by Mike Heppner
Stuart plugged a cord into Heath’s video camera, having run the other end into the back of the TV set. “Well, people get upset.”
Heath looked at him curiously. “Who did you base your characters on for My Private Apocalypse?”
Stuart hit play on the camera. “No one, really.” Leaving it at that, he brought his drink over to the sofa.
“I guess it’s taking the easy way out,” Heath said, “just to write about things that really happened.”
“Not at all.” Stuart paused the tape. “You should stop using me as an example, Heath.”
Heath smiled. “I don’t know any other writers. Everyone always says, ‘Oh, I’m writing a book,’ but you’re the only one I’ve known who’s actually done it.”
“Yep. And here I am.” Stuart made a grand gesture with his gin and tonic.
“That’s awesome.”
The shower turned off, and Stuart could hear Marlene open and close the stall door behind her. He didn’t want to talk about this in front of her. “You should trust your own instincts, Heath. If you want to write a screenplay about your girlfriend tramping around England, do it. And don’t worry if she gets angry, because that’s what happens.”
“Is that what happened to you?”
“No.” Stuart stared into his drink. “Actually, nothing happened. I don’t know what I expected.” Puzzled, he took another sip. What did I expect? For the world to change. For people to look different to me.
After a few minutes, Marlene came into the room and started the video. The opening scene was a quickie. They’d gone down to the Exchange Street Bridge and filmed her in the backseat of Heath’s car—a little light masturbation, no big deal.
Watching herself on TV, Marlene was critical as usual. “I should’ve kept going when that old man walked by.” She moved closer to the set and pointed at an elderly pedestrian hobbling across the bridge. On the screen, Marlene had stopped masturbating and was waiting for the old man to pass. “It’s like I get scared at the last minute and then pull back.”
She looked at Heath, who told her, “No, you did a good job.” He was used to giving her pep talks after a day’s shoot. “You gotta keep in mind that when you get scared like that, it’s a natural reaction, and it just makes the scene even more erotic.”
“I shouldn’t get scared at all,” she said. “I don’t know what my problem is. It all makes sense when I’m sitting here, but then when I actually go out and do it, I choke.”
“Hon, relax,” Stuart grumbled. “It’s not like it’s a professional sport.”
He might as well have punched her in the stomach. “I didn’t say it was a professional sport, Stuart. I’m just trying to analyze what happened.”
He sipped his drink. Between them, the TV continued to play the scene of her masturbating in the car. Tentative moans came through the speakers. I’m touching myself, the voice said. I can’t believe I’m touching myself . . .
Marlene stared at him. “What do you mean, it’s not a professional sport?”
He glanced at Heath, who was trying to watch the tape. “Not now, Marlene. We’ve got company.”
“If you’re trying to hurt my feelings, it’s working.”
“Forget it.”
. . . touching myself, touching myself . . .
“I just want to make this perfect for you, Stuart.”
“Don’t do it for me, do it for yourself.”
“I’m doing it for the both of us!”
“Fine, end of conversation. Heath?” Stuart snapped his fingers. “Turn that off.”
Heath stopped the video, and the screen reverted to cable mode. “How ’bout we just call it a day,” he said, “and then we’ll pick it up again next week.”
Stuart and Marlene agreed. They were fighting over nothing. The day had gone well, and neither had any reason to be angry with the other.
Later that night, Stuart got a phone call from Mr. Pike, who was still in New Hampshire. Stuart had made several trips up north since Christmas, mostly to help with local contractors who found Pike too flaky to deal with.
After hanging up, he told Marlene, “Sorry, hon, it looks like I have to go back up next Thursday.”
“Why?” she asked. Both she and Stuart were naked in the living room, drinking wine and staring at the TV.
“The parking lot’s finished. A bunch of writers are flying in for a press conference, guys from the New York Times and the Washington Post. Nate wants me to be there.”
She paled. “Can’t you get out of it?”
“No, I can’t. Anyway, it’s only for a few days. I’ve left you alone before.”
“I know, Stuart, but not when you’re angry with me.” Her eyes were watery, and she clutched at his hand.
He laughed. “I’m not angry with you. What are you talking about?”
“I don’t want you to go away when you’re angry with me.”
“Marlene, I’m not leaving until Thursday. That’s five days from now.”
She continued to insist that he was angry with her until he couldn’t stand hearing it anymore and stormed upstairs. Once he was alone, he put on his robe and tied the belt tightly around his waist. Being naked all the time was getting to be a drag.
5
Can’t read, can’t sleep, can’t watch TV. Jesus, look at me, I’m shaking. Called Stuart a half hour ago—no answer. I’ll try again at noon. No, don’t, he’s busy. Was it today or tomorrow? Today. I’m sure that’s what he said. Yes, that’s right—the press conference’s today, then he’s back on Saturday. No . . . Sunday! Today, then Saturday, then back on Sunday. The ceremony’s at noon, so I can’t call him at the lodge. They’ll all be gone. I’ll wait until one, then try him on the cell phone.
Come on, Marlene. Just hold on till Sunday. Three days and two nights. No big deal.
“I should’ve gone to work today.”
It’s easier for guys—they just jerk off and they’re done, but I always feel it, and I always feel like coming, and I always feel like making myself come.
“Oh, I wish somebody could see me.”
If I come right now, I think I can last until mid afternoon. And then I’ll come again when it’s rush hour. I wanna flash that guy in the red Jeep Grand Cherokee, when he’s right there. Ooo, that’s hot. He usually comes home at five o’clock. So I’ll start at five to five.
I like it when I push up like that.
“Right like that.”
Makes me look sexy.
“I wanna come right now. I wanna come in front of a bunch of people.”
Wait until after lunch. Make a sandwich or something. There’s some tuna in the fridge. I’ll have a beer, too—one beer to calm down—or else, I don’t know, maybe go outside and show off and everyone can see me and I can’t get away.
Do it/don’t make me.
One flash, that’s it. One flash before lunch, then I’ll stop. Three good flashes—but good ones, so I know they’re watching and I’m watching them. No running away, even if they notice and there’s eye contact. Total exposure. And stand close enough so that they can see I’m naked.
“Look at me. Look at me. Look at my body. Look at my—”
Fuck! Nope, get down, get down . . . even more. I think he saw me. Tits and bush and hands on my pussy. Shit. What do I do? I’m dead.
“Oh, fuck, I fucked up.”
Good, he’s going.
I shouldn’t be so scared all the time. I should just go out and do it. Just for a second. For one little second, then I’ll turn around and come back in. That’s not so bad. Or try the backyard, because it’s safer. No, save that for tonight, so I can stay outside. I hate dashing in and out like that. Wait till dark—and maybe in the front yard too. I won’t be able to masturbate unless it’s real late. Only if it’s late. Oh, please don’t make me do this.
Quick to the curb. Come on. Leave the key on the step.
Wait, let me check—
Look at me, look at my body.
No one�
�good, so I’m safe. Open the door first, then take a peek.
Do it / don’t make me.
“Okay. I’m going. Going.”
That’s it, there I am—now I’m nuts. Touch and go. Feet on the pavement.
Do it/don’t make me.
If I keep going straight, I should be all right. A few more steps, then stop. Just past this next house. And another. More, more.
I’m naked, I’m naked, I’m naked, I’m naked.
How far to Main Street? Three blocks, I think. What if I went left, then down to Wickenden? No, that’s crazy. If it’s only been a few seconds, I could—
Say something.
“Hi.”
That’s good, with the laugh like that—makes it look like it’s a joke, like a Candid Camera thing. Was that a man or a woman? I didn’t notice. A woman. Blue jacket, brown boots. I hope she saw me—pussy and bush and cunt, all nude.
“I can’t believe it.”
I’d better try a side street, then wind my way back home. Where’s Hope? Come on, think “north.” There’s the church, so let’s see . . . fuck, it doesn’t matter, just run.
“Sorry, sorry, hold on.”
If I can get back to Hope, or Brook. Which one’s Brook?
“Sorry. Sorry.”
I don’t know anymore. I thought this was Brook, but that’s the liquor store, so it can’t be. No, the liquor store’s on Brook! Campus Liquors, that’s right. So that’s north and that’s south, good. But where’s—what happened?
“No, I’m just looking for something.”
Get away from this guy. Bus-stop bully.
“That’s okay, no thank you, I’m fine.”
There, that’s Sheldon Street. One up and one over and I’m home. Maybe I should cut across someone’s yard. No, stay here—down on the sidewalk, ass bucking, and my fingers on my clit and everyone can see me and I can’t believe I’m doing this.
Do it/don’t make me.
“Nothing.”
Shit, right in front of a kid. I gotta get out of here. He’ll probably run and tell his mother.
“I’m sorry.”
Stop talking, stop thinking, just stop it, stop everything.
Do it/don’t make me.
“I had an accident, okay?”
It’s okay. Everything’s okay. Just a little farther.
Do it/don’t make me.
From here to Brook Street, that’s how long? Back two blocks across the bridge and then under the overpass, it’s . . . wait. This is Empire, right, and there’s I-95, or 195, where it breaks off, so I must’ve kept going. Did I do that? Right on Empire, that’s right, so here’s Weybosset Street. Westminster, Weybosset, down to Kennedy Plaza. Oh my God. Oh my God, no, please help, please help me. I don’t know where I am.
“Can you help me?”
Just keep your hands up and they won’t see.
“Why are you looking?”
No one. There’s no one. Is that the sidewalk?
“No, I’m okay.”
This isn’t happening. It isn’t. I’m not here. I’m at home watching TV, and I’m going to the kitchen to make a sandwich. See? I’m opening the refrigerator, looking inside—hmm, so many choices. There’s chicken, and roast beef, and tuna, and salami. I think I’ll have a salami—
“Sorry.”
—a salami sandwich, on pumpernickel. With Swiss cheese and Dijon mustard, that’s good. And potato chips. Chips are in the cupboard. Chips and pretzels and microwave popcorn. Maybe I’ll microwave some popcorn. How many minutes? Two. Two minutes in the microwave. One, two. Pop pop pop pop—
“Please, I’m sorry.”
Ding! Now I’m reaching into the microwave and taking the bag out. Oops, I haven’t made my sandwich yet. Go back to the refrigerator. Okay, I’m opening the refrigerator—salami, got it, and cheese, and I’ve got the bread and the mustard.
Fuck, I’ve gotta cross at Waterman. I guess it’s the only . . . Shit!
“Leave me alone!”
If I can just stick to the boardwalk, I should be able to get back to the East Side, no problem.
I’m naked, I’m naked, I’m naked, I’m naked.
Do it/don’t make me.
Let’s see . . . close the refrigerator. I think I’ll start with the mustard. Spread it directly onto the bread, nice and thick. That’s good, and now add three slices of cheese. Cheese and salami. Cut it in half. And don’t forget the popcorn.
Do it / don’t make me.
On the ground, yes, that’s better. Keep touching it, keep touching. Touch my legs and my body and my breasts and along the insides of my thighs, and my bare feet against the blue sky, and everything’s tense and shaking.
Whoo—what just happened?
Shadow on the sun.
It’s okay. You’re beautiful. You’re sexy and beautiful.
I’m sexy. I’m beautiful.
Watch me. Watch me.
It’s like the first time I masturbated in front of Stuart, when he stepped outside and looked through the bathroom window, and I felt like a free and beautiful woman because I knew that he was out there, and I was naked, and he was outside watching me.
I can feel it.
And then I was alone at night, and I left the back door open and sat on the grass, and I wondered who might be watching from one of the other houses, spying on me, seeing everything, the look on my face and every inch of my naked body, my hand going like mad between my legs.
I feel . . . close.
No!
There—good, I’m gone, goodbye.
“I’m sorry. I think I screwed up.”
Please don’t tell my parents. Don’t tell anyone.
“I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
Stop saying that. He doesn’t care.
“Thank you.”
Take it. Put it on.
“I must’ve blacked out, I guess.”
Here comes another one. Why? What did I do?
“Marlene. Marlene Breen.”
Answer him. If I keep talking, maybe it won’t seem so bad. Make it sound reasonable.
“No, I haven’t been drinking.”
What happened to my clothes? It’s hot under this thing. Did I go out like this? No, I remember, because I was sitting in the living room and was going to make a sandwich, and then . . . I don’t remember. Nothing happened.
“I’m sorry, I’m just upset.”
Take it one step at a time. I was sitting at home, and I got up to make a sandwich. That for sure. Tell him that.
“I was making a sandwich.”
I got up to make a sandwich, and then I . . . nothing.
“I’m sorry. I’m listening.”
Pay attention. Listen and answer, listen and answer.
“I don’t know. I feel awful. I hope everyone’s okay.”
Oh, God. I know what I did. I know what I did. Jesus. Did I?
“Where are we going?”
I know what I did.
“Look, I know you don’t believe me, but please, just let me go home. I’m so scared. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I’ll work it out on my own.”
I’m going to lose my job. My parents are never going to speak to me again.
“Why can’t I go home? You can see for yourselves, I’m not going to hurt anyone.”
Don’t argue with them. That’s the worst thing you can do. Wait until we get in the car. Let them cool down first. They’re nice people, and I’m just a poor, pathetic, ugly . . . who cares, I might as well die or jump off a bridge or blow my brains out.
“I’m coming.”
Good, let’s get out of here. Too many people around. I hope that no one saw my face. Please go away, I’m not worth looking at.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
They’re not listening. Let them do their jobs first, then say something. They’ve got their routine, and I need to be sensitive to that and not be too pushy, because I’m the one who’s in trouble, not them.
“Who are you
talking to?”
Oh, this is so unnecessary. Put that down. Don’t talk, don’t brag about it. What’s the point in wasting everyone’s time? Look, it’s a joke. Ha ha, the ugly woman, isn’t it funny?
“Who were you just talking to?”
Eyes in the mirror. Handsome. He doesn’t like me.
“What did she say?”
They’re taking me down to the station. Well, how long is that going to take? Hours, days, years, I’m never gonna get out.
“How long is it going to take?”
Don’t just smile, I’ve got a right to know. Dumb cop thinks he’s so great. I bet he’d like to see my body, big breasts and hairy pussy, stroking, and everyone all around—
“Okay, I’m sorry, I just got hot. This blanket’s heavy.”
Stop it. You’ve got to realize that this isn’t normal. Can you understand that? These men have every right to do what they’re doing. They’re totally in the right, and you’re totally in the wrong. You need to listen, and be courteous, and try to get through this. And then never, never do it again.
“In case you’re wondering, I’m not too happy with myself right now. I mean, I’m really scared. Whatever you guys need to do, that’s fine, because I just want to get better. I don’t know what I was thinking, or if I even was thinking. I guess I wasn’t, because I don’t even remember most of it. I’ve got a problem where I go into these trances, and I can’t control myself, and I think I’m ugly.”
Crying’s not going to make it better.
“I’m sorry. But this is the end of it. And if I have to go to jail or a hospital or wherever, then that’s fine. I’ll accept that.”
They’re listening now. I’m getting through to them.
“I just wanted to . . . do something, you know? Do you know what I mean?”
Yes, of course they do. Good.
“I feel like when I go to bed at night, I haven’t done anything. And the days are so long. I mean, there’s work and my husband.”
Stuart’s a writer.
“My husband is a writer. Stuart Breen. He wrote a book called My Private Apocalypse.”
Stop smirking, you big, dumb . . . Oh, the world is so awful.
“I’m sure that you haven’t heard of it. It wasn’t a best seller, didn’t get made into a movie. But it’s real. It really happened.”
