by Paul Neilan
Statues and monuments were thrown up reverently along the promenade, honoring the city founders and explorers and heroes in bronze and marble. And there were a few memorials to groups of people who’d gotten screwed over the years, usually by the same bronzed and marbled city founders and explorers and heroes. The Japanese memorial was a group of upright miniature Stonehenge-looking rocks about four feet tall with plaques laid into them talking about how the Japanese had been rounded up during World War II and put in camps because of the climate of fear and bullshit the government and the press had created. There were lots of poems and excerpts of speeches by important people, but I lacked the civic will to read any of it.
I was glad I walked past it though. Those kinds of nods and gestures are very fulfilling. It’s like watching Schindler’s List again, or not changing the channel during a Black History Month commercial. Or blowing fifty dollars on roulette at a reservation casino and not being mad. You get to feel like you’re really participating, even if you had nothing to do with any of it in the first place. When something awful and shameful can be remembered and acknowledged and atoned for just by slapping up a few statues and plaques or playing a hand of poker, everybody wins.
I stood on the concrete walking path and leaned my bike against the railing and looked out over the dirty river. They’d spent all this money renovating the waterfront and left the water itself filthy and ruined. That was typical. Build a comfortable chair to sit in while everything around you goes to shit. You’ve done all you can do.
Still, it could have been worse. The water was rancid but it was still water, and moving, and you could look out across it at the spirals of highway and exit ramps on the other side. And there were bridges stretching out on either side of me. Everyone likes bridges. The tall buildings of the city were behind me and the water was in front of me. There were ways out if you knew where to find them.
I drummed my fingers on the wrought-iron railing and waited for Marlene. Obviously, as I was writhing and crying on my bed of salt, I realized through the excruciating pain that she probably hadn’t turned into a robot, and that she was probably using some deaf telephone conversion machine, one that translates speech into text. Then she’d read what I said and type her own words and the robot voice would say it for her. Obviously she wasn’t a robot. But it would have been kind of cool if she was.
She showed up wearing a scarf over her frizzy hair and a pair of big round sunglasses that made her look like she was blind. I was going to make a joke about Helen Keller but that would have hit too close, her being deaf and all, and I couldn’t think of a good one quick enough.
“HI STINK!” she shouted, scaring away all the pigeons that had been strutting around me. “YOU THOUGHT I WAS A ROBOT!” And she laughed.
No I didn’t, I signed, and tried to mask my disappointment.
Is that your bike?
Yes, I signed.
“THAT BIKE’S FOR GIRLS!” And she laughed again, louder. A homeless man rolled over on the grass.
All right, all right. Why did you make me get out of bed? What the hell am I doing here? I signed.
I need your help.
She took off her sunglasses and there was a purple bruise curled around her right eye.
Shit.
What happened to you?
I fell, she signed, and gave a weak laugh. Clumsy, and she rolled her eyes.
I wanted to ask her about it, or instead just take a bat to her husband’s big fucking forehead, like Russell Crowe in L.A. Confidential. But even as I thought it I immediately knew that I would not. And I immediately knew that it was cowardice, and that I would have to remember it differently later to keep from being ashamed. Excuses would have to be made, and I would make them to myself. I watched the dirty river pass below.
I need your help, she signed again. I’m leaving my husband.
Good! I signed quick and forcefully, hoping the righteousness and pantomimed anger would make up for my own lack of action. I felt like a politician. You should leave him tonight, I signed helpfully.
No, it’s too soon. I have to make things ready.
I looked at her bruised eye.
Where will you go, your boyfriend?
No. I haven’t seen him in a while. I’m tired of it.
Will you stay with Doug?
No way! You shouldn’t shit where you sleep.
I almost threw up all over her.
Then what are you going to do? I signed.
I don’t know. I just want to get away from everyone and be by myself. You know what I mean?
Yeah. I know.
I don’t care about any of it, but when I tell my husband he’s going to fucking go crazy. That’s why I need you to keep this.
She reached into her pocket and handed me a folded check, signed and made out to me, for $800. That Martian from Looney Tunes was standing in the upper right-hand corner with his hands on his hips. I think his name was Marvin.
Why are you giving it to me?
When I tell him he’s going to get pissed off and I’m afraid he’ll steal all the money from our account. Most of it is fucking mine, so if I give it to you then he won’t be able to find it.
Why don’t you just take it out yourself and hide it? Put it in a safe deposit box or bury it in your backyard or something.
No, then he’ll see that it’s out of the account and he can trace it back to me, she signed.
Yeah but if I cash it, it will still be out of the account and he can fucking trace it to me instead.
No . . . . She thought about it for a second. Oh yeah.
Oh yeah, dumb ass, and I gave her back the check.
Fuck you! I have stress!
The pigeons had come back and they cooed and clucked around us. The smaller female pigeons pecked at the ground while two bigger male pigeons strutted and preened and tried to have sex with whoever would have them.
When are you going to tell him? I signed.
I don’t know. Soon. I can’t take it anymore. He’s always yelling at me, saying I’m cheating on him and—
I looked at her.
I know, I know, she laughed. I just want it to be done. I’m going to tell them all and get it over with. Maybe Doug will fire me and then I can sue him and be rich.
Nice, I signed.
Okay, I have to go back to work, and she folded the check and put it back in her pocket. Half hour is too short for lunch.
Yeah it’s bullshit. Tell Doug I said he eats my dick.
She put her sunglasses back on.
Be careful, I signed. If you need anything, call me and talk in your stupid robot voice. And don’t fall down anymore.
Okay, she signed, and smiled crooked. In that scarf and those big sunglasses she looked like a ruined Jackie Onassis.
“BYE STINK!” she shouted as she waved and walked away.
With a flurry of dirty feathers and panic all around me, the pigeons flew away.
She’d started smoking cigarettes after sex. One, sometimes two, that I watched like egg timers out of the corner of my eye every Tuesday night as I sat up smoking too, my stomach churning. In the absence of any moaning or screaming or any sound whatsoever, without even Gwen’s brutal “head on the dislocated shoulder afterwards” stabs at forced intimacy, I took whatever hint of satisfaction I could get from her. Even if participating in it myself made me sick.
I had never liked cigarettes and always thought that was a character flaw and the reason why I wasn’t more popular. But here I had no choice. I coughed sometimes and dropped ashes everywhere and hoped she didn’t notice.
I was watching the fan and thinking about Marlene and her black eye. I wanted to tell her about it, talk about it, get all worked up and be outraged as I told her the story so I could feel like I’d done something. But I didn’t do anything, and there was nothing to say. I wasn’t responsible for what had happened or for what would probably happen later, so there was no good in talking about it and dragging it out for other people to
gawk at like it was some kind of sick spectacle. Less than a week and already I was using my Nuremberg defense. I was proud of myself in a sad, ugly way.
“A woman I work with died the other day,” I said.
“Did you like her?”
“I didn’t even know her.”
“How did she die?”
“Massive heart attack.”
“Was she old?”
“Not too old. But she was really fat.”
“I don’t like talking about death,” she said.
“Nobody does.”
“Bryce does,” she said.
Naked and smoking a cigarette I did not want, “Bryce” was the absolute last thing I wanted to hear.
“He talks about it all the time. Mostly to himself in the bathroom or in his sleep. He swallowed a bottle of pills last month.”
“Jesus,” I said, but it was good.
“They were vitamins. Flintstones chewables.”
I laughed and she smiled as she blew out a puff of smoke. In all the Tuesdays I’d been coming by it was the first time I’d seen her smile.
“It was a cry for help,” was her officially sarcastic diagnosis.
“It was a cry for something. He must’ve pissed fluorescent for weeks,” I said.
“Did you go to that woman’s funeral?”
“Who?”
“The one who died. From your work.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I didn’t even know her. It would’ve been more like a business lunch than a funeral anyway. People were just going because they were supposed to, for appearances or teamwork or some bullshit. I didn’t want any part of it.”
“You don’t like false pretenses?”
“I usually do, but theirs seemed so insincere. Mostly I don’t like going to the funerals of fat women I don’t know.”
“I would have gone. I like funerals.”
“Why?”
“I like watching people, how they handle themselves. How the family reacts, how some people laugh and can’t help it, how the funeral director shakes everyone’s hand and looks at his watch.”
“You like funerals but you don’t like talking about death?”
“They’re not the same thing. Funerals take all that useless talk and put it on stage. That’s where you can separate people.”
“Into what?”
“The ones who know they’re on stage and the ones who know but don’t care,” she said.
“I’ve only been to two funerals.”
“Your parents?”
“No, my parents are both alive.”
“I thought everyone’s parents were dead by now,” she said, and drew in long from her cigarette and held it.
“Are yours?”
“No.” She smiled again as she exhaled, smoke curling towards the ceiling fan and scattering.
Two smiles in one night. That was something.
“You should go,” she said after her second cigarette was done. So I left. And on the way out I wondered just what she was doing, and if it was a game whether I was even playing.
* * *
Detective Brooks opened the door.
“It’s time,” he said.
They led me to a small room that had a sink and a toilet but it seemed much too sinister to be called a bathroom. I would never have been able to sleep there.
Brooks handed me a reinforced plastic baggie that had a zip top.
“We need a sample,” he said.
No lotion or magazine or anything.
“I can’t jerk off into a plastic bag,” I said. “It’s Easter.” I was feeling punchy and ridiculous and afraid. I was already working on my insanity defense.
“You can and you will, or we’ll have the Easter Bunny come in there and do it for you,” Sikes said.
“What the hell is wrong with you two? It’s not Easter.” Brooks was disgusted with us both again.
“I am not resisting arrest!” I said as I shut the door, but nobody thought it was funny except me.
Jerking off in that sinister little bathroom was actually kind of erotic, considering what was at stake. I think it had something to do with being so close to the holding cells and all those criminals. One night I was in a bus station bathroom in Tulsa, Oklahoma, washing my hands and under one of the doors I saw a pair of black patent-leather shoes and a pair of red Converse high tops, both in the same stall. “If it feels good, it’s not gay,” a hushed voice was pleading. I needed to get back on a Greyhound and quick. There even if things didn’t make sense you at least never ended up jerking off in a police station.
Since I had some time to myself I finally thought about Marlene. Not like that. I just thought about her. I only knew her incidentally really. It wasn’t like I’d give the eulogy at her funeral or anything. I couldn’t get that sentimental. But I knew I’d miss having her around. It was like being a kid and having someone on your block move away. Not your next door neighbor or your best friend, but somebody down the street you used to play with and now the kickball teams would be uneven and it wouldn’t be like how it was.
I finished up and gave Detective Sikes a warm bag of the best of me. I made sure I handed it to him.
Chapter 7
The bar down the street from my apartment was a cramped, dingy, worn out old place, always just dim enough so you could barely make out the small swarms of fruit flies that rose from wherever you’d set your drink. But it was cheap enough that you really couldn’t complain about them. There were never more than four people in there at a time, and everyone always sat at the bar.
The seven-to-ten A.M. happy hour brought in a few drunk ass old men and some guys from the road crews, the ones who stand there all day leaning on the Slow and Stop signs trying not to fall down. They were never young and had never just shaved, and the ones who had hair looked like they were wearing bad toupees. Sometimes women came in, and they looked exactly like the men except their toupees were worse, but usually they didn’t come in.
There was food on the menu but I never saw anyone order any. The condiments were lined up on the bar in case they did though: old half-empty glass bottles of mustard and ketchup with the dried blackened overspill creeping out from under the cap like mold, grimed pepper and saltshakers with pushed-in tin tops. I always sat near them, and when the bartender turned his back I would think about stealing one or maybe two, but then I would not. And that, that is loyalty.
It was a good place to wait out the early mornings, a good way to get used to the idea of another day. The windows were made out of a special, magic glass, like the bottoms of old Coke bottles or the stuff they use in two-way mirrors—there were principles at work that I did not understand—so the windowpanes would glow orange amber and repel the sunlight, keeping the bar dim while still letting you see outside, and you could watch the morning get bright in a garbled, distorted sort of way. It was like sitting in a cave that served beer. It was very primordial. During happy hour pitchers of Miller High Life were only three dollars apiece. And that is probably why I showed up to work piss drunk all those days.
I’d stumble into the office and go straight to the bathroom and pass out. When I woke up an hour or two later I’d still be ragged drunk or in the early stages of a debilitating hangover with permanent nerve damage in both legs. Getting back to my chair was a Greek tragedy of chemical imbalance and full-blown cerebral palsy. I’d stagger past co-workers and fall into cubicle walls and I didn’t even care that I was obviously hammered and reeking of stale cigarettes and alcohol and that there were swarms of fruit flies nesting in my hair. And these people would smile at me and say, “Having fun yet?” or “Is it Friday yet?” or “Time to go home yet?” completely oblivious to my ruination, rhetorically seeking their own better times that wouldn’t ever come, even when they did.
Sometimes you are left with no choice but to manufacture your own fiascos, and alcohol is an easy and legal variable to introduce. I was curious—scientifically, economically, s
ociologically, morally—as to whether I could function as an alphabetizer for a large insurance company even though I was too drunk to recite the alphabet without singing it. But what if I could? What if I could keep up even as my liver failed and I went blind from alcohol poisoning? What if I could excel? What would this say about capitalism? About the unyielding corporate machine? About the fate of the individual in an increasingly conformist American society? Sometimes the questions are more important than the answers, especially when you do not know what the answers are.
I didn’t give a shit either way. I just couldn’t take working at Panopticon Insurance anymore. Changes had to be made, but I didn’t want to be the one to have to make them. I figured if I was drunk all the time I’d be even more obviously incompetent and they’d have no choice but to fire me. As bad as it was I couldn’t bring myself to quit. Quitting is too proactive, and it reflects poorly on a person’s character. Nobody likes a quitter. I would always rather be a victim of circumstance. And I thought if I got fired I could apply for unemployment, which I know now isn’t fucking true.
But it didn’t happen. Not the way I thought anyway. Nobody even noticed. Or if they did I doubt they associated my stumbling and slurred speech and snoring with raging early-morning Miller High Life binges. They probably thought I had a cold, or was really stressed out from all my alphabetizing. There are a fixed set of explanations most people apply to situations, and if one of those easy explanations doesn’t fit they either push harder to make it fit or they ignore the whole goddamn thing and watch TV. That’s why trial by jury is so terrifying for black men who aren’t famous. That’s why mediocre childhoods are a blank check to be an asshole. That’s why shitty actors on crappy sitcoms are so rich and beloved. That’s why so many unthinkable atrocities continue for as long as they do unchecked. Genocide. Serial incest and inbreeding. My employment at Panopticon Insurance. All so horrible they defy reason or explanation. To sensible people, it just doesn’t make sense. It just can’t be. Sleeping in the bathroom and getting drunk at seven A.M.? It hardly even made sense to me. But we still do the things that we do.
