SO MANY WAYS TO SLEEP BADLY
Mattilda Bernstein Sycamore
City Lights Books
SAN FRANCISCO
Copyright © 2008 by Mattilda Bernstein Sycamore, a.k.a. Matt Bernstein Sycamore
All Rights Reserved
Cover design: Stefan Gutermuth
Book design and typography: Gambrinus
Editor: Robert Sharrard
Special thanks to Ralowe T. Ampu, for assisting with the physical, emotional, and creative labor of this book. And to the most brilliant team of editors that money can’t buy: Kevin Killian, Brian Pera, Jennifer Natalya Fink, D. Travers Scott. To the confidantes who delivered feedback and/or fever: Chris Hammett, Reginald Lamar, T Cooper, Tony Mueller, Andy Slaght, Lauren Goldstein. And thanks to Dodie Bellamy’s workshop for thoughts on the earliest chapters.
For tangibles and intangibles: Jessica Hoffmann, Kirk Read, Katia Noyes, Felicia Luna Lemus, Thea Hillman, Killer Nepon, Eric Stanley, Grant Donnelly, Sarah Schulman, Stephen Kent Jusick, Gina Carducci, Jason Sellards, Perverts Put Out, Rhani Remedes, Gina de Vries, Jen Cross, Ananda LaVita, Jason Devastation, Steve Zeeland, Socket Klatzker, and everyone at City Lights.
To everyone I’ve misrepresented. And everyone else.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Sycamore, Mattilda Bernstein.
So many ways to sleep badly / Mattilda Bernstein Sycamore.
p. cm.
ISBN-13: 978-0-87286-468-9
ISBN-10: 0-87286-468-5
1. Gay men--Fiction. 2. San Francisco (Calif.)--Fiction. I. Title.
ps3619.y33s6 2008
813’.6--dc22
2008020489
City Lights Books are published at the City Lights Bookstore,
261 Columbus Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94133
Visit our Website: www.citylights.com
For JoAnne, 1974-1995
For San Francisco, or what’s left of it
CONTENTS
Houseplants
Roaches
Learning
The Future
What If Everyone Lived in a Two-Million-Dollar House?
Houses
Wings
Mother’s Day
Gay People
Fish Tank
Everything Should Be Easy
Willpower, Mink Coats, Humans, City Entertainment, a Deeper Relationship, Sheep, Raw Kale, Left Field, Pinworms, Lauryn Hill, and My Sound Factory Moment
Diamond Bracelets
Layer Cakes
Little Heart Shapes
The Getaway Car
The New Toaster
The Laboratory
Barbara
Love Potion #9
Sharks
The Answer
Jacqueline
Heaven
Ecstasy Therapy
Back to the Family
Oh Beautiful . . .
HOUSEPLANTS
The sky is pink and moist, branches are shaking but if I listen hard enough I can hear this guy’s teeth going clack-clack-a-clack. He lives in Burlingame, drove up here ’cause he’s tweaked—and for me, of course—standing in the dark, waiting to unzip his pants. In yoga, the carpet smells rotten like an armpit filled with dark green mold, the instructor shouts KILL KILL KILL. Sure, it’s yoga, but it’s Bikram Yoga, they turn the heat up to 120 degrees and the instructors wear microphones like Janet Jackson.
Afterwards, I’m waiting for the shower and some guy steps out with a dick like a bowling pin, Rolling Pin Donuts, sending me back and forth from Collingwood Park to Dolores Beach with no luck either way, it’s too late at night for cruising. But Rolling Pin’s been gone for years, what gentrification does to an already gentrified neighborhood.
The shower is cold enough that maybe I’ll stop sweating, outside there’s a guy I’d kill for, maybe I already killed for him but it got me nowhere. Either he’s Italian and plucked or French and radiated, but cute faggots can’t talk to cute straight boys in locker rooms, so I’m just studying the curve of his spine and all that’s around it.
He’s one of those guys I hate to want, end up hating myself but downstairs I catch him eyeing my abs, field goal. Mostly, though, in this world where everything’s wrong, the women are eyeing me and I’m salivating over Mr. Buff ’n’ Tough: fancy yellow sneakers, overdyed jeans too loose at the ass, powder blue vintage T-shirt my favorite color and then the kicker is the runway hairstyle halfway between mod and ’50s ’cause of the part.
Outside, I’m so high from yoga that the stoplights are telling me things and the buildings are extra-sharp against the dark sky, nighttime breeze and the tweakers are staring at me. If there were mats out here, I’d somersault all the way home. Instead, I go to Scottie’s house to look at photos. He lives on the seventh floor of a six-story building; his apartment was once a speakeasy. He took the photos on his roof, but with the topiary bushes I look like I’m in an English garden—well, there’s the Transamerica pyramid in the background, so okay it’s Egypt. Or Vegas, Shirley Temple’s still alive! Singing Britney Spears covers in a room so smoky you can hardly see her hair.
Chrissie calls from Ryan’s house, reading a feng shui book while Ryan’s out doing eBay errands. Who’s Ryan? The boy Chrissie met three days ago—party play poppers porn. Selling everything off for better feng shui, okay. Chrissie says I’m twenty-seven. I need to figure out what I’m doing with my life. Honey you’re twenty-nine. Magdalena says Chrissie’s thirty, but Chrissie says it’s the drugs.
This happens every day: I think about cocktails until I can’t think anymore, then I think some more and finally I think well maybe just one. But one’s too many because cocktails open up my nose for line after terrible white line—vacuum cleaner, Colombian cartel, I could put up a Missing Nose poster, but what would be the reward? Every day I wonder when I’m getting the goddamn thinking-but-notdrinking prize, the announcer shakes my hand until my wrist falls off, oops—well here’s some more money to fix that. But who’s killing my houseplants?
Chrissie’s doing more eBay errands, a photo crew over the house to take pictures of the merchandise: bloody noses and cuts and bruises, no sores ’cause they’re just not as marketable. Chrissie’s taking the power back from the corporations—she’s gonna make a fortune off her own misery. But why do I go to the Power Exchange? The best part is the ride home, cab driver says well at least you’re smiling. Plus, the woman at the entry desk all frisky—still actually enjoying her drugs, but it won’t be long, honey, it won’t be long. Ping-pong, beer bong—same old song—flip-flops on an escalator—come rain or come-stain.
At yoga, I concentrate so hard on one guy’s freckle that I build a house there: Park Place, Boardwalk—why can’t I remember any of the other properties? My sister and I always claimed to like the yellow ones better; we wanted to be rich but not too rich. Chrissie wants to go to a vegan potluck, but what kind of people will be there? Vegans, she says. The problem is when it’s pouring out and I jump into a cab, get inside and the entire cab smells like the driver’s breath. What is wrong with his liver? But rain is so much better when you’re in a car, the pretty patterns on the windows, neon through mist and oh these comfortable seats. Though I’m worried that sex will never again change my life.
Gina says I’m listening to music she’d dance naked to, as a joke. The elevator up to my apartment is so slow, motor struggling against all that fucking gravity. Get me some full-spectrum light bulbs!
Living in a bubble, Hubble Telescope, who are all these people? At first I catch each cockroach between a glass and a sheet of paper, runaway floor, swoop and out the window. But there are always more, flushing them down the dra
in I’ll do anything to avoid bloodshed. But soon I see them crawling out of my speakers and unfurling dangerous flags, one of them grows so big it takes up half the kitchen, excuse me I need to do the dishes.
Needless to say, I’m back out in the rain. A trick who surprises me, I could suck on his armpits all night, though would that give me strange wrinkles? After a good trick, there’s always a tough one—this couple with neck problems: they look like two versions of the old English schoolteacher plus Fabio. Then there’s the trick who leaves me standing outside his house in the freezing cold, the house is sealed like a fortress: a neo-Orientalist masterpiece, with a huge door made out of an entire cherry tree. How many times can I ring the bell? Waiting for a cab to rescue me, I dream my revenge. Turning that house into Pick-Up Sticks in a tornado, but wait—she’s no Dorothy.
Cold is so relative. Here it’s fifty degrees out and I’ve got on a wool coat, scarf, and mittens but I’m ice. Some guy walks by in a T-shirt—what a crazy bitch! I’d sell my matchbox cars for her cha-chas. Leave it to me to take the Mission bus in rush hour, fifteen minutes and we’ve only gone four blocks. Stalled in front of the Sony Metreon, I’m an economic downturn waiting to happen.
The ringer on my phone mixes so well with the music that I decide to let it sing. Frankie Bones is bringing me everything I’ve ever needed—oh these bleeps and clanks, that hard hard bass, the building frog sound and I am so far into the ceiling I can’t even tell there’s a floor. The frog runs into a toy car horn, I can hardly breathe and all that pounding bass, windshield wipers, rattlesnake—oh faster faster and higher and this is the steadiness. Where I forget about everything else, all there is in my life is that horn, oh that muted twisted horn, that Merlin melody child’s piano in a wind tunnel—don’t ever fucking, never fucking leave me.
Here comes the melody, rushing into a chain-link fence, shake that fence! Oh shake it shake it SHAKE it! It’s all about the finger piano swing song in the background, and no way is that a broken air-raid siren turning into a trumpet and giving steam-heat radiator whistle, six miles high and then what on earth? It’s just everything speaking back and then in and then out, here comes the march and where oh where could we possibly go from here? All that I need is in the vocal: put your head in the speaker. Come closer.
ROACHES
This trick sold his house today; tomorrow he’s moving to South Africa. Tonight he’s smoking crystal. Broke up with his lover of ten years and so they sold everything: San Francisco, Miami, somewhere else. While I fuck him, his legs push against me with so much force that it hurts my back. He’s one of those tricks who thought I was shorter, from the one-column-inch photo in the paper. We’re both allergic to the same lube, plus latex—lucky for him, I’ve got polyurethane condoms and oil. He pays me one-forty-eight plus two dollars in quarters.
Outside, everything’s cardboard, reflecting and absorbing the floating 2 a.m. light. I feel so calm, must be the crystal in the air—the dangers of secondhand smoke. At home, the oven’s still on, but the roaches don’t look dried out at all. Can I fall asleep without eating first?
Rue wants to jump off the Golden Gate Bridge, but when did she get into extreme sports? Zan and I go to American Rag, where they’ve got a ratty peach cardigan with hand-sewn patches made of old sheets—peek-a-boo, I see brown spots! $52.95—what a steal—I mean deal, ’cause if I’m gonna steal it’s not gonna be that.
Zan finds black corduroys to replace her black corduroys. Outside, there’s a truckload of pine trees—what a feast for the senses! Twenty Shopping Days Until Christmas. Miss Thing, Miss Thing, lost her diamond ring—see, diamonds aren’t forever. Rue says it’s not your business what other people say and think of you—how postmodern!
Zero calls from Provincetown, she’s moving to the West Coast in the spring, or is it the fall? She’s deciding between Santa Cruz and San Diego. Are you kidding? Rue says what’s the difference between a Mormon and a punk? Well, punks have better clothes, and the music’s different.
Once, I tried to get into the Mormon Temple. Benefits: healthier, softer skin and hair. On the bus, this guy watches me eating beans from a plastic container—right on, he says. He’s a yum-yum treat, shaved head and cute piercings, do you want to sit down? Damn—he’s getting off at the next stop, five seconds longer and he could have been fucking my face. The girls next to me want to know where the fabric store is, we just passed it but it’s closed.
Actually, the girls have been talking about the fabric store since I got on the bus—do you think it’s open? They seemed excited by the possibility that it might not be open, I wanted to let them ride that possibility. Yum-yum asks them what they’re looking for—but he doesn’t know about that kinda thing. Pop quiz: is he cuter now, or was he cuter before?
Rue says pigeon beans don’t taste like pigeons, and he’s right. Another interview with Hilary Swank, still recovering from playing Brandon Teena: these are my tits, this is my husband, these are my tits, this is my husband. At yoga, I turn the cord of lights across the ceiling into an elongated trapeze, I’m flying ’round and ’round so fast that my body becomes a blurred circle of enlightenment. Afterwards, I’m a little tired. Zan and I go to a butoh performance called “Cockroach,” it’s nice to see that roaches are so artistic.
When I wake up and my stomach feels like it’s in my back, which way does my head face? All this rain, pain, serotonin drain. Imaginary mice crawling across the floor, what happened to the imaginary cats? My ears are so clogged with wax—if Drano doesn’t work, I’m gonna have to call the plumber.
When I come, it shoots from one room to the next, if only someone were here to watch. Afterwards, I’m so bored. Is it time to go back to bed yet? At yoga, the heat is way too high; I get a rash by the corner of each eye like I’ve been crying. When I turn from my stomach to my back, entire waves of sweat roll off. The instructor is Julie the Cruise Director with a fascistic streak.
I realize it’s Saturday, people go out on Saturdays. I watch them through my windows, it looks like it’s raining out but it’s not. I make toast, this bread’s better than the one I ate before. The trick who left me waiting outside his house calls: sorry about that—do you want to come over? As long as you pay me for last week. All he’s got is a hundred in cash, but he can write a check, his checks are good.
I just love the way a night of sleep makes my whole body hurt—new day, new promise! But wait, Cristian Vogel’s taking me somewhere, I guess the bitch did name the album “All Music Has Come to an End,” so I should have expected something frantic. I put on Bernard Badie’s “Love Explosion” to relax, but what was I thinking—oh how can I even begin to describe this rat-a-tat-of-course-I-look-gorgeous-no-matter-what-I-fucking-do beat? Legend in a box—I could play this song over and over, and just walk around my apartment for the next few years.
Of course I can’t ever seem to get out of the house before 4 p.m., though at least today there’s some sun—I stare at the tops of buildings, hoping sunlight will reflect off them and regulate my pineal gland. I’ve been up for three hours, I need a nap. I go shopping—everything’s ugly. My shoes are too small. I go into the plant store—full-spectrum lights don’t work.
This trick could be fun, except he’s so nervous that I can’t stay hard, and his crotch smells like rotten eggs. I wake up holding my head and thinking let’s engage, let’s engage, let’s engage. When my mother says you need to go to the root of your problems—get me a shovel! Lilie says: I like when you talk about incest because you can laugh about it. I go to the bookstore to look for Disco Bloodbath.
Chrissie says I’ve got these pictures of you in drag taped up on one side of the bathroom mirror, and on the other side are these pictures my mother sent me of the countryside in upstate New York—I look at you and the countryside in the mirror every morning when I’m brushing my teeth, I talk to you both and we collaborate on how we’re gonna take over the world and things.
The skin underneath my fingernails starts itching, are
there lice in there? Drugstore Price Wars, I just want the fucking photos they lost. Everything that itches: gums, eyes, thighs, nose, scalp, urethra, toenails turning yellow then black. Eating toast again, something’s burning, that eternal question: cultured pearls or fresh-water pearls? In my dream, Rue’s having a birthday celebration in Torino, but why Torino? Honey, she’s thirty-five, she wants something special. Luckily, it’s only a four-hour drive and the party’s at 8, we don’t have to leave before 4. What’s four hours from Torino? I need a map. Milan? No, that would be awful. Okay, Reno—of course Andee keeps telling me London is the answer—bitch, I’m not moving to London just so it’ll be easier for you to visit me.
At yoga, there’s a new instructor who’s calmer, but I want to kill the guy next to me for breathing too loud. It always gets dark when I’m there—outside, the windows start floating. Afterwards, I watch the red Christmas lights by the Rendezvous—how pretty! It’s a good thing this guy’s dick is beautiful, because he’s—well, you know. His dick is my world for fifteen minutes, throat massage; oops that’s my esophagus. His rhythm is pump pump pump slide BOOM. Whoops—there goes some part of me, good thing I’ve got so much saliva it’s like I’m rabid.
A straight orgy on the TV? Afterwards, he asks me if I had stuffing for dinner. He’s calling attention to my breath. I don’t say anything about the mood lighting to hide his wrinkles. Full moon, everyone’s saying honey it really makes me crazy. What about the day before the full moon? No big deal. I’m finally on my way to get cocktails, but then I need to eat. Then I’m on my way again, I go down in the elevator, but come back up. Yes I’m ready to get smashed, obliterated, destroyed and then demolished, vomiting out taxicab windows and waving hello and then taking another swig. Or skip that part: three cocktails and then line after beautiful white line, hello Dolly.
Luckily I get a trick—that’s what I need, more tricks to keep me out of trouble. An outfit change and a six-block walk to the hotel, and I’m ready for—well, money, of course. He’s a nice guy, even though his breath is a different story—I love grabbing his hard-on through his old vintage jeans, the way it keeps guard on the left side. My favorite part is the orange shower curtain; the light shines through it like the-sun-will-come-out-today, dammit—fucking today. Right now, as I’m standing and wetting myself.
So Many Ways to Sleep Badly Page 1
