fucking hands. Can I crash here?”
“Seriously. Are you wearing Halloween skeleton gloves? Are those hip again? When did those get hip again?” he asks as his voice drifts off into thought, finishing with “I wonder where I can get a pair at this time of year,” which is barely audible.
“Earth to Sanchez! Can you ever think about anything other than fashion and your fucking pencil ‘stache? Just let me come up!”
“You said your name was Luke, right? What, did I meet you at a party or something? Maybe a reading? Look, if I gave you my number then, or at any other time, I wasn’t hitting on you. Lots of people seem to confuse that. And I’m not gay, so—”
“Don’t fuck with me, Sanchez! This is not fucking funny!”
“I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression. I shouldn’t have given you my number in the first place, let alone my address. Not that I remember doing either. Look, whatever your name is, go sleep it off elsewhere. I’m sure there’s some other minor literary celeb willing to let you suck them off for a warm place to sleep. Maybe give Ferlinghetti a buzz.”
His square of yellow flickers dark.
“Sanchez!” I scream, absolutely fucking livid at this bullshit prank my friends seem to be pulling. All the while I’m scratching at my arms, skin flaking off like chunks of bark now. Every gentle little breeze, weighted down with the scent of piss, stings like a bitch and it’s all I can do to keep from gnashing my teeth to dust, biting back the pain.
With heavy, angry steps, I march on toward Russ’s apartment on Turk and Larkin, sheets of skin shaken away from me with each footfall. His place is above Harry’s Pub, and when I arrive I spot him standing outside the bar’s door, smoking a cigarette and kind of hunkering down to talk to Bob, this midget stage-actor that lives in the neighborhood who’s known for his operatic singing voice and ability to take on any role in any Shakespeare play at the drop of a hat. Despite his talents, he has to slum it like the rest of us in this shithole.
“Russ, thank fucking Christ,” I say, interrupting their conversation. They both look at me with annoyed, disgusted expressions and take quick, nervous drags from their cigarettes. Russ, who’s well over six-feet and two-hundred-and-fifty pounds, turns his back to me, completely blocking me off, and continues his high-energy chat with Bob.
“Russ… Russ… Russ… Russ…” I say, scratching my face while facing his back, which you could easily project a major motion picture onto.
With a snotty little sigh and guffaw, Russ finally turns toward me and says, “Man, you fucking reek. I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s true. Just, you know, go take a bath. And, if you don’t mind, I’m trying to have a conversation with my friend here. So, please, just leave us alone.”
“Russ, don’t fuck with me. I get it. You’re all playing a joke on me. You, Kevin, Sanchez—even my fucking building manager,” I say, suddenly feeling a little less conviction in the statement. I scratch at my face and feel something hang and dangle from my cheekbone. It flaps in the wind and distracts me so I pull at it and peel it away, dropping a flap of flesh to the sidewalk. They both look at me, repulsed, and start to walk away.
“Russ, come on, man,” I say, following just behind them, scratching at my face, neck, arms, crotch. But they pick up their pace and when they turn the corner I turn with them and they pick up the pace even mor
e and, finally, when Bob’s little legs can’t keep pace with Russ’s giant strides, Russ picks him up and cradles him in his arms and gallops into a full-on sprint away from me toward Market Street and the oversized moon now hanging in that direction. They cross Market just before a streetcar can trundle over them.
I yell Russ’s name one last time and give up, seeing they’re no longer there after the MUNI passes, and decide to retreat back to Harry’s Pub. It’s a small, dank, urine-fouled place, and when I walk in I feel right at home. At the bar a few of my teeth fall out as I attempt to get the bartender’s attention. Then I see myself in the mirror behind the bar: sores all over my face and neck, my lips blackened, chapped, and broken, and the cheekbone under my left eye completely exposed. And my skinned hands, of course, which have gone numb so no longer hurt. Alarmed, however, I am not. I know far too well that this is life, and all things come to pass.
The lady bartender here at Harry’s has a doughy figure with a face of crusty powder and makeup and she’s losing her hair and wearing a top with a low neck that nearly lets one of her droopy breasts fall out. I catch just a hint of a pancake-sized nipple and look away.
“What can I get ya, sweetheart?” she asks and I tell her a Jim Beam and she says great and tells me I have a beautiful smile and when I notice she’s also missing a few teeth I tell her the same. She thanks me, takes the last of the money I have left in this world, and says it’s real good to see me, that it’s been a while, and though I don’t recall ever being in Harry’s Pub, I tell her “ditto” then concentrate on the contact list in my phone, deciding who to call next.
I call Wilson but it goes straight to voicemail and I leave a message, “Listen, Wilson, I’ve been evicted from my fucking apartment. I need a place to crash. Call me back.”
As I scroll through my contact list I realize I’m running out of people to call already and wonder how I became such a recluse. I’d always been a people person, I tell myself, and pick at my upper lip until it finally falls away, leaving my upper row of teeth totally exposed. I see this in the mirror and recognize the problem. To rectify it, I pinch my bottom lip and yank and, like pink taffy, it stretches and eventually snaps and pulls away, exposing the bottom row of teeth for a good, healthy, and constant grin. I feel better just looking at myself in the mirror and believe that anyone else seeing me would also feel better. I look more approachable now, happier, upbeat, and personable. There’s no doubt, I think, that people should like me even better now and be more willing to open their homes and lives to me and let me in, what with such a big grin as I have now.
However, everyone hangs up on me, from Syd and Lowry to Cleo, Stan, Gem, and even motherfucking Eric, though I’m not sure why I even have that asshole’s number still. At this point I’d be willing to crash on Old Man Bill’s floor but he doesn’t have a phone of any sort.
Then I remember to call Abigail but forget she’s dead before pressing “send” on my phone. As the phone rings her old number a new woman picks up and I realize what I’ve done and start to cry, sickened by her absence and the ghost of a connection left in my phone’s memory banks.
“Who is this?” the voice on the other end of the line asks. “Are you OK?”
“I… uh…” I say, sniffling and trying to choke back tears, unsuccessfully.
“Who is this? What’s wrong? Why are you crying?” the voice asks, obviously concerned, and it touches me that someone knows anyone that could be concerned at the slightest sound of duress. If I was someone else… this concern, this sympathy might actually be directed at me. But I’m on the line with a dead girl and it’s just not a possibility.
“I just… I just wanna go home, Abigail,” I say, choking. “I’m so sick and lonely here by myself. I just wish I could fall off a cliff and be where you are—be with you. I’m falling apart here, Abigail. I’m losing everything I had left,” I continue, recognizing my melodrama through my tears and embarrassing myself in front of the bartender standing a few feet away washing glasses but obviously listening.
“Luke? Is that you?”
Confused, and kind of shocked, I snort back a sob and say, “Huh? What?” while wiping my eyes and taking a gulp of my Jim Beam.
“Is that you, Luke? What’s wrong?” the voice asks.
“Luke? No! No, it’s not fucking Luke! Who the fuck is Luke? Who is this fucking Luke? Tell me!” I scream into the phone, holding it right in front of my lipless mouth before slamming the cheap cell down on the bar.
Instead of reflecting on why no one I know will help me out or even act like they know who I am, I sit in Harry’s and drink Jim Beam after Jim Beam, which are generously comped to me for some reason, and smoke a whole pack of Winstons while watching sores open up all over my body. They redden, leak pus, blacken, and recede, revealing wet meat and tendons on my forearms and neck. The tickle in my crotch won’t go away and when I reach down there I come away with my cock and balls, all dry and shriveled up, and I just let them drop to the ground, along with all the other skin layering the floor beneath me now. From time to time I laugh for no particular reason and look around myself to find that the bar is full of people that look like me and when they see me laugh they look me in the eye and also laugh lipless laughs and if they’re close enough they might pat me on the back and keep laughing but they never tell me what they’re laughing about and I’m not sure what I’m laughing about, either, and instead of it all making me feel better I feel the darkness wash over me in a wave of nausea.
And I just want to go home.
I’ve called everyone I know but one person, Cameron, who I haven’t spoken to for weeks because she decided I was no good for her and that I was a bad influence on the kid. I of course told her that I was great for her and that there was nothing wrong with giving her kid a little bit of whiskey from time to time and taking him with me to the strip club for educational purposes or teaching him that everyone you meet is a monster, including your mother, and even your father if you ever find him. Besides, he was basically a teenager and a full-grown person, I said, and she said he was only seven or something and not remotely a teenager but I couldn’t really be bothered to listen to her crazy rants so who knows.
Just as I’m about to call Cameron, the bartender says she’s closing up and all the fucking zombies in the bar grunt and grumble and peel their rotting selves from their stools and chairs and shuffle out of the bar with drooped heads and shoulders.
“I’ve got just one call I need to make,” I say, my eternal grin aimed directly at the fat bartender’s face, which seems to be melting off in a technicolor drain.
“Oh, honey, take all the time you need,” she says and it makes me feel good to be treated with such affection.
Clicking on Cameron’s number I hear a phone ring, in echo. I realize it’s because there’s another phone ringing in the bar while I listen to the phone ringing in my ear, and then I see the bartender pick up her phone, glance at the screen, then back up at me, smiling that broken smile.
“Luke, why are you calling me?” she asks.
“Huh?” I ask, my ear to the phone, the ring in my ear and the ring in the room colliding against each other inside my head.
“Why are you calling me, silly?” she asks.
“Quiet,” I say. “I’m trying to call a friend of mine.”
She laughs and answers her phone and says hello and I say hello and she asks what I want and I say that I miss her and that I’m sorry that I disappointed her and she says that it’s all in the past. With time, I tell her, I can be a good man and even a better father. The kid means something to me, I say, and family means something to me. She asks me to tell her what family means and I say blood. I say lots of blood. And she agrees. I tell her I need a place to stay. She says she has a place for me, that she always has a place for me, and I tell her I’m a monster, that I barely have the skin left to cover my ugliness. She says no problem, then hangs up, reaches under the bar, and pulls out a first aid kit and walks over to me and sm
oothes Neosporin all over my exposed meat before carefully wrapping my arms, hands, neck, and face in gauze. She says she’ll take care of me just fine and kisses my teeth because I have no lips for her to kiss. When I start to cry she tells me it’s going to be OK. It’s all going to be OK. She promises. I feel my wounds dampen and darken my wrappings. She smiles again and her eyes twinkle and she pours one last whiskey down my throat before putting my cock and balls in a grease-soaked paper bag and taking me back to her place where she wraps all her loose and flabby flesh around my skinless body, covering me and comforting me until I finally understand what going home is all about.
If you enjoyed Enjoy Me, please consider leaving a review, however brief, on Amazon, Goodreads, and other online and print venues. With no marketing team or budget, word-of-mouth is this book’s only shot at being discovered, and reviews are enormously helpful.
Thank you.
Logan Ryan Smith’s other books include Western Palaces (a follow-up to Enjoy Me), My Eyes Are Black Holes, Y Is For Fidelity, and The Sun My Destiny. These books flirt with and distort approaches to genre, from horror to sci-fi and mystery, creating a transgressive fiction unique unto themselves. He has also written four books of poetry: The Singers & The Notes, Stupid Birds, Bug House, and Humans & Horses. Other work has been graciously published in Hobart Journal, New American Writing, Bombay Gin, Meat for Tea: The Valley Review, Bay Poetics, and Great Lakes Review, which nominated his story “Bret Easton Ellis” for a Pushcart Prize. Logan has lived in San Francisco, Boulder, and Chicago, and now lives in Sacramento.
Enjoy Me Page 16
