They went to bed, didn’t exchange so much as a “good night” before going to sleep. She woke up in the middle of the night, stroked into the land of the living. They fucked languidly at first, still half asleep, sloppy, not sure of what they wanted from it, but it rolled along, gathering passion, gathering strength until there was none left in their bodies and they fell asleep again, knowing that they were having the same dream. Should have been some comfort in that, being protected and unified, safe from it turning into a nightmare. It wasn’t.
As they held hands, each knew they were not holding the hands of some dreamself, but the dreamhands of a real person standing behind them, digging into their mind, clinging to their soul. Resentful and nervous. To be the one to let go would mean they were the one that didn’t care, that they were the one to face their lover’s judgmental gaze upon waking. They were holding hands in the dark, surrounded by nothing but possibilities. Dreams could happen if someone let go and ran into the void to discover. But nobody was going to. They breathed heavy, held hands and hoped the other one would let go and make a move, create some possibilities.
They held hands in the dark and waited. They held hands in the dark wishing they could stop. They held hands in the dark hating each other a bit. They held hands in the dark wondering if it would be like this when they woke up. Was there some balance they could strike up between silence and drooling lust, between worlds away and too close for comfort? Was that the question every couple asked or just the ones that weren’t sure they worked. Would you let go? Would you fucking let go? They held hands in the dark and waited. Until the light came on.
The darkness faded and they knew where they were. Either they were tiny or the corral was gigantic. Gigantic like the copulating twins overhead. Holding hands in the dark, they had been beneath a bridge of inescapable affection the whole time. Corralled inside pornpromise and sideshow sleaze, legs turned into columns, miles of back giving way into cavernous buttocks. Each one of them wishing the other would let go. Would you fucking let go? We are not this. We are not stuck. We can let go any time. Would you fucking let go?
They wake up at the same time, making sure to turn away, as they cannot bear to look each other in the face following the dream. Mia goes to brush her teeth. He goes to get a cup of coffee. She hops in the shower. He toasts a bagel. Wolfs it down. She emerges from the shower. Dresses. Goes to the kitchen. He takes her place in the bathroom. Brushes his teeth. Showers. When he emerges, both of them know that one of them will have to leave the apartment if they are both to be alone. They hesitate and wait. Would you fucking let go?
They both end up on the couch. Saying nothing. Somebody must say something. Just as somebody should have gone off into the dark and explored instead of leaving them standing there beneath the human bridge. If they’d gone off and explored the darkness, while it was darkness, they wouldn’t have known it was the corral and that they were trapped. Being a dream, not knowing that they were trapped, they had to be free. Then they realize, at the same time, what must be done. There is only one thing they want to do, only one thing they can do. They know they’re thinking as one, but they try to resist thinking that they’re thinking as one, that there are no mysteries between them. Time feels too thick to pass. It does not drip away. Petrified.
Mia gets the courage to speak. She knows that it must end. Not the relationship. Not the awkwardness. But the stillness. They have somewhere to go.
“I want to go . . .”
“Yes. We should.”
“The carnival.”
“Yes.”
“You went there yesterday.”
He does not admit to this. He gets their coats. They drive past an hour and a half of oblivion and cornfield. They ignore rigged games that barely try to get their attention and food that barely smells like food. There is only one thing they have come for. As it was in their dream, there is nothing in the world but the tent and the corral and the two of them. The few patrons of the carnival back away, threatened by the intensity of their closeness and the singularity of their purpose. Nobody wants to get in their way. Nobody can. Nobody thinks they even exist in the eyes of the inseparable couple.
They enter the tent and the two freakseekers already inside instinctually make their way to the exit. They know this tent is no longer their space. They go to the corral, eyes clinging to the archbacked man and the archbacked woman, the manhood stuck to womanhood, brothersister lovers. They feel the staticspark of arousal. The tiny spineshock that declares “I’m afraid, I’m aroused, I need you, go away.” They kiss, lips entwined, locked. Truly locked.
Have our faces come together? Are mouths one mouth? Will we taste with one tongue just as we think with one mind? Will our whole head be stuck together? He grabs her breast, surprised that he could let go of her hand. She shakes slightly when he does, puts her hand on his side, thinking that perhaps his letting go means they can’t come back together, even as their mouths threaten to merge, melt together. She wraps her leg around his. If the freaks could turn their heads, they would be watching them, perhaps seeing that they were alike. They swear the freaks are letting out sighs of pleasure. He has seen them twice, knows they don’t speak, couldn’t if they tried, but they are moaning softly.
Would they ever want to be cut apart? Can they even see? Are these sounds in their heads? In both their heads, they wonder. They are both wondering and they know it. They break their embrace, but clasp their hands again. Walk out of the tent, to the car. They don’t drive for long before pulling over somewhere secluded, to touch, bite, unite. Love. Make love. Hold each other slightly too long for comfort when they are done.
Petrified again. They try to listen for each other’s thoughts and to know if their thoughts are being heard. The results are inconclusive. They decide to get moving. That they should get lunch. They go to the Italian place that is slightly too nice for them. They stare at each other. Rub each other’s feet under the table. Hold hands, only letting go when the food comes. It is the same thing that they ordered before. It tastes the same. It’s pretty good, but they barely notice, although each one gets a slight taste of the other’s meal in their mouth. A weird olfactory trick. A slight hallucination.
After lunch, they get back on the road. Resisting temptation, pushing yes, pushing no into each other’s brains. They want to pull over. They want desperately not to. If they did, neither one thinks it would be their decision. They can decide when they want each other and when they don’t. They can’t. Pushing yes, pushing no, forty more minutes of almost kissing, almost sex, almost irresistible loving. It’s good to be back at the apartment. Maybe.
Couch calls them over and they obey. Television becomes totem, each one afraid of the consequences of turning it on. Whoever turns it on is unloving. Whoever turns it on wants to ignore the problems that have grown. The remote destroys their world. The remote is an argument machine that should not under any circumstances be activated. They do not argue anymore. They are past that. They are past the television times. They might also be past the talking times. There are things to say, but they might not need to say them anymore.
Bedroom. They know bedroom. They undress. They stare at one another, knowing as they’ve known everything today, what is next. There can only be one conclusion. He assumes the bridge position. She approaches, sucking him ready. It takes awhile, because of his nerves and the awkwardness of the position. His yoga is out of practice. She assumes her position, wide open, waiting.
He enters her, neither of them knowing if he will ever pull out again.
LOU REED SINGS “THIS MAGIC MOMENT”
ANDREW WAYNE ADAMS
Pete Dayton lives in Oregon, not Ohio. There is a city in Ohio called Dayton, and in this city there is a district called the Oregon District—but Pete Dayton lives in Oregon, not Ohio.
One morning Pete Dayton answers the phone and hears: “You’ll never have me.”
The caller hangs up, but Pete Dayton does not. With the phone still gripped to h
is ear, he sits and stares at the radiator. Suddenly the radiator is the only thing in his apartment. It hisses, seeping shimmery heat.
Pete Dayton remembers a diner in Colorado.
The diner was small, clean, and blue. Pete sat at the front counter, watching a discus of frozen beef crackle on the grill. He looked away, and when he looked back, the grill was empty and there was a cheeseburger on a plate in front of him. He had not ordered it.
He stared at the empty grill. It sizzled, seeping shimmery heat.
A bell rang as someone entered the diner. Pete listened. He heard shined shoes and a casual suit, a watch on a hairy wrist. He heard age, ego.
The casual suit approached the counter but did not sit down. The hairy wrist put a cigarette between aged lips and lit it. On the wall, a small placard showed a burning cigarette with a slash through it.
The hairy wrist laid something on the counter and slid it toward Pete. A photograph.
“How you been, Pete?” A cup of coffee appeared on the counter. It spewed steam, hotter than any coffee should be. “How’s the family?”
“What family?”
“Yours.”
Pete looked at the plate in front of him and saw that the cheeseburger was gone. He found a blob of ketchup on his chin. “Do I know you?”
“Have you forgotten me, Pete?” The hairy wrist produced a business card. The card, though richly textured and well proportioned, was blank. “You need an ultraviolet light to read it, but what it says on there is my name. Ed.”
Ed reached for the cup of too-hot coffee. He drank the burning liquid with gusto.
“Woo!” he yelped, slamming down the empty cup. “I love this fucking diner! They make the best damn coffee here; no place else gets it hot enough, you know?” The coffee had blistered his lips, and when he grinned, the blisters tightened, pale and shiny. “Real food, too—none of that genetic crap, like those miniature chickens they got now. I try to keep this place pretty secret, but I tell all my closest friends: go to the Sleepy Spoon.”
Pete said, “I didn’t know this place had a name.”
“All these places have names.” Ed tapped the photograph on the counter. He had not looked at it since setting it down near Pete, and he did not look at it now—just tapped it. “You know this girl?”
The girl was young, blonde, pretty. Light acne on one cheek.
Pete said, “No.”
Ed tapped the photograph again, and as he did so, several fat black ants shook loose from his sleeve. They fell on the girl’s face and crawled away in different directions. “This girl was killed in Dayton, Ohio. Two days later she was killed again, this time in Lincoln, Nebraska.”
“The same girl was killed twice?”
“Three times, actually. After Lincoln, she was killed again in Portland, Oregon.”
Pete watched a woman at the jukebox. “What was her name?”
“Alice Renee.”
The woman at the jukebox was young, blonde, pretty. Light acne on one cheek. She saw Pete watching her, and she saw Ed, and she laid a finger across her lips, signaling to Pete: shhh. She winked at him, then returned her attention to the jukebox.
“I don’t know her,” Pete said, pushing away the photograph, “and I’ve never been to any of those places.”
Ed pushed the photo back to Pete, saying, “You keep this.” He stuck one of his blank business cards in Pete’s shirt pocket. “If you remember anything, you give me a call.”
A bell rang as Ed left the diner.
Pete studied the girl in the photograph. Maybe the light acne was actually a bruise with makeup on it. Maybe her hair was not naturally blonde. There was cigarette ash on her face, an ant on her earlobe.
The woman at the jukebox pressed two red buttons. A record slotted into place and started to spin, but no music played. The woman lingered, listening. Finally she turned and headed back to her booth.
Pete swept away the ash, flicked away the ant, and picked up the photograph. He stood and crossed the diner.
She watched him approach. The jukebox popped and hissed, playing its empty song, and there was no one else in the diner now, and the lights had dimmed to two spotlights. He slid into the seat opposite her and set the photo on the table between them. For a moment they just stared at each other. Then:
“It’s you,” he said. “Alice Renee.”
He tapped the picture. Alice winced, and her light acne darkened. Pete saw that his finger had landed like a punch on the likeness of her cheek.
“Sorry,” he said, recoiling from the photograph.
“I hate it when you apologize.” She took a compact from her handbag and rubbed more makeup on the darkening bruise.
“It was an accident.”
“It always is.” She put away her compact. “Anyway, I would rather be hit than ignored.” Examining the photograph, she said, “This is a screenshot from a porno. I recognize it.”
“You were in a porno?”
“No. Would that excite you?”
“This whole thing excites me.”
“Maybe we’re in a porno.”
“Where are the cameras?”
“Everywhere.”
Pete looked around. He and Alice were on a vast sound stage. The diner setting had vanished—wheeled away, perhaps, or simply turned off. All that remained was their lone booth and, nearby, the jukebox.
The mute record still spun in the jukebox, its song a crepitating hiss—and suddenly Pete recognized that song. He had been hearing it all his life. It was everywhere he went. Everything sang it: the hiss of a radiator; the sizzle, swish, and crackle of a grill, a casual suit, a cigarette; the scratch of tiny legs on an earlobe.
He said, “I hate this song.”
Somewhat sadly, Alice grinned. “Keep listening,” she said.
And, as if at her behest, the song started to change.
A droning growl rode in on top of the hiss, replacing it. The growl became a guitar, and the guitar raised a melody of tingling skin, and a burnished voice sang of time and magic. Pete stared out into the darkness of the sound stage, listening to the song build, remembering it. He had been hearing it all his life.
Alice said, “This song always reminds me of the first time we met.”
“I don’t remember.”
“You never do.”
But he did. He said, “Alice, we ignored each other for five years. I never heard music when I was with you. All I heard was that empty hiss.”
“But you hear the music now.”
“But this isn’t you.” He laid a finger on the photograph of Alice Renee. He dragged the finger across the glossy surface, from the center of her face outward. In the seat opposite him, Alice’s face smeared to the side like clay wrenched by invisible hands. “This is you.”
She brought out her makeup again, swept a brush across the twisted putty of her face. In the space of a blink, her appearance was restored. “Let’s just forget about it,” she said, and started to stand. “I really think we ought to dance before the song is over.”
“I would like to,” Pete said. “Forget, I mean.”
“Dancing will help you forget.”
She took his hand and stood him up, and as they walked out onto the empty sound stage, the jukebox grew behind them, physically expanding to engulf the scene. Its proscenium arch swallowed them. They were inside the jukebox now, standing on a spinning record, neon tubing overhead. Surrounding them was a landscape of glass and metal, fluorescent décor aglow in a pervasive wash of ultraviolet light.
Pete held Alice and swayed.
For a moment, he had everything he wanted.
Alice said, “Some people, when they get unhappy enough, it forces a transformation. They veer off suddenly from the life they knew. They become someone else.”
The record spun underfoot, its black vinyl like a highway at night.
“They’ll move thousands of miles away. From one end of the country to the other. Shedding their old selves. The memory of who they w
ere.” Her blonde hair shone like platinum, auburn roots flashing in the depths. “Do you feel better?”
“I—forget what was troubling me.”
Lines of cracked yellow appeared on the black vinyl highway.
“Some people, they stay put and run away into their own head. They think they’re someone else—somewhere far distant—believing they’ve crossed the Great Divide, when really they’re still sitting in their apartment in Ohio.”
The highway crossed a continent. Pete sped along it, decoding its broken center. He found music there, and the music filled his head like a freed secret.
He said, “Who killed you, Alice?”
She reached into his shirt pocket and brought out the business card that Ed had left him. “He did,” she said, showing him the card. “And he wants to do it again. He is always looking for me. He wants me—wants to ‘have a moment’ with me. He wants to—kiss me.”
Pete looked at the card. In the ultraviolet glow of the jukebox, the card was no longer blank. It gave a name, a number, and an address in Dayton, Ohio. The name was indistinct, fuzzy like censored television.
Pete felt something in his jeans pocket, and he reached in and found a cell phone that wasn’t his. He looked at the phone’s keypad, looked at the card with Ed’s number on it. He thought of Ed’s voice: “If you remember anything, you give me a call.”
He didn’t remember anything.
He dialed Ed.
There was an answer after one ring, but no one spoke. Pete gripped the phone to his ear. All he heard was his own breathing, his own distant blood.
Alice took the phone and, looking at Pete, spoke four words into it, a blunt message to the man who wanted her: “You’ll never have me.”
A blast of pure noise split the world. It was the needle skipping a groove. With it, the music ended, abruptly severed. Silence flooded in.
In Heaven, Everything Is Fine: Fiction Inspired by David Lynch Page 9
