Husk

by Corey Redekop

  Also, I was flattered he’d go to the trouble of seducing me.

  I had to make sure that I could control myself. I ate every last morsel of roadside vagabond as I carefully applied a base to my cheeks. I never had to do much in the way of makeup for the movie, but to actually go out and walk among the normals, I’d have to give my face a bit of false vitality. The food would help keep my urges tamped down.

  He knocked on my door at seven, rapping shave and a haircut with his knuckles. I slowly swung the door open and took him in. He had changed into a tight white T-shirt and jeans combo, topping it with a trucker hat emblazoned with the studio logo. The shirt clung alluringly to an absurdly prominent set of abs. His arms were overly Soloflexed, veiny, and they pushed against the confines of the cotton. It was cheesy, but I had a soft spot for the look. I could never pull it off myself. He was a finely shredded slab of ham, I had to give him that.

  “You ’bout ready, dude?” His eyes were wide, fixed, and hyper-focused. He hopped from foot to foot, perhaps to make sure the sizable cocaine reserves swishing through his bloodstream weren’t settling in his feet.

  “Of course, Duane. I’ll just. Get my coat.”

  “D.J., remember?”

  “D.J. Yes.”

  “Hey, are you still in makeup?”

  “No.” Damn.

  “Right.”

  “Shall we go?”

  Duane practically pushed me into the back seat of the limo and climbed in next to me. It was an opulent affair: fully stocked bar, television, DVD player. We were, I noticed as the driver put the limo into gear and pulled away from the curb, the only people inside.

  “Weren’t there others. Coming along?”

  “Hm?” Duane put on a dumbshow of forgetfulness. “Oh, right, the others, they, they all had to cancel. Some other thing, somewhere. Chicks, right? Always a party somewhere else.”

  “A shame.”

  “Well,” Duane continued as he tapped out a healthy amount of snow on the back of his hand and did a line, “it’s just you and me, then.”

  “No entourage?”

  “Gave them the night off. Ordered them to have fun without me.”

  “Where are we headed?”

  Duane took another snort and lay back on the chair. “Oh, I don’t know, man. You know, I’m kinda played out right now. You just wanna come over to my hotel room, watch a movie or something? I’ve got a Wii.”

  Subtle. “I thought you wanted to. Talk about acting.”

  “Oh sure, that too.”

  Why not? “Why not?”

  “Cool.” He opened the bar and fetched himself a Bud Lite. He twisted off the top and took a tiny sip. “Mm, that is good, nothing better after a hard day.” Even dead, I shuddered; Americans have no concept of good beer.

  After a half-hour or so of idle talk, as Duane got more and more hyped up on his alternating drug and beer technique and I became increasingly irritated at being trapped in a leather-lined rolling coffin with a drugged-out idiot, the limo pulled into the parking garage of his hotel. It had not escaped my attention that at no time during our trip had Duane prompted the driver with a destination. What a putz. I was oddly warmed by his presumptuousness. I don’t know that I’d even been stalked so flagrantly. It was like watching a lion cub cut his teeth by tackling his father on one of those nature channel documentaries. Adorable, but useless.

  I took a seat on Duane’s couch while he went to his bedroom to change. Idly, I tongued a remnant of drifter that was lodged between my molars while I took in the room. For a spontaneous evening out, the room was suspiciously guest-ready. Champagne chilled in a bucket with two long-stemmed flutes nearby, candles already lit upon our entrance. The daily rent on the place could cover an average mortgage for a few months, I was sure. But the hotel provided a fireplace, a widescreen television, a hot tub, a panoramic view of the city, a salt-water aquarium stocked with polychromatic endangered fish, and an unwritten policy of allowing celebrities carte blanche when it came to unruly/antisocial/borderline-criminal behavior. The kind of behavior that ruins lesser careers.

  Duane bounced out of the bedroom, his outdoor ensemble swapped for white boxer shorts and a clean sleeveless tee. His biceps were festooned with ink patterns, barbed wire and Japanese calligraphy, très trailer trash chic. I gave him an approving smile and raised eyebrows, as I hadn’t yet re-mastered the sarcastic eyeroll to the ceiling. He giggled. “So, you ready for some tennis?” He caught the confusion that crossed my face. “The Wii, buddy. Remember?” He mimed a backhand swing. “Gotta warn you, I’m pretty good.”

  I nodded. “I’m sure. Actually, D.J., I think I’ll beg off. But you go ahead.”

  Duane put on a pout. “Well, that’s no fun, not by myself.” He sat in the recliner across from me. “So, hey, let’s talk, right? I don’t know anything about you.”

  I leaned back. “Ask away.”

  “So, what’s with all the lumbering? I’ve watched you — you are always in character. I get it, the acting mystique, keeps the rest of us on our toes when you’re around, right? Like Val Kilmer, the method, living your character all the time, that shit? Did you see The Doors? Rocked, man. That dude Morrison, he was fucked up. Don’t get me wrong, fucking genius, no question. Fucked up, though. Right?”

  Not sure to what question I should respond, I chose the silent nod as the best course of action.

  “Cool. But,” he said, getting up to grab at the champagne bottle and slouching himself nonchalantly onto the opposite end of my couch, “you’re alone now, yeah? No cameras, no techies, no director. You can relax a bit.” He filled the glasses to the brim and handed me one as he sipped from the other. “I won’t tell, honest,” he teased.

  I put the glass aside. “Would that I could. It’s not an act. My walk. I have early onset arthritis. See?” I flexed the fingers of my hands, hearing each knuckle crack as the movement snapped through the crusted blood in the veins. Duane shivered at the sound and took a long swallow of his drink as I continued. “I’ve suffered from it. For years now. It’s like progeria. Advanced metabolic aging. Very rare.”

  “Is that why you talk like that? With all the stopping?”

  “Yes. The arthritis has affected my. Lungs.”

  “That is harsh. I thought that was a, what’s it called, an affectation.”

  “Afraid not.”

  “Wow, I’m sorry. But man, it works here. When the camera’s on you, when you get that voice really going, it’s like . . . you’ll think this is stupid.”

  “I promise I won’t.”

  Duane tucked his legs beneath him, curling himself up. “When you talk, it’s like, all I can think of is when my gerbil died. I let Benny run around in my bedroom, and he ran into a heating vent. I couldn’t get him out. I was too scared to tell my dad, he’d be so mad, so I, I left Benny in there. I could hear him scratching around, but he couldn’t find his way out. Maybe he was stuck or something. I could hear his scratching when I went to bed. It got quieter and quieter, and then a few nights later, there was nothing. And I knew he had died.” Duane wiped at his eyes. “Stupid. Stupid kid, too scared so he lets his pet die. And stupid me, still getting worked up over it.”

  He snorted and wiped the corner of his shirt under his nose. “Anyway, that’s what your voice reminds me of. Every time. When you talk like that, I hate you. The others too. I can’t help it.” He smiled weakly. “But that’s acting, right? That’s what you’re supposed to do, picture dead relatives, get your emotions to the surface, right?”

  “Duane, I . . . I had no idea.” A huge lie, but what else could I say? I was suddenly aware of how much closer he was to me on the couch. His skin might as well have been cellophane; all I could see was engorged blood vessels awaiting my inspection and a healthy, veal-tender musculature. He kept talking, but all I could hear was the thick red molasses parading through his body, th
e ba-bump ba-bump of his accelerating heart rate, and the grinding of my teeth.

  His eyes crinkled with worry. “Hey, I didn’t upset you, did I? It’s not like your voice always does that. Only when you’re acting. Usually. Otherwise you’re fine. I mean, not fine, but . . . you know.

  “Wait, are you dying, Gary?” he whispered. He looked about the room, as if paparazzi were lingering on the periphery, behind the credenza or perched in the fronds of a fern. “I mean, like, it’s cool if you don’t want to tell me, I understand. Suffer in silence. I just thought you seemed kind of lonely on set. I can keep a secret.” All I could smell was meat. “Is this why you’re lonely? Afraid? I’ve seen you looking. You look like you want to take a bite out of me. But you’re holding it in. You’re afraid, and alone. I’m lonely too, right? Maybe we can be lonely together for a while. Make each other feel better.”

  My hands tightened into the cushions of the sofa and I willed myself to ignore the hunger screams. The drifterbaloney I had snacked on beforehand had obviously reached its expiration date, and I could feel my stomach muscles contract, physically pushing my stomach closer to Duane in preparation.

  I forced myself to stand up. I’d completely misread the evening. “I think it’s time I go,” I said. “I need to go. I have to. Feed my cat.”

  “Oh, hey, I’m sorry.” Duane bounded to his feet and stepped in front of me. I tensed instinctively at his nearness. “Did I come on too strong?” He looked genuinely hurt. “I do that, I’m sorry, please don’t leave. I got a little excited, and fuck!” He started slapping himself across the cheeks. “Stupid, stupid. Damn, I’m so high right now I could visit the space station.”

  He halted his self-flagellation and placed a sweaty hand on my arm. The heat from his palm burned through my shirtsleeve and seared its imprint into my skin. My head swam with excitement and the world faded to red. My tongue took a run and shoved mightily against the back of its enamel prison, trying to pry open the teeth. It didn’t matter that Duane was a high-profile celebrity whose disappearance would be definitely noticed. His vanishing would be the front item on Entertainment Tonight for weeks, but fuck it, I was going to binge on B-lister and screw my career, screw my mother, screw this whole goddamned excuse for an afterlife, all that mattered was giving in to the immediacy of this moment. There was no future to consider, there was only the splatter of blood between my jaws and the slowing pulse of his heart as it lay in my palms.

  My stomach let loose a thunderous peal of ravenousness.

  Duane’s eyes swelled and he started to snicker. “Holy jeez, wow! That was vast! That’s so epic!” He began to laugh as the clamor from my belly continued. “Man, when was the last time you ate? Holy shit!” I was on the verge of removing his Adam’s apple as an appetizer, but his laughter cut the mist. I felt my appetite calmed by his high spirits. It was also contagious, and soon I was laughing along, albeit as silently as I could.

  “I’m sorry about that,” I said finally, after Duane’s guffaws had subsided. “I guess I’m a little hungry.”

  Duane wiped at his eyes. “Look, please don’t leave. I just thought . . . I was getting a vibe from you. You’ve got this whole mysterious older father figure thing going. I thought—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “No harm done.”

  “Was I wrong? About the signals?”

  “Sort of,” I said. “It’s not that you’re. It’s not that I don’t. Find you attractive.” But only as lunch. “It’s . . . complicated.”

  “You’re bi?”

  “Christ. Not that complicated.”

  “What, you have a boyfriend? Girlfriend?”

  “Yes.” I grabbed at the excuse like a plane crash victim flailing for a floatation device. “He, well. We’re maybe getting serious. I don’t think I should betray him. It’s not that I . . .” Why was I continuing this? Go home! I screamed at myself. “D.J., I find you very attractive. But the timing is bad.”

  Duane sidled closer. “If you’re worried I’ll tell about your condition—”

  “No, I’m sure you wouldn’t.” You wouldn’t survive the night. My bowels spasmed with wrath. I imagined his tongue in my mouth, wrapping around mine before I bit down, feeling its wriggling as its severed nerve endings reacted to my saliva. “How about a raincheck? A maybe, after the shoot?”

  Duane broke out the famous smile that adorned the covers of every cheap tabloid and teen magazine of note. “Raincheck, sure. Hey, tell you what, I’ll lay off the snow for the evening, all right? I’ll go put on some pants, we’ll order some food in, calm that—” he patted my belly, and I nibbled on my lip to keep from nibbling on his “—fire in your oven there. I’ll even send someone to feed your cat, okay?”

  That made me smile. “No, she’ll be fine. But thank you.”

  “So, we cool?” I nodded. Duane sighed in relief. “I’m gonna go put something on, okay? You promise not to leave?”

  “I’ll stay. Right here.”

  “Great, that’s great.” Duane walked out to the bedroom, chortling as my abdomen let loose another bellow of anger. I made for the door, hoping that he would forgive my silent escape, or that he’d get so high that he’d imagine he dreamed the whole conversation.

  “So,” he called from the bedroom. “I guess you figured out I’m gay, right?”

  I stopped my exit. Son of a bitch, I didn’t want to leave. “Hadn’t noticed,” I called back, getting a loud Haw! in reply. I could hear him open the doors of his closet as I quickly walked over to the aquarium, my guts chanting food food fooood. The tank’s inhabitants darted about as I inspected them, each individual fish glowing like a heat-lamped McNugget.

  “So, you like Italian?” he yelled out. “To eat?”

  “Uh, I guess that’d be okay,” I called back. I think one of the hitchhikers had been Italian. He tasted a little richer, anyway. I rolled up my sleeve, picked out a tantalizing medium-sized parrotfish and thrust my arm into the tank. “Or Chinese, if you prefer.” Hadn’t eaten an Asian yet.

  “Yeah, I could go for kung pao,” he said over the jangle of metal clothes hangers.

  “Really, anything’s fine,” I yelled out as I felt slippery scales slide around and then between my grasping fingers. “Sushi would be great right now!”

  “Ugh, raw fish, no thanks.”

  I snatched the fish from the water and crammed the whole thing into my mouth, groaning with pleasure as its life essence swam down my gullet. I reached in and snared a clownfish, sucking Nemo down with gusto, following that with a few quick snails that had been busy cleaning the glass. The urge to feed abated somewhat. I could hear the shuffle of pants being drawn up over thighs and arms needling themselves through sleeves as I went after an angelfish for a quick dessert, not even bothering to chew this time. Spasms of gratification spiraled through me as it frantically flailed its way down my throat. I walked away from the tank and pretended to admire the depressed artist artwork adorning the wall above the fireplace while I hastily rolled my sleeve back down and patted the dampness of my hand off on a nearby curtain.

  “So what’s her name?” Duane asked as he re-entered the room. I kept my attention on the artwork, my hand in my pocket to sponge off the last remnants of moisture. “Your cat?”

  “Oh. Sofa.”

  “Cute.”

  “Yes, she is. I like this” I waved vaguely at the painting, a Thomas Kinkade ode to idyllic plains of wheat, perfect for a hotel room in its enthusiastic embrace of banality “thing,” I finished.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “No, not really.” I turned to face him. He had changed into a stylish sweater and tattered blue jeans, leaving his feet bare. “No, it’s shit. Just making conversation. I’m just. Nervous, I guess.”

  He smiled. “Didn’t have you pegged as a cat person, Gary. Got more of a reptile vibe from you. Seems more your style somehow. No offense.” I
shrugged a de nada.

  We sat back down on the couch, Duane keeping a more respectful distance between us. He flipped open his cell and called down to the concierge, getting a suggestion for good Chinese takeout and leaving the entire contents of the order up to the attendant’s discretion. “Just surprise me, ’kay? But make it for two, right? And I want chopsticks included, and there had better be a few fortune cookies in there.”

  Aside from the unremitting snarls from my stomach — occurrences I blamed on my condition — the rest of the dinner went by smoothly. While Duane remained true to his word and refrained from his nose candy, I made sure that he felt free to have beer, ensuring he was just buzzed enough not to notice that he was doing all the eating on his own. I snacked on fresh fish during his occasional trips to the bathroom, and by the end of the evening the tank was a far more sparsely attended affair.

  As the evening wore on, I let myself relax. I hadn’t realized how starved I was for emotional contact with someone, anyone. Sofa could only do so much for my self-esteem. After Dad left the two of us with a small insurance policy to fill the large hole now in our relationship, Mom’s demands on my time pretty much ate up any chances I had at a high school romance. Because of my fear I had never formed any lasting friendships as a teen, my sexual desires stowed away in a footlocker beneath my bed, and a calendar of constant auditions and temporary employments furnished me with a social life made up exclusively of professional acquaintances and, if not exactly random, a less-than-predictable sexual schedule. It was easier, I told myself, to function as an actor if I had the freedom to up and leave on a moment’s notice, using Mom’s slide into incoherence as a crutch to justify my lack of stardom. I kept people at arm’s length, even the occasional delectation such as Fisher. As with Mom’s constant nattering on how disappointing I had turned out to be, I had acclimatized myself to a life of loneliness without realizing it.