“Stop writing those letters,” Bennie tells me. “Or don’t send them.”
“I have to send them,” I explain. “It gives them incentive to move me.”
“How moved do you need to be?”
VI. CUBISM
It’s a limpid afternoon in August, the day of my party, when The Painter tells me that he can’t. He says it like that, exactly: “I can’t.” Given how we’ve spent the last hour, a pair of dummies crash-testing sex, his meaning is obscure.
“Oh, can’t,” I repeat, glaring at him. The prospect of an argument puts me in a good mood. The timbre of my voice changes. I practically sing out, “Can’t what? Come to my party? Live without me?”
“We can’t do this anymore,” he says, waving a hand over our corporeal forms and the rumpled bed whereon they finally fell. “I need to find someone with a similar temperament. Someone like me.”
“Ah,” I say. Bear in mind, he’s going through his blue period. “You mean a woman who rarely leaves her house?”
“No.” He flashes his dark eyes, amused but unwilling to cede. “Someone who approaches these things, relationships, cautiously. Slowly. You go at things hard. Maybe it empties them out.”
“But I like that about myself, that I go at things headlong.” Heretofore, it’s been part of my charm.
“I can’t keep up with you.” Here he shrugs, gives a half smile, which makes a sexy dimple near its quirk. He’s lazy about shaving, and today he’s rough. His sweat smells like lavender and fresh tobacco. Maybe I do love him, partly because he’s getting ready to deny me. Nothing compels a cliff diver like a long drop.
I know the frantic, exhaustive, panting shapes of love. Maybe I choose those, because I do want to empty things out, to pass through them and extricate myself. But love that is studied, careful, slow-growing as a rhododendron is not something I’ve ever had the patience for. Nor do I now. Where is someone who wants what I want, who, similarly driven by the laws of thermodynamics, can move forward, toward the other person, me, with an equal and opposite momentum?
“I appreciate your candor,” I tell him. “It makes me want to shave my pussy.” I bought the clippers to trim the dog, but what the hell. It is my party.
“Really?” he says, and I get a glimpse of the lover he might be, if he would reach for me, if he would stop hiding behind the posture of a Platonist, waiting for some idealized woman to materialize proximate to his hard-on. He could keep up with me, if he wanted to. It is this suspicion of mine, that he has chosen to isolate himself behind the curtain of an idea and simply does not want me enough to push it aside, to choose real flesh, that drives me crazy.
“You make me peevish!” I yell, and with the fingers of one hand I tap his chest, his hairy chest, a feature I do not ordinarily find appealing on a man, but it’s on him and I like him, so I like it, and isn’t that the point, really, that the real is, finally, what most compels us? We live with a composite of what we want, and as we move in and out of bed and in and out of relationships we refine it. When we come upon something else, and it exerts an unfamiliar pull, we don’t know how to act, or what to do. We shave our pussies and rant, perhaps. But I can rant all I want and it will make me no less willful, less greedy about sex, less hell-bent on intimacy. I want it now, The Painter wants it later, or he may not want it at all, ever, with anyone. “You won’t let anyone in there,” I say, and press his chest.
“You are not a good guest,” he points out, laying his hand over mine. “You’d wreck the place.”
And I probably would.
The Velvet
BY WILL CHRISTOPHER BAER
NEW ORLEANS DISAPPEARS behind her. But she remembers to take the lithium and tomorrow she will have moments of clarity.
Sally doesn’t know what to do about the car. It’s falling apart. It leaks and the dashboard lights are dead. It scares her to drive after dark because she can’t see the speedometer. She thinks the car was given to her. She examines the ring of keys. One for the ignition, the other for the trunk. The engine is in the trunk and for some reason this disturbs her. A twist of leather on the silver ring, but no house keys. It’s possible she stole this car.
Public radio and the hiss of insects.
The voice of someone she used to fuck, relentlessly deconstructing Sylvia Plath. She gassed herself while the children ate bread soaked in milk. And her skin was bright as a Nazi lampshade.
Miles and then miles. It’s not so easy to disappear.
She sleeps with the doors unlocked, but she feels safe. The car will never make it to California. Sally assumes there is a lover involved, a shattered boy with a red mouth. A young girl eating a plum in the rain.
The sky is fleshy, the color of lips. Sally wakes to the hiss of traffic. The seats are slick and cold with dew. She leaves the keys in the ignition and starts walking. A field of dead wheat. She wishes the sun would come out. The wheat surrounds her. It blurs her vision, becomes powder in her hands. She turns to look back and the path she has left appears random, violent. She begins to run, her eyes burning. If she falls she will surely die in the wheat. Then an access road, trailing away like black ribbon.
Her tongue is strange and misshapen. Her memories are encrypted, binary.
Dementia, she suffers from dementia. Her hands feel brittle. The skeleton of a bird’s wing.
Headlights rise and swallow her.
Sally has an irrational fear of the word panties, of heat ripples on the highway. She looks up and the river drops into an unseen chasm. She tells herself this is only the curve of the earth, the trajectory of its orbit. The sun is cleverly hooded, like the eye of a corpse. She is hungry and her period is off by days.
Under a white light, the skin around her eyes appears yellow. She avoids mirrors. Aliens and dead souls have yellow skin, she is sure of that. And she doesn’t really care to see the pale web of scars around her left eye. Deformity is so easily memorized. Sally stares at the road until she can’t feel her legs. She veers abruptly into a field of cotton and crouches to pee in the dust. As she nears the city the sadness in her resumes, like a pulse. She smells urine and she touches herself.
She hitchhikes back to the edge of the French Quarter. It’s late summer and bitterly hot. Sally is thirsty and walks into the first lighted doorway. There is sawdust on the floor. In a shadowy corner are a pinball machine and an apparently broken jukebox. Two drunks sluggishly hammer and kick at the machine. They stand there panting, staring dumbly at her in the doorway. The sun is behind her and Sally is confident they can see through her thin dress. The drunks nudge each other and continue to abuse the jukebox. Sally steps to the bar and asks for iced tea. The bartender is a large woman with very bright blue eyes. She is slumped on a stool behind the bar, staring at an untouched jelly doughnut on a plate before her. Her eyes flicker like two blue insects and soon she produces a tall glass with a twist of lemon at the lip.
I added you a drop of gin, she says.
Thanks. You have beautiful eyes.
The bartender is embarrassed, briskly wiping the bar with a rag. Her eyes don’t avoid the scars on Sally’s face, but they don’t linger there. Sally puts two crushed dollars on the bar, the very last of her money. There is a brief silence as the drunks take a break from pounding on the jukebox. They rest and smoke cigarettes. One of them has a mustache; the other does not. Otherwise they are identical. The clean-shaven one whispers to the machine, You’re a cunt. Your mother’s a cunt.
He spits on the jukebox, then resumes his attack.
The second drunk shakes his head. Escalate, he says. You got to escalate, Bob. Give that cunt a little nuclear war.
This is nothing, says Bob. This is like fucking Panama.
What’s your name, little one?
Sally flinches. The bartender is peering at her, smiling.
Rachel, she says. My name is Rachel.
And you live around here.
Sort of.
Are you okay?
I think so.
/> You don’t look it.
How do I look?
The bartender hesitates. Your arms are bleeding, she says. For one thing.
Sally examines her arms, which are indeed scratched and bleeding.
I’m just tired, she says.
The bartender shrugs. You call me Dolores. And holler if you want anything.
Sally sips the tea cautiously and the gin is like metal to her tongue. She turns to watch the drunks, who still pound and curse at the jukebox.
I guess your jukebox is broken, says Sally.
It’s unplugged, says Dolores. I don’t have the heart to tell them.
One of the drunks notices Sally looking at them and nudges his partner. They grin at her, their mouths fat and wet. Sally swallows more of the tea, then touches her lips with a napkin. She turns away.
Are you sure you don’t want something for those cuts? says Dolores.
Sally stares at her. You don’t even know me.
No, says Dolores.
How can you possibly care?
I guess I don’t.
Dolores is flustered. She’s reluctant to offend the cripple. Sally has seen this before, in the rare eyes of sympathetic cops and social workers.
Do you want half a jelly doughnut? says Dolores.
Would you mind, says Sally. Would you put your arms around me?
Dolores hesitates.
Sally spreads her arms wide and closes her eyes. The heavy red hands pull her close and for a moment she can hear another heartbeat. Dolores could crush her like an egg, but Sally feels weirdly safe.
Oh my, says the drunk with the mustache.
Bob Junior, says Dolores. Shut your face.
You kidding? says Bob Jr. I dream about this shit.
Sally swivels on her stool, remotely conscious that her dress has risen up to mid-thigh.
You’re delicious, says Bob Jr. You’re sweet as pie.
He steps closer. Sally trembles and wonders if this is rage.
Thank you, Bob.
I’m Bob Junior. He points at the other drunk. That one’s Bob.
Is he your father? says Sally.
They’re twins, says Dolores. One of them wasn’t enough, apparently.
Bob is three minutes older, says Bob Jr.
Sally concentrates and her shoulders simply stop shaking, as if she has flipped a switch. Dolores comes around the bar and goes to plug in the jukebox. Bob shakes his head and laughs.
You like a model, or what? says Bob Jr.
Sally frowns. No, she says.
Bob ambles over to stand alongside his brother. Sally smiles at them and reaches to tie her hair back in a ponytail. Her scars are more visible this way. Bob Jr. recoils visibly, while Bob develops a sudden coughing fit. Dolores feeds a quarter into the jukebox and Willie Nelson begins to croon, his voice full of rust. The brothers barely notice.
I dance at The Velvet, says Sally.
You’re a stripper, says Bob Jr. With that face.
Bob grunts. No shit. Your face is a fucking freak show.
The jukebox abruptly fails. Willie Nelson ominously slips into a drunken warble, then dies.
Sally puts her drink down, her lips wet. She doesn’t know what to say. She is rather amused to think that anyone might be interested in a stripper’s face. Dolores is not amused, however. She offers to fetch her husband’s shotgun. Bob and Bob Jr. might learn some manners, she says, if they spent the weekend picking buckshot out of their thighs.
It’s okay, says Sally.
The brothers shuffle away, their faces pink and confused. Sally wishes she had a few dollars, if only to buy them a beer or two. It must be thirsty work, beating a machine to death like that.
Sally walks in circles until she comes to the black apartment. Everyone calls it that, because the wall behind the television is painted black. She’s not sure who is living there now.
Tripper is there. He doesn’t look up when she comes in. He’s eating a bowl of cereal and watching a cartoon on television. His face is apelike and he literally hoots at the TV. There is something wrong with his mouth, as if it’s numb from the dentist. The milk drools from his lips, a damp cornflake stuck to his chin like a smudge. Sally sits down on the couch. She takes her shoes off and pulls her bare feet under her.
Anyone home? she says.
The Penguin, he says.
Sally looks at him. Tripper is not much older than she is. A thin mustache crouches beneath his pink nose. He wears stained white pants with no shirt. His eyes are close together and his hair is wispy, prematurely gray. Most of his teeth are gone. His mother drank when he was in utero. When he has money he spends it on crystal meth. Tripper grunts and swipes at his mouth with his clubbed left hand. The hand is fingerless and reminds her of a child’s foot. His other hand is muscular, callused.
Who? she says.
The Penguin, he says. That’s me, huh.
Your name is Tripper.
People call me the Penguin. Lately.
You shouldn’t let people make fun of you.
Tripper shrugs. His face brightens. Huh. Yuh got any cheese.
Cheese? says Sally.
You know. The white, says Tripper. The crystal.
Crystal, she says. I never heard anyone call it cheese.
Huh. Now yuh have.
Sally offers him a thin smile and wonders what time it is.
Anyway, says Tripper. Do yuh?
What? says Sally.
Got a little cheese for the Penguin?
Are you a circus act? she says.
Tripper gazes at her, his eyes round and blank. She might as well have asked him to explain time travel. The door slams and Horse walks in, the heels of his boots loud. He grins broadly.
As I breathe, he says. An angel has fallen.
Hello, she says. I’m back.
Are your wings broken?
She looks away, at the window. Not quite, she says.
Horse is part Cherokee. His hair is black and straight, his skin like chocolate. He used to be a Marine. He wears a long white shirt, unbuttoned and swirling about him like a cape. Black jeans tucked into knee-high motorcycle boots. Horse smokes tobacco from a carved pipe. He sits cross-legged on the floor, blocking the television. The flicker of cartoon light like a halo.
Tripper whines.
Hush, boy. I have something for you.
Horse reaches into his coat, pulls out two cans of spray paint. Tripper giggles and makes a whooping noise. He lunges, grabbing at the cans. Horse gives him one and Tripper pulls a filthy red bandanna from his pocket. He happily sprays paint into the rag and presses it to his nose, breathing deeply. Sally moves to the far end of the couch. She watches Horse carefully. She always feels like a rabbit around him. Afraid to look at him, afraid not to.
Nice, she says.
Horse lights his pipe and smoke drifts blue against the black. He nods at Tripper.
It’s his birthday.
Really, she says.
He’s eighteen. He’s a man today.
Tripper has red paint smeared on his mouth and face. A string of snot catches the light.
A man, she says.
Horse blows a smoke ring.
Sally, he says. What do you want from me?
She feels the blood rise in her cheeks and hates herself for blushing.
Nothing, she says. Really.
I know you don’t like me, he says.
Sally shrugs, helpless. I do. I like you.
What the fuck do you want?
I need help. I need to get out of town.
Money, he says. He smiles and smoke twists away from his teeth.
The tickle of goose bumps.
Money, she says. Beside her Tripper writhes, panting.
What would you do with my money? says Horse.
I could get a car, she says.
And where would you go in your new car?
Anywhere. Memphis, maybe.
Horse smiles at her. No one will love you, he says. No one will
ever love that face.
His eyes paralyze her. She breathes evenly and concentrates on the sadness in her chest. She glances at Tripper, who is staring at his strange left hand as if he’s never seen it before.
Horse shrugs. You might as well go home to your idiot husband.
He’s not my husband, she says.
Neither here nor there. Horse yawns as if bored.
I’ll do anything, she says.
Don’t you have a job? he says.
Sally is silent. On the television, game-show contestants hop about in apparent ecstasy.
I believe you were dancing at The Velvet, he says.
I was. I quit three weeks ago.
Why?
The men depressed me, she says. They were like ferrets.
Horse points his pinkie finger at Tripper.
It’s the Penguin’s birthday, he says.
So what?
And he’s never had a woman.
Sally closes her eyes, thinks of the money. The sadness is warm and deep. She lets herself sink. She slides next to Tripper and sniffs him, doglike. He smiles at her. He’s a child, she thinks.
Hello, Sally.
Hello, Tripper.
I’m the Penguin.
With one hand Sally unzips Tripper’s pants. His penis flops out, soft and massive. It’s as fat as her arm. She blinks at it, confused.
Impressive, isn’t it? Horse laughs.
It’s too big, she says. I’ll choke to death.
Oh, please. Have faith.
She looks at Tripper. His face is placid and staring. Sally pokes and prods the thing until it’s relatively hard. She takes a breath and bends over him. Tripper begins to struggle and moan, as if she’s attacking him. Then he relaxes and begins to chant the names of actors who have ever portrayed Batman.
Adam West, Adam West. Michael Keaton. Val Kilmer. George Clooney, oh no.
She tells herself she’s sucking her own fist. It doesn’t take long and Sally pulls away, her mouth wet and sore. A gout of come narrowly misses her face.
George Clooney, George Clooney.
Sally looks at the coffee table and thinks of slug tracks. A terrible smell rises from Tripper’s crotch. The smell is familiar and she stares at Horse in disbelief.
Full Frontal Fiction Page 24
