—Ajax is a damn Kiketeam, Grandpa declared. And Tottenham! Hell, it’s all money and sex! No one has mercy on me! There’s been nothing worth cheering for since Heysel and Hillsborough! These aren’t big matches! They’re neutrinos! Mites! Nits and gnats! A bunch of fucking nonsense!
—That’s just how it is sometimes, I worked up the courage to say.
—So you have an opinion, do you! You who don’t even know what dry humor is yet! You’re so fucking smart it just fucking makes me want to fucking puke all over your fucking smartass face! If only I had something to puke up!
He farted disdainfully, Zsa Zsa Gabor style, and tossed back another glass of whiskey. I was drinking beer out of an old Bavarianstein with a lid. The stein had scenes from the traditional Lenthunt of little girls: big men ripping up rosy bellies and so forth. Now and then I took a fistful of chips from the washtub. But Grandpa was right, soccer is a surefire path to senility. For the emptyheaded among us, though, it doesn’t really matter.
—The World Cup has fifty-one matches! fifty-one! and not a single shot at a goal! just backwardpasses! throwins! gamestop-pages! Give me just one serious injury, for the love of God! But no! There are no stretchers in sight! Of course, they carried out that fogy with the grandma hair, you know the one—
—Valderrama—
—But he was up-and-at-’em again in a flash! Why do they bother with that sort! John Eldritch and Bo Jälefors!
—You know what I think is neat, Grandpa?
—Blowing a rabid hyena! Eating me out of house and home!
—No, that soccer demonstrates how a destructive defensive strategy is best. Maybe that could be useful someday …
—Useful! That you of all creatures in the galaxy dare to use that word! You were never of any use to anyone! and you never will be! not if you live until the sun falls from the sky and cowboys are walloped by Indians! I’ll tell you what useful is! useful is being happy! and happiness is to soar! There’s something to think about! you narcissistic little Hitlerjew!
At least Grandpa didn’t talk to me like he did when I was small. Back then he sounded like Heidegger, and sometimes like Artaudor Char. Him, the world’s worst backward hick. The wind stopped when he opened his mouth; he had an answer for every riddle. No one listened to him, though, so he gave up. When he did, God on high muttered a curse and breathed a sigh of relief; after all, his cover had nearly been blown … Back then, Grandpa liked to cram me full of all sorts of things. I remember him telling me how the Sandman was going to jump out of the closet and throw sand in my eyes. There was Plupp, Klas Klättermus, Babar … Prince Vibescu, Naked Lunch and Last Exit to Brooklyn … Curious George, The Satanic Bible, and Manus lawbook, naturally in Sanskrit … The Book of Dzyan … Beowulf … Froissart … Borel … Sorel.. Przybyszewski … Nechajev … Rathenau … Brehm … Codreanu … some old editions of Der Sturmer … Das Schwarze Korps … He really liked boring me to death … with Robert Müsli’s Mom Without Qualities … Hermann Broch’s Death ofSvebil … It made him hot when I started to cry, I was so goddamned tired … I wanted to sleep and never wake up … he just kept on torturing me … kept on kneading and kneading … the same boring, fucking old shit … again and again and again … people came and went, said their piece and did their thing … chokechains around their tongues … they had serious shit to offer, these guys, but I didn’t give a damn … I wanted to play on Death’s team … Ordinary match time ended, score’s nillnill … naturally … Too many overtimes, though, you can’t use them all.
Grandpa tottered off into the kitchen to get some snacks. He came back with an octagonal nickeltray piled high with coffee-beans, an eggcup with a lightbulb, roadsalt, castoroil, TetraMin, some slices of ryebread smeared with Oil of Ulay, a few Arlandapastries, and some silverfish. He sat down and immediately found the right tone. He was never long in venting his displeasure.
—Nancy and Raisa! Cunt versus cunt!
Grandpa rumbled on like Bruckner, his tailpipe hissing.
—An uphill struggle against a headwind for ninety years! Bridges and boats all burned! And yet the whole goddamn thing ends here! This here is nothing! It’s ghostshit! Satan’s ass, the things you’re forced to do! It’s like swapping feet with a loon! Like a mosquito pissing in the ocean! Like climbing a pinetree to fuck a knothole! Like fucking a juicy boytuft!
Varicose veins were swelling, arthritic joints were aching. Grandpa’s legs are chalky, white and spindly, worse than Åsa Lundgrens, the guy who wrote The Microcephalic Lappish Boy. There was a good chance the fun was about to end.
—PSV is keeping their team together, the announcer said … Chiquita hasn’t gotten much done … well see if they can’t step up the pace … coming back around the side …
—Laudrup is on his side of the field … against Roberto … Beguiristain … Salinas coming to his aid … Cochones back to Zubi-zarreta … who hammers the ball … signals … kicks … the Dutch defense has gotten organized … van Aerie back to van Breukelen … They’re playing like they’ve got Alzheimer’s, don’t you think?
—They like to feint, especially at the start …
—Yeah, but it’s been about a hundred and thirty minutes!
—They like to gather in a group and keep a close watch on their own goal … the match becomes something like strategic warfare … the most important thing is that your team has the ball … you’ll get your chance …
—Its dullsville! It’s too goddamned slow! At least we had that brutal tackle from behind … we’ll get to see it in slowmo … hooboy! He knew what he was doing … could it be, will it be a meniscus tear?
—It looks like it’s Laudrup …
—Hope his tendons toast!
By this time, the commentators were just about foaming at the mouth.
—He’s out for at least three months!
—Could be a pulled ligament!
—For the love of God, it looks serious … he’s being carried off the field … looks like he’s in pain …
—Here comes the freekick … the perfect setup for Koeman …
—The defense is playing for time … they’ve gained a meter and a half …
The referee waved a yellowcard. The freekick struck the defense’s wall. End of the first half. Grandpa began to boil over, they were all talk and no action. The universe, on the other hand, runs on adrenaline and testosterone.
—Talk about people who have it bad! A single Grandpa with a scamp hanging from my neck and another on the way! Broke and sick and with a mass of freetime on my hands! It’s all downhill from here! It’s too much! Comeoncomeoncomeon! It’s so fucking painful! God, it hurts! Aoouuuuuu!!!
He banged his head on the edge of the table again and again as hard as he could. While he did that, he rubbed his cock, which refused to stand up.
—Moremoremore! Ah—ahhh—oahhhhhhhh! Fuck it hurts! I’m dying! Don’t stop! So fucking good! Harder faster oaahhhhh!
He fell dizzily to the rug. I didn’t give a fuck about the next overtime quarter. I dragged my Grandpa onto the sofa and wiped away the blood. Then I puked up my chips, collapsed onto the Almas fur rug, and dreamed sweet dreams about my murderer.
__________
PLUPP, KLAS KLÄTTERMUS—Swedish children’s book characters
DER STURMER—a weekly Nazi newspaper
DAS SCHWARZE KORPS—official newspaper of the SS
SVEBIL—Olov Svebilius, Archbishop of Uppsala from 1681–1700, who wrote the popular book A Simple Explanation of Martin Luthers Little Catechism
ÅSA LUNDGREN—Swedish author who wrote Långa Lappflicken (The Tall Lap Girl)
ALMAS—Mongolian for “wild man,” a mythical creature similar to Bigfoot
IX
I was in the process of lathering and shaving Grandpas asshole when the phone rang. He swore so the air sizzled and started groping around for the receiver.
—Reichsführer-SS, he answered weakly and lit a Rothman. Well, hello there, lovey! he chirped next and dug bloo
dy furrows into my skull to make me to stop. Thanks, I’m doing fine, and how are you? … Hunkydory, syphilis, and HIV!? … You’re yanking my chain! … What? … Don’t get all huffy now … I know it’s no fucking joke!
Grandpa was laying on his stomach on the beanbag. He listened in suspense for a long moment. All he said was:—Mmm … hrrmm … damn! … but isn’t that just too bad!
Then he started talking.
—You’ve got your work cut out for you. I hear you … Precisely. This business makes me sad as Appomattox! … What the hell’s wrong with people these days! … mmhmm … yeah … mmm … nah … sucking uakari cock’s all he’s good for! … the Jewbeast! … you’re kidding! … bullshit! … just think! … It’s like Pudas’s box! … precisely … No quarter!
He finally shut up, but it cost him. His head nodded and shook incessantly. His nervous tics increased. He began rocking feverishly back and forth, crinkling up his wrinkly brow. When there was finally silence on the other end, he took a deep breath. He didn’t sound as much like a hick when he started talking again.
—What can I say! I’m absolutely dumbfounded! You couldn’t find words to describe it! not if you searched high and low! … Genscher will probably join up … maybe Baker … perhaps Moammar, too … maybe, just maybe Delors … I have my claws in him, you know … yeah … you heard it right here! That only leaves one person! He’s not worth a baht, and that’s no exaggeration! … Getting the truth out of him would be the greatest miracle since Claus Heim massacred 5,000 pigs with two knitting needles and five meat thermometers! It’s sad that it’s to come to this! … that one chromosome can make so much difference … I have some influence over Donner and Schein, they owe me a favor … thunder and lightening will do what they can … Malm is my man … We can count on Nicolin … Markus Wolf and Horst Herold, too … Well get it together! That can’t be allowed to stand! Trust me! You devil … you can thank me with a really sexy Mass, okay? … what? … you’ve misunderstood me! I believe in God! I just think He’s so ashamed that He’s gone and hidden Himself! Our universe is just one among the countless batches of sperm that God in His narcissistic isolation jacked off and spewed out, just so He could put His stain on the Nothingness! Galaxies are sperm, you know! … I know you take a Near Eastern viewpoint on the matter … but we can still be friends, right … hmmm? … well? … that’s it exactly … that’s what we’ll say then … you’ll be hearing from me when I know something … the older you get, the gayer you go … andwhen you’re getting close to death … But you … you, too … take it easy, suck me sleazy … sure, you too … byebye now …
He hung up and gestured for me to continue my barber work. Grandpa’s asshole is huge and grimy and it tastes like sulfur. It’s wrinkled around the edges and unbelievably hairy. It’s ringed in red, so I think it’s infected. I have to shave it every couple of weeks, or it can’t be fucked.
—That was the Pope … he’s afraid the chimney’s about to start smoking … got in over his head with some narcotraffickinggig … Papa Escobar just called him to gloat … The Medellin Cartel are a bunch of fucking crybabies! Milksops! And just like always, I have to make everything right … If only Terre Blanche hadn’t called yesterday! You know what I told him … he wants me to come down there for the action … things are heating up, the orks are getting cocky … Fuck it all, I don’t have the time! Satan’s hairy ass! Khun Sah had a time of it, too! It’s like dancing a jig on crackedheels … like chasing-moonlight … Now I have to talk some sense into Schalck-Golodkowski and Gerrit Et Wolsink … it’ll take care of itself, though …
I finished shaving and greased his ass with babyfat. In the meantime, Grandpa was stuck remembering the past.
—I’ve fought in twenty-seven wars on four continents … I’ve personally assassinated thirteen heads of state and helped start forty-nine coups … I’m an honorary member of every counterin-telligenceoperation, criminalsyndicate, and terroristgroup worth mentioning … I’ve wiped out seventy-one plant and nineteen animalspecies … and two whole races of men … I’ve trashed priceless cultural artifacts … demolished economies … impoverished language …
Grandpa pulled on a Ghillie suit GS 1, which made him look like a compost heap. We were going purschhunting for depressives.
—But how does it all end … dypsnea and congenital biapathy … vexation and grief … sometimes I think I don’t even exist … it feels like someone dreamed me up … like all I am is swearwords and sorcery … like amlet, dr aust, and don uixote …
He drained a flask of Old Crow and tossed me a tip.
—All the greats have fallen, one by one … the greenbloods … Stroessner! now there was a man with blood in his cock! God have mercy on those who stand proud! And Pinochet, of course … Papa and Baby Doc … what’s Haiti without them! a firstrate climacteric resort is what! … Somoza … Noriega, the old rascal … Refaat and Penser … Poor Marcos … now Khomeini’s gone, too, his eyes were out-of-this-world … Pol Pot was a godgifted statesman, but what good did it do him? … Idi, Haile, Ian Smith … Bokassa and Mengistu … Enver Hoxha … Glistrup … Ceau§escu! He shot at least four thousand bears! What do you say to that!
—I don’t know what to say …
—You’d be wise to say nothing. The world just isn’t itself anymore, boy … There’s Amnesty International and Greenpeace yelping like bitches in heat … It’s just about impossible to be an honest, oldfashioned tyrant anymore … But the battle against peace and prosperity marches on …
__________
PUDAS’S BOX—Folke Pudas protested the loss of his chauffeurs license by spending three months on hunger strike in a box in Sergei’s Square in Stockholm
CLAUS HEIM—a leader in the “Landvolkbewegung,” a farmers movement in Weimar Germany; he single-handedly slaughtered 5,000 pigs on a Brazilian farm to protest worsening economic conditions that made ongoing operations impossible
DYPSNEA—shortness of breath
BIAPATHY—bia (Greek for “violence”) + apathy = apathy to violence
X
Grandpa was having a splashing good time in a waterbed filled with urine when someone rang the doorbell. He was soaked in sweat and sucking his own dick. He once told me it’s the most diabolical pleasure of all, but that it gets harder when you get old, even if you’ve got the right body for it. His back might crack at any moment, but that probably just makes him hornier. I’ve tried it on myself, but cant even come close. You’ve got to be tall and skinny as a scarecrow. You’ve also got to have loads of selfconfidence. The real pros are more than eight feet.
—It works better with your eyes closed, I remember Grandpa saying, and that’s how he was doing it.
He was also listening to Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana, or rather, De Temporum Fine Comoedia-Vigilie, while a different speaker was pumping out Venoms “At War with Satan.” Our room’s packed with books, mostly history and philosophy. They’re in random topsyturvy stacks that reach as high as the bed, and if you want to you can crawl across them. Every now and then Grandpa picks up a book, but he instantly gets sick of it. That’s when you get to hear what he thinks about those pussyscribblers … someone shoulddrink them under the table! lightweights! gutless breakwinds, miserable assholes, windbags! Off with their hands and feet! just for the fun of it! like in Karaganda! you write a book! a single sentence! and you’ve waived the right to live! God forgives everything you do to wordwrenchers!
And so on and so forth.
—I’m the one and only consummate Thelemite, because I shit on Crowley’s life and piss on his work!
Grandpa’s bitter he never got to scrap with Aleister … Sometimes he flaunts the dirty letters Stefan George, Proust, and Wittgenstein sent him when he was a strapping young buck …
—Now you can see what they go in for, those Aunties Green, Brown, and Violet. Why, those hoitytoity spinsters have only got cockandass on the brain! Marcel stuck nails in rats and came on his mama’s picture! And Boy George, what a primadonna! �
�Als sieger dring ich einst in euer hirn, ich der verscharrte …” Hot-damn, that’s for me! A great horny owl in a magpie’s skirt! I’m not even going to tell you the sorts of thing he wrote! No one would believe me! It’s just too, too revolting! And Ludwig! no point in trying to outtalk an idiot or outlumber a calf. Here he writes that he wants to meet me in his nasty Norwegian cottage! I’m supposed to bring two weeks’ worth of shit in my bowels! without a hair on my body! smeared up with resin and covered in horse-hairtufts! then he’ll whip me until I’m just a bloodystain! leave me for the skuas! There you have it! Genius in all its glory! Bighead, smallwit, spread your legs and take a shit! I’m finished with the likes of them! Poppycock and tommyrot! Hefty tomes full of difficult words! A million shittyass viewpoints! Cultures only cock-andbooze! if you just scratch the surface!
But now Grandpa was contorted like a sandflea and sucking for all he was worth; his body shone like lead against the oxbloodcolored sheets. Homemade comfort. Some people call that position thirty-four and a half, since its half a sixty-nine. Grandpas cock is average, just a little thin and worn. It was holding its own, though, that’s for sure. He was sucking so hard his stomach was growling. He has dainty lips, a strong tongue, endless spittle, and his eyeballs rolled behind their greenpainted lids. It seemed to be going good for him, selfmade is wellmade, so I took myself down the stairs and through the hallway to the outer door. I unlocked it and looked out. Standing there was an old man no one had seen before.
Assisted Living: A Novel Page 5
