As I dance with pregnant Nelly I notice a Lady Gaga meat costume, a Steve Jobs with an apple in his mouth mask, a Minion mask, a Jennifer Lopez booty mask, a zombie Osama Bin Laden mask (with oozing bullet wounds!), A Putin mask shaped like a dick, a classic Cheney snarling mask, a flip phone mask (which is scarier than it sounds), an Angela Merkel mask (also scarier than it sounds) and a Justin Bieber after puberty and before extreme alcoholism mask. Tonight’s pre-Halloween party theme is the early twenty-first century. Long live the aughts!
The people that don’t wear masks are generally naked or have their bodies painted in elaborate ways. As is popular with the times (at least in ‘Murica, at least in LA), most of the women have a thick nest of pubic hair with braided strands. The men have a straight line shaved from their pubic region to the base of their cocks, a style meant to elongate the appearance of an erection while dancing. Every able-bodied male has the strip, including myself. No one cares about nudity anymore, especially this close to All Hallows’ Eve. Confirm and conform.
I’m wearing a pair of jeans, a body-switcher necklace and a shirt that has been unbuttoned all the way down to the last button. The hardest button to button. Suave and sophisticated, muy guapo I am. On my head is a military cap with the words ad undas written in black light responsive paint on the back of the hat. I have no idea what it means, but a guy wearing a plastic Satan mask complimented it as he pinched my ass.
In case you think I’ve forgotten, I’m still interested in switching bodies with pregnant Nelly. I just need to find the right time to ask her again. I admit, earlier, I might have been a little too assertive with my request. Duly noted. With a few more pollute shots and some time on the dance floor, I figure I’ll be able to take her back to my flat and trade bodies before the ass crack of dawn shits another day on LA.
I spot Nelly navigating her way through the tilting dance floor. She is def the hottest pregnant woman I’ve seen in weeks. She has a pair of white contact lenses on and an elaborately jeweled neon bindi glued between her eyebrows. Her hair is wrapped in a bun and held together by a light-up chopstick that blinks with a red Coca-Cola advertisement. A skirt hangs from beneath the bulge of her belly to a foot above her kneecaps. Modest. With the C-Baby applied to her stomach, I can see her fetus squirming under the intense black lights. It’s a girl, something to be proud of. The species must live on. I take a breather and catapult myself towards a free pollution mask. Mouth-to-mouth that ego!
Note to Reader – it’s hard to run on a tilted dance floor. As I near the edge, my knees buckle and I fall forward. I catch the arm of a muscular mustached man wearing a checkered top hat and a flashing bowtie. He slaps me across the face and then hugs me, laughing maniacally. I can taste my blood and his sweat on my upper lip. He licks my chin and bites my earlobe. I push him away, step off the dance floor and reach for a pollution mask.
‘I’ve never kissed a black man!’ he screams over the booming bass.
Neither have I.
The masks on the dance floor have a little touchscreen keyboard attached so you can tell the bartenders working in the other room what kind of shot you want. There are also apps that instantly send your order, but I like going manual from time to time. I type in LoathHunAyaTop and a blue light on the tube flickers twice. It turns green. Credit approved – a feeling that will unite humankind for centuries to come.
Thirty seconds later and I’m inhaling my favorite pollute. In a haze, I push the mask to the top of my head and look out onto the dance floor. I catch Nelly dancing with a short woman. She’s giggling and swaying left to right feverishly. The baby churns in her pregnant stomach… she must be eight months pregnant at least! My sweet lord is nature beautiful!
‘That’s my body,’ I say to a fat man wearing a Burger King crown. His belly is pulled up by a pair of red suspenders, allowing me to see his nether regions. He’s the first man I’ve seen in a long time without a strip shaved through his pubes. In place of the strip is an equal sign. Can you believe that? Who’s equal these days!? Who’s ever been equal? What’s he thinking? Even the President has a strip!
Maybe he’s on the verge of a new fashion trend I’m yet unaware of. Instinctively, I want to close my eyes and log into iNet and image search ‘new pubic hair styles’. I refrain from GoogleFacing impulsively because I don’t want him to think I care. Never let someone think you care. The less you care the better you fare. Fake it ‘til you make it or beat it ‘til you can beat it.
The man turns to me and spits a piece of gum into his hand, ‘Do you want to switch bodies?’
Fish lip jiggle tits. He shows me the bubble gum, his flush face beaming with anticipation. The gum has a few iridescent blue specks in it. A body-switcher. I’ve never seen such a clever body-switcher before. I’ve seen used soda cans, chewed pencils, bent thumb tacks and empty make-up containers, but I’ve never seen a piece of gum. Personally, I use a guitar pick (which is currently hanging from my neck).
‘You can chew it?’
‘No, no,’ he says. ‘I just keep it in my mouth under my tongue. I wouldn’t actually chew it. The name is Sauria, by the way.’
Sauria is definitely into something big. He must have purchased the device illegally in Hong Kong. I’ve read many articles about the illegal body-switching technology they have there. He must switch bodies all the time. Maybe he works for the FCG. He is fat enough to at least be on the city council. I eye the man suspiciously, not sure what to make of him. The ends of his smile disappear into his chubby pig cheeks.
‘Do you work for the FCG?’ I ask him point blank.
He nearly takes a swing at me. ‘Do I work for the Federal Corporate Government? Is that what you’re asking?’
‘Yeah…’
He changes the subject. ‘It sure was sunny today.’ He pulls his pollution mask over his face and takes another swig. He’s puffing on some Japanese stuff called Uniqlo Wet Dream Poi.
‘How’s the Qlo?’ I ask, still watching Nelly on the tilting dance floor. She’s now surrounded by two naked men gyrating their cocks to the music. I needed to get over there pronto before those dicks take my booty.
‘You never answered my question…’ He pushes his mask up so it can rest on his shiny forehead.
‘Hey, I have to go.’ I point at pregnant Nelly. ‘I’m trying to switch bodies with her.’
‘She’s prego!’ He shakes his head and burps. ‘Been there, done that. It’s fun, but my life’s way better. You don’t want the cramps she’s about to get. The mood swings, the morning sickness, the constant need to go to the bathroom. Why a pregnant lady?’
‘Life experience. Maybe I want to see how it feels to give birth,’ I say.
‘That’s the stupidest thing I’ve heard all night.’ The fat man coughs and scratches his ass. ‘It hurts like hell and the monster that comes out of there ain’t worth the trouble. Look, do you want to have some real fun?’
‘Sure, who doesn’t?’ I ask. I watch as the two men lead Nelly away. There goes my prize.
‘Forget about her!’ Sauria slaps me across the back. ‘Look, I have a couple of nineteen year olds in the VIP room. Why don’t you join us there?’ He coughs again, pounding his fist against his chest. ‘The FCG is paying for the VIP room tonight. They’re always paying…’
‘I thought you didn’t work for the FCG…’
‘Everyone works for the Federal Corporate Government, whether they’d care to admit it or not.’ He harrumphs. ‘Last offer. Yes or no?’
‘Why me?’
‘You’re not a terrorist are you?’
‘No, but why me?’
‘It’s your hat, I like it. Ad undas… it means something about waves or coasting along. You got good style. I like to be surrounded by beautiful people. I like your beautiful black skin, it’s such a sexy purple under these lights. The name’s Sauria, by the way.’
‘You told me already. I’m Meme.’
‘What was that?’ he shouts over the boom boomy choons.
> ‘My name is Meme,’ I say as we shake hands.
THREE∞
**The following conversation took place in Spanish after the pregnant Nelly ditched the hyper-intoxicated Meme. It has been translated by the late José Alberto Del Castillo Cabeza Mercedes Acosta III for our monolingual audience.
‘So, can you come to pick up the shipment?’ Carloza asked.
Pregnant Nelly was sitting in the restroom at POLLUTION CLUB 512 chatting with him on GoogleFace. Every time she blinked, she could see Carloza’s image splash across her eyelids. As always, he sat in an unknown location in Tijuana. He looked comfortable in his loose fitting shorts and crisp white tank top. Curly jet black hair peaked out from under his wife beater. Behind him – a Freda motif stretched across his wall to the point that it was pixilated.
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Let me just message Noah and tell him. What time?’
Noah was Nelly’s personal Humandroid assistant. He served as her driver, her cook, her cleaner and her best friend.
‘Afternoon, you know I sleep late…’ Carloza yawned to emphasize his statement.
‘How are the pollutes anyway? Tasty?’
‘Muy bueno,’ he said. ‘Some stuff from Bhutan… you know the stuff…’
‘Seriously? How did you come across that?’ Nelly placed her hand across her stomach. She looked down and smiled at her fetus illuminated by the C-Baby lotion. She burped and the baby moved.
He laughed, ‘You know I can’t tell you that. Hold on a sec, okay?’
She looked at the door of the stall as it rattled. Someone had been jiggling the handle for the last five minutes in a passive aggressive attempt to suggest that Nelly’s time on the throne had ended.
As she waited for Carloza to return, Nelly reread the quote scrawled in mascara across the backside of the door:
Many a subtle philosopher has failed to solve himself, owing to his inability to discern his beginning and his end.
‘Sorry about that,’ Carloza said, his voice appearing in Nelly’s ear.
‘Who was it?’
‘Can’t tell you.’
‘Hey, are you going to be in there all night?’ a voice yelled from outside the stall. The door rattled again. Nelly looked down and noticed a pair of shimmering six-inch high heels covered in red spikes.
‘Find another stall, bitch,’ Nelly whispered in English.
‘What was that?’ Carloza laughed. ‘Are you speaking English my love? Where are you?’
‘Restroom.’
‘Really? You out tonight?’
‘Can’t you hear the music?’ she asked.
‘I thought you were listening to music in your aeros…’
‘How could I be in my aeros without Noah? He’s my driver,’ Nelly said. The irate woman shook the door handle again.
‘Good point.’
‘Meet anybody?’
‘Hung out with two guys for a bit. Also this other guy; I don’t remember his name, though. Black guy. Big hands.’
‘Seriously, all the other stalls are full! I can hear you talking on GoogleFace in Spanish, bitch,’ the woman outside Nelly’s stall said.
‘Hold on,’ Nelly told Carloza. She reached into her tiny Flapper purse and pulled out a small mistmask. Two carbon filters emerged after she pressed a button on the nose of the mistmask.
‘What are you doing?’ Carloza asked.
‘Just a minute.’
Nelly placed the mistmask over her face and adjusted the nose piece. She held the button down for two seconds and goggles extended upward from the cheek coverings. As the woman continued to rattle the door handle, Nelly quickly secured the goggles into the crevices of her eyes. She pressed a small lever on the chin of the mask, releasing the trapped air inside. The mask tightened as it pressurized.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
‘Hurry up bitch!’
Nelly reached into her purse and pulled out something that resembled a miniature tube of toothpaste with a nozzle on top. She flipped opened the top, pointed it at the door and pressed her thumb against the nozzle.
Fisssssp!
A green mushroom cloud engulfed the entire bathroom.
The woman’s forehead smashed into the door and landed in a thick pile of yellow hair on the floor. Women fell from the toilets, their heads and bodies landing in various ways inside the stuffy stalls.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
Nelly looked down and saw the woman’s hair creeping beneath the door. Blood from her nose had already started seeping into her bleached hair. Rose stained platinum; a fatal blonde moment. She flushed the toilet and stood, hearing another body drop near the sink. Thunk.
Nelly opened the bathroom stall and stepped in the woman’s nest of blonde hair with the heel of her shoe. She glanced down at her watch – it would be another minute until the mist disappeared.
‘Sounds like you’re done clearing out the place…’ Carloza said.
‘Some things just have to be done.’
He laughed. ‘Well, I need to see someone about the next shipment. Saturday, same time, same place.’
‘I’ll see you then,’ Nelly said, her voice muffled by the mistmask. ‘Adiosito.’
FOUR∞
Where are you right now?
Are you at home? Are you on a train? Are you in an airplane? Are you outside? Are you in your closet? Are you on the toilet? Are you in the break room at your job? Are you in a coffee shop? Are you in a bathtub? Are you reading this on an electronic reading device? Are you on a balcony? Are you thinking about something else as you read these words? Is someone else reading this to you? Are you reading it using a flashlight?
When you read something, does it form a picture of what’s happening in your brain? Could you see the mustached man slapping me in the face before embracing me? Could you picture Nelly’s baby illuminated by the black lights? Could you imagine the bartender pouring a beverage out of the tip of his gnarly dreadlock? Could you visualize Sauria with his Burger King crown and the suspenders holding up his jelly rolls?
We take this picture forming function of consciousness for granted. We read a thriller about a serial killer and we imagine him cutting up the bodies, blood misting onto his t-shirt like a Japanese anime – we do this as if it were nothing, as if it requires no effort. More than twenty-five percent of the calories we consume daily go to brain functioning. Our brains are voracious.
See this now – the panicked look on the victim’s face. A woman. Her hair matted and crimson, her body lifeless. The killer. A man with serpentine veins running up and down his arms and a brow that grazes the floor. The book. Cutting the chapters in just the right way to provide tension, to make it seem as if it’s really happening. The stereotype. The archetype. The pattern. The routine. The reward.
The pattern.
It seems as if we take in the written image as if it were natural occurrence. No matter the potential real life consequences, implied or intended, writing has a way of patronizing everything. Be it a graphic sex scene, a magical game of Quidditch, complex sleuth work that runs all the way up to the Papacy, a gruesome account of war, an illicit romance between a pathetic vampire and a ballsy human, a work of supposed merit that we read simply to say that we’ve read it.
Don’t open that door! Don’t walk out into those woods alone! Don’t go jogging at night! Don’t invite the pizza man into your home! Don’t kiss him! Don’t close this book! Don’t close this book!
Feed your brain.
We visualize these things as if they’re happening, as if we’re somehow existing within the books that we read. Of course, we know that we aren’t taking part in what’s happening. We know we’re silent observers, passing judgment and driving the story further with the turn of each page. This doesn’t stop us from biting our nails, skipping sentences to see what happens or putting a book aside because it’s either too complex or too anticlimactic. Are you not entertained!?
No matter how we consume it, the author tosses crumbs at us as we fol
low him or her along. We accept all. Hands on our ankles, thighs sky high – full-on penetration. We drop the soap repeatedly for the sake of literature.
Does a novel stop when we put it down? Do the characters wait in limbo for us to return so they can finish their story? Do they tire of telling the same story time and time again? How does a movie affect the image of the character we have formed in our heads? Do our protagonists always resemble some part of us?
Sauria explains all this to me in between puffs from a nacre pollution mask in the highly exclusive VIP room. He worked in the electronic publishing industry for a number of years and even wrote a book on the home installation of pollution mask bars. He was now the owner of a global security analysis company called Executive Executions or ExEx. The totem pole has been scaled.
I can barely make out the details of Sauria’s face. He’s blurry and fishy, greasy and curdled. This might be the most schwasted I’ve ever been off pollutes. Suddenly, his face stretches. His nose warps into a small black hole as if he’s being sucked through a straw. He is everyman. I watch a large pair of doughy breasts bounce on his chest, one at a time. Hairy nipples. My skin is crawling. His pupils are dilated. Grizzled old yegg. I suddenly miss pregnant Nelly’s large white contacts.
Sauria presses a button on the edge of the table and the wall next to us folds away like an accordion. Our private room is now crowded. ‘Take a look, Meme,’ he says, waving his hand at the folding wall. He’s my fat business messiah. I’m his sheep watching as he parts the waters. I’ll do anything for you my bloated compadre!
On the other side of the wall are the women he promised. One pregnant woman stands, applying more C-Baby lotion to her belly, squeezing the liquid out of a small red and white tube. Next to her are a pair of nineteen-year-olds twins with bangs and another moll wearing a spiked S&M mask. Seven fat men wearing nothing but blue silk ties, suspenders and nipple rings complete the scene. All their pubic regions are shaved into equal signs.
Tokyo Stirs: (Short Stories about Asia) Page 10
