Well

by Matthew McIntosh

  IT’S TAKING SO DAMN LONG TO GET HERE (IV)

  I struck up a conversation with one of the older guys, a contractor—I’d seen his truck outside, a huge white beast with his name and face painted on the side. We drank and laughed and got to know each other a little. For some reason I asked him if he’d been in the War, Vietnam, and he said, No, I had a high number. I didn’t have to worry about that shit. I stayed here and took care of all the pussy. Somebody had to do it, he said. There was more pussy than a guy knew what to do with. Pussy everywhere. Black pussy, white pussy, yellow pussy, green pussy, and he laughed.

  And then a chill hit us and we turned around and another of the older guys was walking in. He shut the door behind him, quietly. He walked with a bad limp. He was squat, and fat, he had a big handlebar mustache and a round, bald head, but long, dark shoulder-length hair coming down from the sides. He worked stocking shelves at the grocery store where I bought my groceries. I talked to him sometimes at the bar, but usually at the grocery store I hid from him, I tried to pretend I didn’t see him, because I understood that there was pride involved. One night a few months before all this, at the bar, I was drunk and lonely and I was asking him a lot of questions. I asked him if he’d been married and he told me, No, but there’d been a woman once, a long time ago, and he’d found her in bed with a friend of his. He’d heard her from the hallway, and he went towards the sound and opened the door, and there she was, on her hands and knees in front of the guy, screaming into her pillow. He said he just stepped back and closed the door, quietly. He wrote her a note asking her to leave and he went to a movie and when he came back she was gone. I asked him about his family. His dad had been a rich doctor in town, he said, and his dad had died of a heart attack one night in the bathtub and he and his brothers had carried his dad, who was a very large man, into the bedroom, where they dried him off and dressed his corpse and put him in bed and pulled the blanket to his chin and tied a towel to hold his chin and waited for the priest to come. After his dad died, he lived for awhile with his mom and his brothers but his mom had developed some serious mental problems over the years, made worse by the death of her husband—who she’d loved dearly, he said—and she began to think that Jesus was on the other end of the telephone, and he would hear a voice from his bed late some nights and he would get up and follow it into the kitchen and find her talking in nervous whispers into the receiver, to Jesus, who she was sure was on the other end. He would tell her, He can’t hear you, Mom, and she was always so sure that He could. And it went on like this for a long time and when she finally began to realize that Jesus wasn’t on the other end, what was left inside of her was a deep sense of abandonment, of betrayal, and she began lashing out violently against her children, and herself. She used her fists and knives and whatever objects her hands could turn into weapons. They took her to a hospital on the Peninsula and her parents, his grandparents, had finished raising him and his brothers—and they were poor people, but they did what they could—until they died, and by then he and his brothers were old enough to fend for themselves, so they went their separate ways. One of his brothers stayed in town and went to jail for running over and killing a cop with his car, and the other, one day, just disappeared. That was before the Government called me up to fight, he said, and I asked him about that: What was it like? I’d read books, of course, seen movies like everyone else. Tell me about it, I said, and he turned away from me and lit a cigarette. He said, No, I don’t think I’ll talk about that, and didn’t say another word to me the entire night.

  Well the contractor who’d had the high number, he turned towards the door when his back got cold, and he saw this other guy limping up to the bar, right as he was in the middle of telling me about all the pussy he had while everyone else was off fighting, about the black pussy and the white pussy and the yellow pussy and the green pussy, and when he saw the guy limping up, who he knew—who he knew better than he knew me, definitely—who he knew better than I did, surely—who maybe he had known before the War because it had been a much smaller town back then—well he watched the guy limp up to his stool down the bar, and he stopped laughing, he stopped talking about pussy, and he watched the guy climb onto that stool and yell at the bartender about fifty bucks he was owed on some game or another, he watched the guy laugh about it, watched him try to get comfortable on that stool, watched him rub his gimp leg as he laughed and in a joking manner slammed an empty ashtray on the counter and threatened to jump over the bar and beat the shit out of the bartender; the contractor watched all of this quietly and never taking his eyes off the guy, he said to me (or maybe not to me):

  I shouldn’t have said that. It wasn’t the right thing to say. It was a stupid goddamn thing to say. Fuck me, he said. Fuck me.

  He got up and went over and sat on the other side of the guy with the bad leg, and slapped him on the back. He bought him a drink.

  Is anyone among you suffering?

  Let him pray.

  JAMES 5:13

  VITALITY

  SPAREMAN:

  When it was late, before he took his triazolam and got into bed, before the triazolam eventually put him to sleep, Charlie would go into the bathroom and kneel over the toilet. But nothing ever came out. He couldn’t handle the idea of putting a finger down his throat; if he could, he knew he would feel better. It would clean him out. He wouldn’t feel so filled-up all the time, he might not be so goddamn fat. Charlie would spit into the toilet and flush and go back to bed, wait to fall asleep.

  He was thirty-five now, and an insomniac. And fat. Fat around his legs, his waist, his chest, shoulder blades. He’d never been attractive—not really—but he had never been fat like this. Not that he was obese. Nothing like that. But his body was filling out, he imagined, like a middle-aged stockbroker’s body would fill out, like the body of a man with a wife and a house and a family.

  Charlie didn’t have a family. He had co-workers, acquaintances. He knew a few people around his complex but not their names. He tended bar at the Trolley. Customers would stay until close talking to him.

  You ever been in love, Charlie?

  Nah.

  Not ever?

  Nope.

  And it seemed true; that he’d never been in love; he couldn’t remember a time when he’d felt even a real, true longing for someone. Couldn’t remember anything beyond that plain and simple urge. Nothing strong. There were a lot of guys he wanted to fuck—or would fuck if the opportunity arose—Hell, when it came down to it, he’d fuck almost anyone. Like most guys. But was there anyone—had there ever been anyone—that he had ever really wanted?

  When it was late and the pills were taking a long time, he wished he could be back at the Trolley. Because he liked the Trolley: the smoke, jukebox, pull tabs, pool tables. He enjoyed pouring drinks. He enjoyed the regulars, listening to their stories, their talk about their lives.

  Well I’ve been in love, myself. Too many times.

  Yeah?

  Too goddamn many times.

  Charlie had been there six years. He’d come in one afternoon for a drink and the owner had told him a story about his daughter; how she’d had a boyfriend who’d cheated on her with her best friend and how his daughter had given the boy a second chance, how they’d been drinking at a party one night and had left early to get her home by curfew, how the boy was driving fast and missed a turn and ran the car off the road and walked off without a scratch, leaving the girl in the car, and how the girl, the owner’s daughter, had died. He offered Charlie a job, at first as spareman, covering shifts when someone couldn’t make it in, working when extra help was needed, then after a time Charlie got the early Happy Hour, seven to nine weekday mornings. People would come in on their ways to work, or after long hours on a late shift. Some of them dirty, foul-smelling, tired. Some of them shaking, sweating, in pain. Charlie would pour them tall, stiff ones; listen.

  Now he worked the last shift—six to close. He issued you home.

  And he was a gene
rous pour. He made sure the bathroom was clean. And when there wasn’t any music playing he’d give you money from the till for the jukebox. When someone put a song on he didn’t like, he’d come out from behind the bar and kick the side of the machine until the disc skipped. Everyone would laugh. Sometimes you’d put a particular song on just to see him do this. He hated country-western.

  Sorry, Chuck. Forgot you didn’t like that one.

  Yeah…

  The bar would laugh together.

  He hated the queer bars in the city—the glaring dance music—the heat and the nausea—and a sense of being caged—always too much senseless, flighty noise. They were like overgrown children out there. The flamers, the queens, the razor-heads. None of them were real. They were characters like you would read about in a story. He’d fucked from them occasionally, in his younger years—there’d been a short time when he’d felt almost obliged to go to these bars—but he had never been able to talk to them, hated more to listen to them speak:

  What’s this one’s problem? He don’t talk?

  He never talks. He just comes here and stares at all the ladies.

  That right, Superman? You just come and stare at all us girls?

  Cat got your tongue?

  During the days Charlie would call down to the Trolley and see if they needed extra help, and on the nights he wasn’t working, he would go down and sit with the regulars. He’d scope out the place for straight-looking gays like himself. They rarely came in. But when they did, they’d come in pairs. He’d introduce himself, hang out and play pool with them. After a few drinks he’d feel better, he’d be loose, he’d talk close, rubbing a hand across a shoulder when they’d make a good shot or miss an easy one, always smiling and laughing, drinking a lot. He’d show the same attention to both, never wanting to alienate one or the other. His voice would get louder into the night. By close most nights he could barely stand, and he’d walk out with them, telling jokes and laughing and yelling in the parking lot behind the bar, rubbing their backs, squeezing their necks, leaning up against their cars, until they’d say goodnight and help him to his car and open the door for him and sit him down in the seat and reach across his chest with the seatbelt and strap him in, pulling the belt snug, then pat him on the back or squeeze his shoulder or mess up his hair, then leave, and Charlie would sit and watch them get in their cars together, watch their dark outlines talk and laugh, sometimes kiss each other in the dark of their cars, and he would wish to go home with them. When their lights had disappeared up Pac-Highway, he would start his car and drive to his apartment, feeling sick again. He always had a hard time getting to sleep.

  Thirty-five now and getting fat.

  And he thought about it for a long time and there’d been a time, hadn’t there? A time when he was younger and he was consumed by love? It had taken him over, body and soul, like a spirit. When did that part of himself take leave? How could he have lost it? It had been there once, hadn’t it? It was there once. He was sure of it. And now:

  Will it just keep going on like this? They drive away at the end of the night and you get older and fatter, and sicker, you stay alone? His liver will give out on him in twenty years and then he’ll die. But twenty years is a long time to go on. Like this:

  When the pills were taking too long, he’d lie awake searching for the good things, but when he’d finally fall asleep, deep into the morning, what would come to him was always the rest.

  You look like shit, Charlie. What’d you do last night?

  Nothing. The usual.

  Yeah? Well you look like shit.

  I’m getting older.

  Older! He says he’s getting older! Man, you still got a long ways to go.

  He felt better when he’d drink. And he could work better when he was drinking. If he kept it under control, everything was better. He remembered:

  A long time ago—when I was seventeen—high school—there was this kid I really liked a lot.

  Oh yeah?

  In answer to your question of awhile ago.

  Right. I remember.

  We got along well.

  And that was love?

  I guess it was.

  What happened?

  Jesus… Charlie thought about it. I don’t know. I guess… I don’t remember.

  The boss warned him. Drink on your own time. I don’t want to cut you loose, but I will. I don’t want to but I’ll cut you loose.

  But he kept it up. He was warned not to drink on the clock—he was warned many times but he kept it up. And he got fired. He’d started early that day. He didn’t keep it under control. He pulled a customer’s beard—Looks like a pussy!—he grabbed another by the collar—Two fucking years and you never tipped me once!—he threw ice, poured free drinks—On the house!—he kicked the jukebox until the side caved in, he kept kicking it until you saw the machinery. He kissed a boy’s mouth, told his girlfriend she better watch out. I’m coming for him! he said. Everyone laughed. They saw it was all in good fun.

  Get out, his boss said.

  What?

  Get your shit and leave. Just leave, Charles. His boss walked away and began wiping down the tables.

  Charlie went home. He took his pills and undressed. Stood in front of the closet mirror, naked. He squeezed his fat in his hands, pinched all over: his shoulders, his chest, under his arms, his lower back and waist. He rubbed his hand along his belly, he stroked it. But he was so ugly.

  He couldn’t sleep.

  What if he went into the city? Ordered a coffee and sat outside at a table on the sidewalk? Watched and waited? Surely if he waited long enough there would be someone—if he waited long enough there might be someone who—

  Charlie longed for him—the pain in his gut—and he was beautiful—and if he couldn’t be with him—his heart was going to—and the passion in his face—and he would die—and he held him and kissed him—and he held him close—and ran his mouth—every inch—and he swallowed him—and he filled him—and let me drink from you—let me hold you—and drink from me—let me eat from you—and tell me—taste me—swallow me—swallow you

  No.

  No.

  Because he was sure that first he had to vomit and get all that shit out of him, so he got up from the bed and went into the bathroom, leaned over the toilet and coughed. He could taste it down inside, but nothing would come up. He flushed and, because he didn’t want to go to bed yet, he went into the kitchen, pulled the seal off of the dish soap, turned the water on, made sure it was warm enough, but not hot enough to burn him, left the water running and walked around the apartment looking for dishes. He found a glass in his bedroom, a spoon on a table, a plate with dried tomato sauce on the floor by the TV. He could hear the water running in the kitchen. He looked around more until he was convinced that he had all the stray dishes, went back into the kitchen, stacked them with the other dirty dishes in the sink. For awhile he stood at the sink letting the water run over his hands, then he washed some dishes and set them on the rack to dry and was sure he felt it coming so he ran to the bathroom, knelt down, put his face over the bowl, coughed and retched [Oh how I want to love you! Oh how I want to love you! How I want to love you!], but nothing came out. He rested his forehead against the back edge of the seat. He said,

  Hello?

  He said, Hello?

  He cried, Hello?

  DAMAGE:

  There was one girl in a glass booth and you saw her when you walked in. She did a private deal that you had to pay a lot of money for. You paid and then she’d draw the curtain so no one outside could see in, and you’d go into a private room and she’d be on the other side behind the glass and she’d do to herself whatever you wanted. We walked in and Nate and Lahti and Jim went straight for the quarter booths—a row of booths where you go in and for a quarter a shade goes up and there are two or three girls in a mirrored room, dancing and shaking it, and I think a quarter gets you ten or fifteen seconds. You get the picture. They come up to you and they put it up to
the glass. The other guys went right for them, and I meandered in the hallway. I saw that the girl in the private booth was motioning me over. I walked over. Come in, she said. You could tell that’s what she said, although you couldn’t hear her. Maybe you could hear her, but it would have been an unintelligible muffled sound. Yes, I think I definitely heard her. I’m remembering now. And another thing I’m remembering is this feeling I got looking at her. She was wearing a lacy baby blue outfit. Come in. She had brown, frizzy hair. Come on in, she said. And you look at her while she’s motioning you in, then you look back at the desk by the front door where the bouncers are—two big fags with hoop earrings—and then you look back at her and her mouth, and it occurs to you that this girl is in a cage. And even though you’re fucked up and dried-out and numb and dumb, the significance of this does not escape you, and you suddenly feel sorry for the girl, very sorry for her, tremendously sorry for her, even if she doesn’t feel that way for herself, you do. Even though you are not the greatest person in the world. Really fucking sorry, man. Then you just smile at her and walk down the hall and wait outside the quarter booths, and you hear your buddies inside whooping it up, and you check out the pictures on the walls, black and white line drawings of naked women, and you check those out for awhile, and then there’s nothing else to do, so you find an open booth and you go in. I only had two quarters so I put them in. There was a redhead girl with huge knockers and a skinny Asian girl off to the side dancing. They were doing this in front of two windows, side by side. They were both wearing only black pumps. They were dancing to music that made you feel like you were being gassed. Which they pumped through cheap speakers into your booth. The skinny Asian girl did twirls and the redhead girl kept putting it up to some guy’s window. You could see every side of these girls, thanks to the mirrors. They were pretty far away and since I didn’t have any more quarters, I wished one of them would come over to my window, since my time was running out. Then the redhead girl saw me. She took it off that guy’s window and danced down the line of windows in my direction. She looked at me through my window and smiled and really started strutting her stuff. I took my eyes off her for a second and I saw my reflection in the wall of mirrors facing me. You don’t exactly see your reflection. You see a dark shape with various light spots that you recognize as your face. Then you try not to look at that because it looks ugly, and you look back to the redhead girl and at her huge knockers and her bellybutton ring, and it occurs to you that whatever is going on, whatever the situation, whatever is going on in her life or in the world, or in your sorry fucking life, in your sorry, pathetic melancholy existence, whatever—this girl is beautiful. Beautiful. And then almost at the exact second tl it she puts it up to the window, the shade goes down and you’re out of quarters. But that’s not even the point of the story. When I came out of the quarter booths, Nate and Lahti and Jim were standing in front of the girl in the private booth, looking at her through the window, and Nate was smiling and sticking his tongue out at her, and putting his tongue up to the glass. The bouncers were coming out from behind the desk right as I was coming around the corner, so I was behind them. One of them started pushing Nate and calling him shit, telling him to get the fuck away from that girl or he’d call the cops, and Jim smiles all crazy, and thinks for a second and then he pulls back and crosses the first bouncer up. It gets pretty wild and the first bouncer ducks down while Jim pounds on his head and the second bouncer reaches down and comes up with a billy club and Lahti clocks him one under the jaw. I can hear the girl in the booth screaming now, and she’s pounding on the glass, and then—because what else is there to do?—I jump in and start wailing on the backs of their heads. I really pound the fuck out of them. I pound the Living Holy Fuck out of them. Wait a minute. Wait a minute.