Omnivores

by Lydia Millet

“This is bad,” he said. “No car in L.A., you’re a cripple. They might as well hack off your legs.”

  “All those things you said, do I have to pay for them? What if I don’t want them?”

  “Stop yanking my chain,” said Pete Magnus.

  “But I don’t want them, all I need is to be somewhere.”

  “You can’t just be somewhere,” he said. “You gotta pay for it. You pay for everything Esty. Heat, cold, a bed, all that shit Esty. When you left your parents’ house there you gave up your free ride. Babe in the woods. I mean literally. Wake-up call. Everything has a price. A free good in this world Esty, a free good is a good with no value. Something’s free, it means no one will pay money for it. Means it sucks Esty. Remember that.”

  “But just to be somewhere? It costs money?”

  OBSERVATION 2: HOMO SAPIENS

  There is a tariff for being alive.

  “Shit,” said Pete Magnus, “it goes without saying. Most natural thing in the world. Gotcher resources, right? Then you got demand, you got free enterprise, Adam Smith, wealth of nations, gotcher highest bidder your lowest seller and bingo.”

  “Who’s Adam Smith?” asked Estée.

  “Some guy in business school, made these videos about I forget exactly what, maybe how to be a self-starter or like the difference between tax avoidance and evasion. Video called Wealth of Nations they showed us. Anyway, my point is you gotta get there first. The three elements are timing, speed, and vision. Like I’ll see a property and I’ll jump onto it, oftentimes I find out the next day I beat another guy out by a hair. A hair’s breath.” He muted a commercial and changed channels, settling on basketball highlights played to the droning voice of a commentator. She got up to get him the beer and one for herself.

  In Bill’s house she had taken objects for granted. Clearly their apparent willingness to serve had been deceptive. In the new world she was unowned, but also owned nothing. There was a link. No good to ask Pete Magnus. His efforts were wholly directed toward expansion. She was interested in subsistence.

  “Way it works, one guy sees the other guy needs something, so he makes it for him, that is if he has what we call comparative advantage, Esty. That’s when the opportunity cost of producing something is less than what it costs to buy it. Gotcher trade-off ratios, your production possibility curves, all that shit Esty. Comparative advantage. If you’re lucky Esty, you got what we call absolute advantage. Absolute advantage. That’s when you got something no one else got. What you gotta do, you trade your labor in for money, spend the money on buying things. You turn time into goods Esty. It’s like magic.”

  Even the air had become commodified, every segment of the earth apportioned off to an entrepreneur. There was no plot of land anywhere not laid claim to by a number, not described by other numbers, kidnapped and held for ransom to anyone whose hapless body, with dimensions and wants far beyond its control, chanced to rest on its surface. The earth was a grid, subdivided by owner.

  “Shit, this isn’t cold. Fuckin warm beer, make me sick.”

  “I don’t like that,” she said. “Time into goods.”

  “Surprised your dad didn’t tell you about business. It’s like the only thing that guy’s not wacked about. He knows business, Esty. What did he talk about all your life? I mean, Christ. Didn’t you go to school?”

  “I did before,” she said, “but then he took me out.”

  “Jesus Esty. Fuckin weird.”

  “I brought some things to sell,” she said. “Jewelry and stuff.”

  “Jewelry, that won’t keep you in socks Esty. You better stay with me. We’ll figure out something. I’ll show you the ropes Esty. Teach you some skills. Found out those shares are for real, he bought ’em through his broker and converted them to street. Don’t think I’m not grateful Esty. You stick with me.”

  In the morning she watched from her window and continued to take notes.

  GLOSSARY: HOMO SAPIENS

  SPECIMEN 3: U.S. Postal Worker, Male.

  DESCRIPTION: Nonvenomous.

  Further observation needed.

  Then she watched television. It was a vast empire and educational too, but she had to stop taking notes. She let the deluge come. She stared at it for hours and tried to distinguish its categories, but they were indistinct. At 4:12 by the digital clock on the VCR the doorbell rang and she answered it eagerly, notebook in hand. Two men were there, a tall bug-eyed one in a suit, a short one in a T-shirt that pictured a dove. Caution must be exercised.

  “Do you have a minute, one minute in your busy day to spare for news that could change your life?” said the shorter man. He was sweating.

  “I have minutes,” she said.

  “We want t-to ask you,” said the tall man. He ran a finger along the inside rim of his collar and looked to the short man, who nodded encouragement. “We want to ask you, have y-yyou ak-ak-ak-ak—” He broke off, clenching his fists.

  “Go Ron,” said the short man, and patted the other on the back. “Doing real well, Ron.”

  “Ak-ak-ak—”

  “You can do it, Ron.”

  “—ak-cepted Jesus Christ as your p-p-personal savior?”

  “Great Ron. Perfect.”

  “Does it cost money?”

  “The Lord comes fr-fr-freely to His children.”

  “Because the jewelry won’t keep me in socks.”

  “May we come in?” asked the short man. “It’s the heat.”

  “Sure,” she said, and led them to Pete Magnus’s couch. Here, already, was evidence that Pete Magnus’s information was inaccurate. No money was required for Jesus. They sat down beside each other, leaning forward together. Ron took out a handkerchief and wiped his face.

  “Are you aware,” said the short man, “that Jesus said, ‘I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the Father, but by me’?”

  “No.”

  “John 14:6,” said the short man. “In Corinthians, it is said, ‘Be not deceived: neither fornicators, nor idolaters, nor adulterers, nor effeminate, nor abusers of themselves with mankind shall inherit the kingdom of God.’ Would you happen to have a glass of water for my friend here? I think he’s dehydrated.”

  “What the hell is this?” said Pete Magnus from the doorway.

  “Jesus Christ,” said Estée. “It’s free.”

  “Up you get,” said Pete Magnus, dropping his briefcase. “Get out, guys. Out!”

  “I was just going to get a glass of water for Ron,” said Estée.

  “Sir,” said Ron, rising on unsteady legs, his hands trembling, “have you ak-ak-ak—?”

  “What is this, dysfunctional Jews for Jesus? Get out already, go save some other loser. There’s a guy who needs your help on the third floor. He’s going to male empowerment therapy. No sweat, I’ll waive the referral fee. Just get outta here buddy. I mean it.”

  “—ak-ak-ak—”

  “Eat me,” said Pete Magnus, and shoved the short man out after Ron. He slammed the door behind them.

  “But it was free,” said Estée. “You said nothing was free.”

  “Esty,” said Pete Magnus, shaking his head, “that shit is for losers, okay? Losers. You can’t be letting Jesus freaks in here. They’ll talk your ear off and leave you with bullshit. What did I tell you, Esty? If something’s for free, you don’t want it. Lesson Number One. Someone offers you something free, you say no. Because what that means is they couldn’t sell it if they tried. You got that?”

  Annoyed, she held her notebook tight against her and headed for her room. He had interfered with her research.

  “Listen Esty, you’re lonely. I understand. I’ll introduce you to some people. No problem. Hey, you know how to cook?”

  GLOSSARY: HOMO SAPIENS

  SPECIMEN 4: Jesus Freak, Male.

  DESCRIPTION: Rigid. Bulging eyes.

  BEHAVIOR: Free samples. No obligation.

  That night Pete Magnus took her to another bar for margaritas and introduced her to Dave, Spec
imen 5, CPA, and Rick, Specimen 6, Data Systems Consultant. But it was Stew who broke the camel’s back. It happened while he was discoursing to Estée on the subject of a surgical procedure undergone by his brother.

  “They make these incisions, right,” he said, with his hand on the back of her bar stool, encroaching, “and put these inflatable pumps in the guy’s dick. So he like presses a button on his balls, I’m not kidding, and the thing inflates like a balloon. There’s this saltwater they shoot in you. Saline solution or whatever. For ten thousand bucks.” He was staring over her shoulder. “Christ, it’s Lee Ann. That bitch! I can’t believe she’s here. My ex just came in.” Estée turned and followed his gaze. She saw a bouffant woman in pink on the arm of a bodybuilder.

  Pete Magnus was submerged in a crowd of rowdy sports fans in front of a wide-screen monitor; Dave had struggled off to the bathroom saying, “I’m gonna chuck.” Estée was stranded and had no time to protest when Stew kidnapped her and towed her to the table where his ex-wife and the weight lifter were sitting. Stew had bought five drinks already and was working on his sixth. Burping, he clenched his hand to Estée’s waist and announced she was his girlfriend.

  “Little young, Stew,” said his wife, and turned away as the Neanderthal ridge on the weight lifter’s brow furrowed in suspicion. Estée smiled weakly and tried to twist out of Stew’s grasp.

  “Who’s the pinhead?” asked Stew. His wife ignored him. The bodybuilder stood, said his name was Larry, and asked Stew to remove himself from the vicinity. “Fuck you,” said Stew.

  “Look buddy,” said the bodybuilder, “we’re just looking for a nice, quiet drink. So don’t get in my face.”

  “What, celebrating?” asked Stew.

  “It’s our four-month anniversary,” said Lee Ann, and patted the bodybuilder’s bicep.

  “Of what, the first fuck?” asked Stew, and posited the theory that Lee Ann and Larry had resorted to canine approaches to sexual activity, due to the crops of steroid-induced acne on Larry’s person—acne that, in Stew’s view, would prove repulsive to Lee Ann in the event of full-frontal intercourse. Estée turned her back and watched the crowd at the bar. Larry threatened physical harm. Stew responded by punching him. It was a weak, misplaced left hook that glanced off Larry’s shoulder, but Lee Ann emitted a high whine of protest. Estée tried to step back, but Stew grabbed her and forced her in front of him as Larry’s fist descended in a roundhouse right. It caught her on the side of the head, crashing her to the ground.

  Larry bent over her. “You okay?” A film of water blurred her eyesight, but she could see Stew launch a new attack against the bodybuilder, and Dave and Pete Magnus entered the fray. Estée could not get up. She was afraid one of her back molars was loose, felt a cold bitter wetness in her throat, warm liquid coursing from her nose. Someone kicked her in the ribs and she doubled over, gasping, trying to pull herself underneath the nearest table, grabbing at a woman’s leg. The leg kicked her hand away and then burrowed its toes into her abdomen, drilling there relentlessly until the table fell over, crushing Estée’s ankle. Someone landed hard on her hip, next a hard weight on her head, and she covered her face with her hands, her cheek ground against the gritty floor.

  She saw and tasted brown; the air was muddy. Stew and Larry were strange Visigoths from the Discovery Channel, pillagers, rapists. Their legs were tree trunks, their brains were acorns. Cudgels studded with metal swung above her head amidst the roars of the victors and the screams of the vanquished. She felt an elbow grind into her temple and then release. She was hoisted onto her feet and dragged, the night air was on her face. She blinked tears from her eyes and licked at the salty blood around her mouth; her neck ached too much for her to raise her head or turn, so she saw only two pairs of columnar legs ascending, khaki pants and denim.

  Behind them, imprecations and warnings were hurled; feminine voices screeched rebuke; Pete Magnus leaned down beneath her face as she was jogged along. “Esty? You okay?” He had a cut of his own on the cheek, was red-faced and breathing hard. His hair was matted with sweat.

  They opened the back door of Pete Magnus’s car and helped her in, and she collapsed sideways across the leather seats. Someone propped her head up on a rolled towel. The top of the Mercedes was down and she welcomed the bite of fresh oxygen. She felt warm blood from her nose. The car doors slammed and they were rolling. She was a loose bundle of nerves rattled by the jagged stops and starts, scalp abraded by stiff fibers of terry cloth. There was a hot spot on the top of her head and she was airy, watching the faint stars pass above them, the lights of a plane coming in to land. It was a ship in air, a chariot of fire. She was sailing. It was a black sea like velvet, like luxury.

  “Th’fuck were you thinking?”

  “Gimme a break. I’m, let me over I’m gonna puke.”

  “Petey, case in point. He’s shitfaced. Not his fault.”

  “Emergency room?”

  “Just slap a bag of ice on there shit.”

  “Pull in there, the liquor store, buy some ice.”

  “She’s not a baby. Just a concussion.”

  “No big deal.”

  “—brain damage or shit? Huh Stew? … the hell was she involved? She’s eighteen years old, she’s lived in like seclusion, now this? A brain-damaged chick? Fat fucking lawsuit?”

  She relaxed her efforts at listening and faded into the upholstery, her hands in fists beneath her chin, shivering from the breeze.

  In her bedroom at Pete Magnus’s they applied an ice pack to the side of her head. She lay in bed and heard them squabbling as they sat there, subjects as diverse as the game, the fight, Stew’s ex, Larry’s zits, a multilevel home Pete had sold for $2.3 million, a Nike slogan, “just do it.” She couldn’t find the side of her head. “Hello, excuse me,” she said to Pete Magnus, but they ignored her feeble quaver from their huddle on the Naugahyde love seat.

  “Subdural hematoma,” said the nurse. A man in a lab coat leaned down and pricked her arm. “Whoever was responsible for the ice pack caused clotting. Could have been a fatal error. You’re lucky mister.” Were they experimenting on her? Above them, white; directly in front, a television slanting from the ceiling. Pete Magnus, in his business attire, bent down to explain.

  “You were in a coma for eight days,” said Pete Magnus. His shirt changed from yellow to green and his breath was garlicky. “It was a kind of blood clot,” consoled the doctor. “Cut off the circulation to the brain. You made a remarkable recovery and we’re all very proud. You’re fine now.”

  “I’m fine now,” repeated Estée.

  Pete Magnus said something else, but she was unable to concentrate. When he left, an old, bald man was standing there in a light-blue gown. He leaned over and poked her breast with a finger, laughed hee hee hee, and tottered away. The gown was open in the back to expose the crack of his buttocks and a forest of gray hair therein.

  She did not have a clock in her room and, frequently sedated, was at a loss to understand time passing. There were more visits from Pete Magnus. He brought her flowers, silver balloons, bright, glossy magazines called People and Us, and a Godiva box of chocolates, which the old man stole and ate in fifteen minutes. He stood beside her bed, staring at her for hours, and rambled about his wife. His wife was a kleptomaniac, but dead.

  Orderlies brought food to her on plastic trays, consisting mainly of puddings, soups, and cold meat she let the old man steal. A miscalculation had brought her to this pass. Was it her fault? She clung to scientific method. Even in the hospital, research must continue. Her system was in its infancy, but it would mature. If you’re going to do something, do it right, said Bill.

  GLOSSARY: HOMO SAPIENS

  SPECIMEN 7: Old Man.

  DESCRIPTION: Wrinkly, odorous, scaly. Removable teeth. Reptilian subspecies?

  HABITAT: Hospital.

  BEHAVIOR: Preys on disabled females. Hides remote control. Guards jealously.

  DIET: Scavenger.

  SPECIMEN 8: Register
ed Nurse.

  DESCRIPTION: Large.

  Walking was slow and made her head hurt. She began to make short trips at night, after visiting hours, when the corridors were empty and she was free to enter the rooms of other patients for the purpose of gathering data. One night they rolled a second patient into her room, a woman on a gurney. She was labeled Helen on the chart at the end of her bed. Her husband sat with her during visiting hours. He wore glasses and was quiet, but Helen was talkative. She told Estée she was having an operation.

  GLOSSARY: HOMO SAPIENS

  SPECIMEN 12: Helen.

  DESCRIPTION: Hollow face, thin.

  HABITAT: Photographs of infant. Wall decorated with quotations. “Greater love hath no man.”

  BEHAVIOR: Nonaggressive.

  REMARKS: “He’s three. I’m the only match we have, he needs my bone marrow. He’s sick.”

  The night before the operation, Estée was woken by noises. The husband and Helen were lying together on top of the sheets. Her legs were smooth and clean as bones, her fingers splayed on the back of the husband. She was crying and smiling, her head and shoulders moving up and down in steady rhythm. Estée turned away and looked at the wall, which was gray in the dark, but then she looked back.

  “Oh Helen,” said the husband, and then his voice caught and his legs went stiff.

  “Don’t worry,” said Helen quietly. Her face was silver. She looked over and Estée was afraid she saw her watching, but she kept on smiling. Inside her eyes she was old. “Don’t worry,” she repeated, looking at Estée over the husband’s head. “The future is bright.”

  Estée, itchy with shame, shut her eyes and hid her face in the pillow. In the morning Helen was not in her bed. After lunch they did not bring her back. When the sun was setting and the bed marked “Helen” was still bare, Estée padded down, in her bare feet, to the nursing station.

  “She will not be returning to the room,” said the big nurse, and shut her lips tight.

  “Is she fine?” asked Estée.

  The nurse turned away and shuffled papers on a chart. Later, in the night again, the husband came in. He took the quotations off the wall and the clothes from the stand beside the bed. He picked up the picture of Helen’s baby and put it in a bag. He was quiet. Estée sat up in her bed.