by Paul Neilan
“You see? What did I tell you?” he said as he re-hung the dream catcher and sat down. “You just have to listen to your machoso. Always.”
He popped the briefcase open and inside was an M-80, two sparklers and a pack of those shitty black pellets that turn into ash snakes when you light them.
“My babies.” He was delighted. “Los niñatas. You won’t find a better stash outside of Tijuana,” he said, accenting it like he’d been kicked in the throat between syllables.
“I just want my key.”
“Don’t worry. The first taste is always free.”
“I don’t want a taste,” I said.
“We all want a taste.”
“They’re fireworks, you can’t eat them.”
“A taste.”
“Fine. Give me the M-80.”
“Ha ha, I like the way you think dando. Have another taste. One more. You want it, I can tell. You’re hungry now.”
“Give me a sparkler.”
“I knew it, I knew it,” he said.
What he didn’t know was that I was planning to catheterize him with it if he didn’t give me my goddamn key. He had about three minutes. I was that close to madness. Being in the jungle really does drive you insane. The effects are almost immediate. A pterodactyl shrieked out of the rain forest in agreement.
“Something else I want to show you,” he said, digging in his kilt with both hands.
I clenched the sparkler in my fist, but he was unsnapping a button and reaching into a pocket. Kilts have pockets now apparently. Weirdos are finally getting practical.
He pulled out my key. It was dangling from the end of a candy bracelet. I almost wept.
“I trust you with this,” he said, holding it up for me to see.
“It’s my key.”
“Even better choco,” and he dropped it into my open hand. It hit my palm like another man’s used condom.
“I’m getting out of here,” I said, already out of my chair and walking towards the door.
Ivan squealed in his chains as I passed, but it wasn’t like the frenzied shrieks of penetration that I heard through my ceiling all those nights as I tried to smother myself with my pillow. This was a whimper, quiet and pleading. This was a cry for help. I couldn’t even look at him.
“I’ll see you again chachi! You know it!” Mobo yelled after me as I rushed out the door.
Back in my apartment, I wanted to wrap myself in paper towels. I didn’t know what Mobo had touched, where Ivan had been positioned. I figured I should at least delouse my stuff, spray some Lysol maybe. But I sat on my bed instead. Then I laid down. My clothes were still wet but I didn’t bother changing them. It was no use. There’s only so much you can do in a world as thoroughly defiled as this, and even that’s not worth the trouble.
And then, to redeem the filth and shame of life, just like Cinderella I was invited to the ball. A deaf birthday party at Marlene’s house. She was turning thirty-four. I didn’t bring a present.
It wasn’t Tuesday and I had nowhere else to be, but I didn’t plan on staying. Even if I was having a good time I’d have to leave before they sang “Happy Birthday.” For humanity’s sake. If there was karaoke I’d have to kill myself immediately.
I had no idea what to expect. I didn’t know people even had birthday parties anymore. Not in their houses. And everybody at this one would be deaf. I would dominate musical chairs. Marco Polo would be a travesty. There would be no blindfolds for the piñata or pin the tail on the donkey because that has to fuck up your equilibrium if you already can’t hear. People would be falling all over each other. I hadn’t been to a birthday party in a long, long time.
Marlene either lived in #6 or #16. Number six was a small white house that looked like it was built out of cardboard and held together by paint, but really it was built out of wood and held together by nails just like every other goddamn house in the world. I stood outside at the bottom of the steps, not sure what to do. It didn’t look like there was a party inside. But then, it never does, does it.
As I was considering this, someone busted through the front door like the motherfucking Kool-Aid Man and barreled down the steps. He had tightly curled hair set way back on his scalp and his forehead was the size of a drive-in movie screen. He looked deaf and pissed off. I stepped aside as he bulled past me, his big head tucked into his shoulders. He stared me broad in the face as he passed, but said nothing. He had on a green sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows and a pair of green sweat pants that were three shades lighter than his shirt. I definitely had the right house.
I stepped through the open front door, lightly, like I was stepping onto a trampoline.
Marlene was standing just inside with her back to me, agitated and flailing her hands at a guy and some lady. Her neck was bright red and she moved her hands like I did when I was speaking angry sign language gibberish, but she was obviously making some kind of sense because the two people were listening and nodding, and the guy signed No fucking way! after Marlene threw up her hands. I was very impressed with myself for picking it up.
He tapped one of Marlene’s furious hands and motioned towards me. She turned around scowling, her hair swinging over her eyes, but her face shattered into a crooked smile when she saw that it was me.
“SHANE!” she shouted.
“Aaaaaye!” I said, and made hand gestures like I was Italian.
Why are you mad? I signed, just so everyone would know that I could. The guy and the lady smiled. Nice.
My husband’s an asshole.
Was that him? And I thumbed out the door.
Yeah, fucking asshole.
He looked like a giant string bean, I signed, and the three of them burst out laughing loud and off-key. Ahh, the laughter of the deaf. I was a hit at my first deaf party. I was popular among the hearing impaired.
This is Shane, Marlene signed, laughing.
They both signed Hello.
Hello fuckheads, I signed back.
They were dumbfounded. The lady looked offended and I think the guy wanted to punch me in the face. Shit. Too much too soon. I had squandered all my hearing-impaired credibility. My reputation would never recover.
Marlene turned to them and signed something so quick that I didn’t catch it. They all laughed, then smiled at me like I was retarded, which Marlene may have told them I was. I didn’t care. At least I didn’t have to fight anyone. I had a theory that while the blind are given super hearing to compensate for their condition, the deaf are given super strength, like Lou Ferrigno, and I was in no hurry to find out if I was right.
Weirdo, Marlene signed as she shook her head and grabbed my arm, leading me into the house.
What did you say to them about me?
I told them you were retarded.
I knew it.
Go out to the backyard, weirdo. There’s beer. I’ll be out soon, and she pointed me through the kitchen towards the back door.
Everyone I passed was talking unbelievably fast with their hands and mouthing things to each other so quickly I could only pick out stray words and phrases. A man said yes. A woman said please. Another man said I don’t know and laughed. It was like watching Telemundo after four years of high school Spanish. I didn’t know what was going on. And there I was believing I could translate for the United Nations. It was very humbling. The Lebanese ambassador could still go fuck himself.
I couldn’t believe there were so many of them. I figured it would just be Marlee Matlin and a man-child in overalls or two, but there were like forty people standing around, all of them deaf. It was unprecedented. There was a low hum of mumbling and motion as people’s mouths and hands moved in tandem, and it made me think of hummingbirds and Japanese gardens though I did not know why. It was kind of beautiful.
But I was panicking. I felt like the new kid at a middle school dance where everyone knew everyone except me. I was different. I didn’t fit in. And it was true, which was very refreshing. As an adult there are so few situations where you
can legitimately feel like you’re at a middle school dance and not hate yourself for being melodramatic. It was fascinating to see how little I’d grown.
Then I saw Doug standing over by the keg, smiling at everyone, blissfully ignorant of how awkward the scene really was. Yeah they had a keg. Deaf people fucking party.
“Shane!” Doug called out as he saw me, cracking the silence like a gunshot that only I could hear. Despite myself I was overjoyed to see him. He was the fat kid in math club who played the tuba and licked the nosepads of his glasses, but I didn’t care. Whoever said any port in a storm was standing alone at a middle school dance.
“This is a great party huh? I feel like I’m back at dental college!”
Standing alone by the keg. Again. Ahh Doug. “You been here long?” I whispered, not wanting to show off.
“About an hour and a half.” He was speaking at a regular volume but it sounded incredibly loud.
“Where are the cups?”
“I don’t know if there are any left. Here, you can take this one.” Doug had an extra cup stacked over the one he was drinking from. “Just in case I felt like fisting, ha ha ha.”
I offered up a silent prayer, pleading that he’d really meant to say “double fisting.” Then I tried to ignore the image of Doug’s beer-soaked child molester’s mustache brushing over the lip of my cup, bristle by strawberry blond bristle. But I could not. The beer tasted like kiddie porn, and I had to drink it. I felt dirty and sad. For the children, and for myself.
Doug had mastered the art of talking to people who weren’t interested in what he had to say, so it didn’t seem to bother him that I was obviously not paying attention.
“He’s confusing a bicuspid with a canine and he’s going to lecture me on how to fill a cavity? I don’t care if he was a dentist in the Korean War, we’ve had a few changes since then. I mean, technology? Hello? Ha ha ha. I don’t mean to talk about my other patients like that. Must be the brew.”
The brew was Coors Light, and I was drinking a full cup for every sip that Doug took. And I was deliberately drinking slower than I wanted to, so I wouldn’t fall down. I held his cup for him while he bent down to tie his shoe and the plastic was damp and warm as piss. He’d been on the same beer all night, and he had sweaty palms. Gross.
“I’m thinking about putting a speaker in the office so I can listen to some tunes while I work. Nothing too heavy, just something I could bop to. Wayne Newton’s early stuff, some Lawrence Welk big band, maybe jazz it up with some Tiny Tim every once in a while. I like all different kinds of music. . . .”
I didn’t even have to pretend I was listening with the usual “uh huh . . . ok . . . oh really? . . . uh huh . . .” prompts. He just kept going. It was like being in his office chair, only without the dental dam jammed halfway down my throat. Doug just needed someone to be there for him. Literally. He would’ve made a fantastic necrophiliac. And at that moment I didn’t care. I just wanted someone to stand next to. With him babbling beside me I could relax and observe the scene instead of feeling awkward and alone.
Except for the sign language and the occasional outrageously loud and off-key laugh, it was just like any other party. People were standing around talking, drinking, just hanging out in somebody’s backyard. There was no raspberry fog, no karaoke, no heart-rending eighties theme. It was just a regular party. I was secretly, bitterly disappointed.
But whether it was the soothing peace of all those people talking silently with their hands or the cups of Coors Light I was pounding or the hypnotic drone of Doug’s inane bullshit, I felt good and happy. Above all I was utterly, utterly proud of myself for knowing sign language, even if I couldn’t really understand it. I was a scholar and a gentleman, and a great human being.
“. . . and I know most people would probably argue with me, but I really think Paul McCartney did his best work with Wings,” Doug said as Marlene stumbled over and grabbed my arm.
“SHANE! COME ON!” And she pulled me away from him.
I looked back over my shoulder and Doug was smiling benevolently, as only a man who has accepted that he will always be left can.
You’re drunk! I signed.
So are you!
No. I . . . am . . . GENIUS!!!
Marlene’s atonal laugh rocked the backyard. I followed her into the house.
Why was your husband pissed before? I signed.
We were fighting. He said there were too many people and it was too loud. Fuck him. Come on, I want to show you something.
We went inside and when she pulled me up a flight of stairs I started thinking that maybe she wanted me to have sex with her. I was considering it. I was drunk and she was deaf. It would at least make for a good story. But I wasn’t sure who I would tell. Maybe Karal, or Penthouse.
When she led me into her bedroom I got a little nervous because it was packed with people. I just wasn’t sure I could handle a deaf gangbang, all the howls and moaning like a bag of kittens drowning in a river. But the crowd gave way to her frantically motioning hands and then we were standing before the drawing I’d done of her sitting on that heap of trash with her horse teeth and big ears. She’d framed it and hung it in her bedroom. I was so proud of myself I wanted to cry.
“GOOD WORK!” Marlene shouted as she slapped me on the back, and everyone in the room started laughing and clapping.
They were applauding me. I was famous. And I knew then what I would do for the rest of my life: caricatures of the deaf, for acclaim and standing ovations. I would win grants and go to charity events. I would be feted. Maybe I would date Marlee Matlin. I would create the United Deaf Negro College Fund in memory of a hearing-impaired black man that I had never met. PBS would do a feature on me and I would help them with their telethons. I would also try to help Jerry Lewis, but he would refuse. He was very quirky.
I raised my arms above my head and pumped my fists, giddy and triumphant and drunk. Marlene pointed at the picture, then pointed at me and the room erupted. It was fucking cacophony, claps and wailing deaf people and laughter. I was almost embarrassed by all the attention, and by all the fucked up noises they were making, but what could I do? These were my people now.
They ushered me out of the room and the crowd pushed me into the backyard where the rest of the party was, and as we spilled through the door they all looked at us, wondering why we were in hysterics. And because I know things about show business I spun around and pointed at Marlene, then swung my arm over my head and brought it down to pinch my nose so theatrically I could have been a very skinny professional wrestler. YOU . . . STINK!!!
Deaf people were falling all over each other. I was the funniest man in the world. Marlene was bent over laughing, her face so red I thought it would pop like a grape. The atonal swell was an uproar. Garbage bags of kittens were screeching in the cold, cold water.
I went to the YOU . . . STINK! well again, which I never would have done if I’d been sober. It was amateur, but I couldn’t help myself. There were tears on all their faces. They were laughing themselves to death, all of them holding on to each other to keep from rolling in the grass. Marlene was struggling to stand upright and point at me, but she couldn’t straighten up long enough to do it. This was exactly what I needed. This was my Academy Award.
And so what if it was all novelty. I knew that even as it was going on. It was a one-joke act and probably wouldn’t last through the party without going stale, but I didn’t care. For that moment I was the guy dancing in the middle of the circle that everyone wanted to watch. I was Kevin Bacon in Footloose, except funny and not in high school yet, and never, ever on the gymnastics team. I was popular, and that’s what middle school is all about.
“Shane?” It was Doug, tapping me on the shoulder, wanting to be popular for once too.
“Yeah?”
“Everyone is laughing at you,” he said.
“Yeah.” I was hilarious.
Then Doug put his hand to my back and pulled off a piece of paper. I saw the S
cotch tape curling off the top. There was a sign on my back. The words, in big, bold print: I’M STINK.
The already deafening laughter collapsed into full-blown hysteria. I looked over at Marlene. She’d fallen to the ground holding her stomach, saying “OW! OW!” it hurt from so much laughing. Everyone’s mouth was open, gaping, coughing, hacking, sick from laughing so hard. All at me. One woman had lipstick on her teeth, bright red, which I sometimes dream about. To this day I wake up drenched and screaming.
It had to be a noise violation. Why hadn’t the neighbors called anyone? Where were the fucking police? It had gone beyond laughter at that point. It was one massive blast of atonal sound, like a fucked up symphony of 3,000 car alarms going off at the same time all around me. And there was no one to press that fucking keychain button to make them stop.
* * *
So I’d lied to him. So what. This wasn’t Sunday school. This was America. You can lie to anybody you want goddamnit. Even if they’re a detective. Even if you’re in some interrogation room under a goddamn spotlight. Even if a woman’s dead and you’re somehow the prime suspect. Fuck.
Sikes wrote something else in his manilla folder and he looked at it for a long time. The back of my neck was hot. My legs were cramping. I wanted to go back to sleep and wake up and start all over again. This time I’d get sodomized and wait for a lawyer.
Sikes closed the folder and pushed it to the middle of the table. Then he got up and left without saying anything. I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to open it and read what he’d been writing or if they’d be mad at me if I did, so I just sat there and tried to think of a way out.
He came back in and sat down. I had aged years in his absence. I’d done my time already and was up for parole. I’d been a model prisoner. I was reformed. Why didn’t they just let me go?
“You got anything else you’d like to tell me?” he said.
“No.”
He looked at me hard.
“You got any family around here?”
“No.”
“You got anybody you can call?”
“Not really,” I said.
