“We just want to make sure that you’re happy.”
“I’m happy.”
“Are you?”
The batter hit a foul groundball. Mahoney bent over to attempt to field it, but the ball kicked off his hands. The kids behind Max stood up and cupped their mouths. “Hey, Mahoney! Nice boot, cowboy! You couldn’t catch a cold naked and wet in Canada!”
“Yes. I’m happy,” Max said.
“Can you believe these kids?” Max’s father pointed his thumb behind them. “Belligerent little shits.”
Another time he and his friends had set an old couch on fire with roman candles and lighter fluid. He’d gone to Mardi Gras and ate so much crawfish that he’d puked the color and consistency of old tomato soup. A strange girl at a Bela Fleck and the Flecktones concert had felt him up when she’d passed him a joint. He missed that.
“I wish I wasn’t living at home. Wish I had a job where I didn’t clean up dead people.”
The teenagers started heckling louder. I’ve seen better movement in a bedpan, they said. Hey two-four, your mom’s a whore, they said. On and on. MahOOooney. MahOOooney.
“Where are their parents, for Christ’s sake? Or security?”
“It gets to you, you know? You start questioning yourself.”
MahOOOoney. MahOOoney. MahOOOooney. He’d ignored the kids’ taunts up until this point. After they called his mother a whore, though, Mahoney glanced up into the stands every few pitches or so. There was a hurt expression underneath his hat brim. He looked lonely. He looked like a man who desperately missed his mother.
“That’s sort of what we wanted to talk to you about. Your mother and I. We think it’d be best for everyone if you found your own place.”
“Like the other day. I stole a tooth from work. Some dead guy’s tooth. Who does that?”
“We’d help you out of course. We could pay your security deposit and first and last month’s rent. You’re making good money now. Like twelve bucks an hour, right?”
There was a shot into the left-center gap, a real rocket that sounded like a tree being struck by an axe. The batter rounded first and picked up speed. He was a tall, gaunt man whose joints seemed to jab in the air like a Bowflex machine. The ball ricocheted off the wall at a weird angle and shot past the left fielder.
“And now the guy’s daughter is following me around! Like she’s fueling some weird curiosity about death now that her dad shot his face off or maybe she has a crush on me. I don’t know. But I can’t tell her to stop. Not now. Not after what I did.”
The runner rounded second and was approaching third. The left fielder bobbled the ball, and Mahoney was waving the runner to run home and score. All the while the kids were badgering this poor man who was only trying to do his job. MahOOoooney. You big, fat phOOooony.
“You’re an adult now, son. I guess what I’m saying is that we want you out by the end of the month.”
As the runner rounded third, he took a bad angle and looped a little further than Mahoney, who hugged the line too closely, expected. The runner ended up smashing into Mahoney, and the collision toppled Mahoney end over end. The defense finally relayed the ball into the infield and tagged the runner out as he lay on the ground, rolling around in pain. Mahoney was motionless. The teenage kids laughed and laughed and laughed. You idiot, they said. You retard! Can’t you do anything right?
“Shut up!” Max turned and yelled at the stunned kids. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”
The trainer jumped from the dugout and raced out to the injured Mahoney. For a few seconds, the entire stadium was quiet. No one chomped on sunflower seeds or clapped their hands or whooped a cheer for the home team. There wasn’t even a breeze. There was just a collective hush, shared by a few hundred people, and Max reveled in it; finally, a moment to collect his thoughts. But then it was broken, the silence, with a resounding taunt.
MahOOoooney.
THE SEX WASN’T PLANNED. HE hadn’t gone to work that day wanting to touch her. The night before he hadn’t dreamt of her. She didn’t appear in fantasies so vivid he could taste the salt of her. After work he often forgot about her, worried about other things. During work she was a mere creature comfort, something outside the horror he had to face.
It was the final job of the day—this one had been an accident. A woman had been cleaning a shotgun not knowing it was loaded. At some point, she pulled the trigger and shot herself in the face. It was double-barreled, the gun, and caused a lot of damage. Alice found a piece of mandible behind the recliner, covered in tissue and curved like a mouth guard.
“It sort of reminds me of Halloween, you know. Those props you find in a haunted house. Like you wouldn’t even know it was real unless you knew knew. Know what I mean?” she said.
He did.
“All this stuff does. Once you get used to the smell, you kind of get used to all of it,” she continued. “You get desensitized in a way. You lose all sense of how macabre all this shit is. Like a funeral home director. Or a soldier.”
“It still drags on you, though.”
She shrugged. “I guess.” She flicked graphite from her pad of paper. She was drawing the mandible. She had it sitting on the dining room table as if it were a vase of flowers.
He cleaned the dried blood from the walls. The paint chipped as he scrubbed, and he would have to prime and repaint before the tenants returned. He dislodged shot pellets from the drywall.
“Is it weird that this sort of stuff kind of turns me on?” she said.
He stopped cleaning and turned to her. She hadn’t moved much. She sat like a behaved student might, her knees and heels touching, back straight, a pad of paper on her legs. He thought of a schoolgirl fantasy, and it made him nauseated. He’d always been embarrassed by the act of sex. The few times he had done it, he did so with the lights switched off and with girls he knew from class. Afterward, he wouldn’t know how to act, and they, sensing his discomfort, would soon stop calling or coming by his dorm room. When he saw them in econometrics or in derivatives and options securities, he would act like nothing had happened, and he sensed that they were laughing behind his back.
This feeling of embarrassment returned to him like the memory of a friend he’d wronged years ago might, out of the blue and coupled with a feeling of shame. They both sat staring at each other for quite a while after she said this, she, he thought, expecting him to make a move and him frozen in anxiety. It was like he could actually feel the lining in his stomach walls thin.
It wasn’t there that they had sex, but later, in the back of the van as he packed his cleaning supplies and the human remains. Alice made the first move. Max pushed in the buckets of commercial grade disinfectant soap, and when he turned around, she loomed but a few inches away. She paused right there as if asking if it was okay that she was so close. When he didn’t object, she tiptoed up to kiss him. He leaned back against the van’s bumper, his lips tight and unresponsive to hers, but he couldn’t help but think how good she tasted. It was like sour grapes and popcorn and the comfort of no responsibilities.
HE DIDN’T RETURN TO WORK after that. He didn’t call or resign or give two weeks’ notice; he simply quit. His last paycheck would not be cashed, despite the company mailing it to him, and it would eventually be forgotten in some drawer. He tried to tell himself the reason was the work. Who could face that, day in and day out? Death and the sad survivors, their belongings forever scarred by what had transpired there. And then that smell. He couldn’t get it off of him at night. He would shower as soon as he returned to his parents’ house, and he would scrub and scrub and scrub, but it wouldn’t come off of him. It followed him everywhere, like an old dog would, mere days from death itself. After awhile, he even started believing that that was the case, that it was the work and not what he had done to Alice that drove him to quit.
He didn’t tell his father. In the mornings they would have coffee together. His father would ask him rhetorical questions about the Fed’s quantitative easing policy
or if he should refinance his house because interest rates were so low. They would make plans to go see a basketball game or take a vacation to Dallas and intentionally ignore the fact Max hadn’t moved out yet. Then they would say their goodbyes, leaving the house at the same time, and both wouldn’t get home until much later when they would be too tired to spend any time with each other.
Max spent his days simply walking around town, already having given up on responding to want ads. He would stop in diners and eat a piece of pie and leave a generous tip since it wasn’t his money—it was his parents’—and then catch an exhibit on the theory of relativity at the Omniplex and then a matinee at the dollar theater to see last year’s big summer blockbusters. When it was too cold or if the wind was too harsh, he would duck into coffee shops and nurse a cup of coffee as he stared at the passing cars. He enjoyed the solitude during these outings. He didn’t feel the need to speak to anyone or explain himself. Sometimes he would try to go the whole day without uttering a word.
It was on a day like this that he found himself in front of the high school, his alma mater. His hands were tucked into his pockets. He clutched Alice’s father’s tooth and rubbed it between his fingertips. It felt odd in his hands, almost like plastic. He wandered around campus for a while. He walked the track. He circled the parking lot. He read the marquee at the auditorium. Finally, he simply walked in. It looked much like it had when he’d been a student there. The linoleum floors. Old steel lockers. Pep rally banners made from cardstock and glitter paint. It even smelled the same, like disinfectant and tater tots. The halls were empty. No kids were walking to the office or the bathroom. It was odd, like a ghost town. He even peeked his head into a classroom. No one was in there.
He sat at a desk and tried to remember if he’d had this classroom for government or English. It was a science classroom now. A periodic table of the elements covered most of the eastern wall. Microscopes lined lab tables behind the desks. There were gas nozzles and an eye washing station. He wrote on the blackboard the only scientific formula he could remember, E = mc2, and then left.
He found everyone in the gymnasium. On the court were the football team and the cheerleaders. The band played the school fight song as the student body all stood and cheered. Banners waved. Everyone clapped in unison. It made Max feel nostalgic in a way he hadn’t in years.
After a few seconds in the doorway, a man wearing a suit approached him. Max remembered him; it was Mr. Byers, the assistant principal. Max expected him to ask what he was doing there. Unannounced visitors were rarely welcomed onto school campuses, even if they were alumni. Instead, he asked Max where he’d been.
Confused, Max said, “I’m sorry?”
“Get back in the stands,” he said.
Mr. Byers thought Max was a student. For a moment, Max considered correcting him and then leaving, but he decided not to. Instead, he found an open seat on the front row between two students. They didn’t even give him a second glance as he began to clap alongside them. They thought he was supposed to be there just like Mr. Byers did. It was calming in a way. He belonged someplace. He didn’t have to think about his joblessness or lack of an apartment. He could simply get caught up in the revelry, blending into the cheering crowd, a single digit amid a long line of zeros.
Everything’s fine
WHEN I WAS A CHILD, I TIED ROPES AROUND MY LEGS. I TIED THEM AS TIGHT AS I COULD, UNTIL MY skin turned pink, then red, then purple. I didn’t lose feeling right away—my legs tingled at first. They felt heavy, and when I tried to move them, waves rushed through my body. They weren’t painful, more uncomfortable, like placing your tongue on the end of a 9-volt battery. I could hardly stand the feeling when it was there, but I missed it when it was gone. I tied my legs until I couldn’t feel my calves or my ankles or my toes, until they were just dead weight. I tied the ropes so tight my legs were both a part of my body and not a part of my body, so tight they felt disjointed from the rest of me. It was comforting in a sense—it was like I could detach myself from the world if I needed to.
After a while, the tissue became damaged. Capillaries burst. During the day, my legs throbbed in pain. I walked with a limp, and my parents worried. They took me to doctors, and when it finally came out what I was doing, they took me to psychiatrists. They removed the ropes from my room, but I found new ways. I’d cut the power cords off of lamps and use those instead. When those were taken away, I used the elastic in my underwear. I used the cords from the blinds and the bungee ties in the garage and basketball nets from the school. I used anything I could get my hands on.
One night, after tying off with a couple Hanes T-shirts, I decided to go for a walk. I wanted the wavelike sensation to shoot up my body until I couldn’t take it any longer, and so I stood and used the wall to brace myself as I left my room. It was quiet in the house. It was about 1:00 a.m. and my parents had gone to sleep hours before. Downstairs, a kitchen light dimly illuminated the house, and I decided to get myself a glass of water. I turned toward the stairs, my legs wobbly underneath me, and as I passed the third step, I stumbled and lost my balance. I tried to catch myself on the railing, but I couldn’t, and I fell. Unable to raise my arms to brace myself, my face collided with a corner, and my nose snapped in two. I broke a rib and a wrist and tore a ligament in my elbow. I chipped one tooth and lost another. Contusions covered most of my body, and I burned and throbbed.
But the pain was only from the waist up, my legs devoid of serious injury. There was just that wavelike sensation as I regained feeling. It was slow at first. Blood filled my mouth, and I had to spit so I wouldn’t choke. I wiggled my toes, but there wasn’t any pain. I next moved my ankles, and then my calves, bending at the knees. I put a little pressure on them, not standing right away, but slowly, until I was on both feet again, and as I took my first step I realized I was fine—just fine.
I WORKED AT ROSEWOOD MEDICAL Center for the Severely Disabled in The Village. A former suburb of Oklahoma City, it was built by oil-company middle managers in the fifties and sixties. It had long since been annexed by the city, the middle managers having all moved further way from the central business district, replaced now by a more diverse set of wage earners: janitors and gas station attendants and truck drivers and young professionals. The streets smelled of bacon and burgers and the dog food factory a few miles away. The medical center itself was quiet and lonely. That may be why I liked it so much—I could go an entire day without speaking to anyone, and it wouldn’t arouse a single person’s suspicions.
My job was to keep things calm and neat and orderly. Most of my days were spent cleaning bedpans, laundering sheets, and mopping floors. I changed the TV channel if the programming became too violent or loud or if the colors were too sharp or bright. I washed dishes after lunchtime and gave sponge baths. The doctor who managed Rosewood was a big proponent of touching. He wanted us to touch the patients as much as possible. He asked us to pat the patients’ shoulders or to hug them. We held hands and ran our fingers through their hair. As often as we could, we were to let them know we were near, and that we cared.
One patient was named Harry Humboldt. A middle-aged Huntington’s disease victim, most of the time it seemed he didn’t know much of what was going on around him. His head bobbed and his muscles tensed, but he still had some cognitive abilities—if you touched his shoulder, his head jerked in your direction, and his eyes softened, and his tongue hung from the corner of his mouth. He knew when I was there, and I think he was appreciative of my company. I enjoyed spending time with him as well. Oftentimes I found myself confessing my sins to him as if he were a priest, how I’d sat on my hand for an entire hour, until my circulation had been cut off for so long my fingers were the color of plums. I told him how I sometimes took the entirety of a take-a-penny, leave-a-penny jar and dumped the contents into my purse. I told him how I’d wait at a stoplight until it turned red so the guy behind me couldn’t cross, and the entire time Harry listened to me with his soft eyes, and I knew deep
down he didn’t judge me.
I was intimate with Harry once per week. The act itself usually lasted no more than a minute or two, but the whole process was enacted with dignity and respect and without judgment—just a man experiencing the intimacy and touch of another human being. I lay next to him as I rubbed his penis, and he stared straight ahead and I’d rest my head on his shoulder. He always had this immense amount of pleasure on his face. He smiled, the only time I could say with confidence he did, and when he reached orgasm, his head slumped to his chest. Afterwards, I cleaned him up and left him alone for a few moments with his thoughts. Then I’d call an orderly, and watch as they laid him down to rest.
HARRY’S BROTHER FRANK VISITED AT least three times a week. Frank was older, in those indeterminate years between middle-age and senior citizenship. He always came alone, ate a club sandwich, and hardly said a word. They watched The Price is Right and Family Feud and Jeopardy together, Frank every once in a while exclaiming, “What is Back to the Future,” or “$10,250,” depending on the show. While visiting, I tried to stay out of the room, only peering in every so often to check Harry’s health monitors, make sure his water cup was full, or if his colostomy bag needed changing. When I was in the room, Frank stared at me the way men have since I was eleven years old, with a mixture of lust and apathy.
At first, I wasn’t attracted to Frank, but I was interested in him. To be so devoted to his brother, he had to have some level of goodness in him. He also seemed so lonely, and in that I found comfort—I found something I recognized—but it was Gloria, a talkative woman I’d worked with for several years, who first broached the subject of Frank and I going out. Frank was standing at the entrance signing the check-in sheet, and I was behind the reception area logging the most recent bathroom cleaning, when she spoke.
Five Hundred Poor Page 4
