Everyone's Pretty

by Lydia Millet

  —Fuck you up lady, said the teen, thinning his lips out to expose a gold tooth.

  —So do it, said Alice. —What do I have to live for. People like you?

  —Let’s all just calm down, said a man in a gray suit. He was the Speed Stick. —No violence please.

  —Lady I fuck you up, said the tagger, and removed from his pocket in one graceful motion a battered knife. The old man with the prosthesis reached up and pulled the cord.

  —Driver help, shrilled the nurse. —A man has a knife back here! Stop the bus!

  —Please, said the gray suit, —no violence. We all have families. We’re going to work!

  The bus lurched to a halt, and passengers fell like dominos. Alice was pinned beneath a bearded man with halitosis, who turned and breathed into her face. The moist hand burrowed between her thighs. She kicked in panic and scrambled to her feet, scratching her leg, stepping on a fanned-out pool of black hair. The back doors opened and she was out, running, soles smacking the concrete, buildings moving up and down, eyes watering.

  9:27

  —I told you never to speak to the neighbors, said Bucella, pushing him down the stairs in front of her.

  —Bucella my wrists were bleeding, chafed right through to the artery here. Another minute it would have been spurting like a geyser, I’d be shuffling off the mortal coil. It was life or death. Desperate measures. A man in pain does not think straight. It was not very Christian of you, Bucella, to make me wear the cuffs all night.

  —Let the punishment fit the crime, said Bucella. —Put your hands on the edge of the workbench. And keep still.

  —Yes Bucella.

  The roar of the chainsaw filled their ears. Decetes could stomach many brands of atrocity, but the sharp teeth whirring near his fragile epidermis, the delicate digits with their complex network of veins and capillaries, their nerves and bone beneath the pristine surface so easily punctured by even the microscopic proboscis of a mosquito, impelled him to squeeze his eyes shut. He could feel the heat of the saw, the dust of friction, yes any minute he would be handless, plumes of blood like red ribbons would spring from his wrists, he would stagger as the crimson festooned the ceiling and floor, he would trip and dance, he would spray-paint inadvertently as his arms flopped, writing on the wall in blood, as his life’s flow left him, the famous last words Go home Dad your drunk.

  9:39

  —Alice, said Phil Kreuz, startled as she burst into the office, panting and sweating from her run. His white forehead was looming. —You are in disrepair.

  She dropped her bag on the carpet and looked down to see her black dress hiked up around her hips. The shirt hung down, but it was close. No underwear. She pulled the dress down. Under the glare of fluorescent wattage, modesty had been compromised.

  Phil Kreuz was clearly mortified. He turned away and cleared his throat, making for the watercooler. She grabbed a tissue and wiped her face, stinging from air against tears. What stung: humiliation?

  —Sorry, she said. —Kid pulled a knife on me in the bus. I got out the back and ran the whole way.

  She walked over to her desk. Erase yourself Alice. This is work. Her legs still trembled. Sitting down hard she felt scared suddenly. Hadn’t been before. Her pulse was racing. She took a deep breath, thought about putting her head between her legs. It’s fine now. She should learn to keep her mouth shut. It would not be a dignified death.

  —It is a mistake for a female to board a rapid transit vehicle, said Phil. —In my view it constitutes an act of negligence. I advise against it. Under no circumstances would I permit Barbara to place herself in that situation.

  —I know Phil, see my problem is I don’t have a husband like you to tell me what to do so I’m pretty much at the mercy of chance.

  —An informed choice can always be made, said Phil, filling his paper cone to the brim, then cutting off the flow at the critical moment so that a shimmering meniscus curved above the rim. He raised the cone carefully without spilling a drop, then tipped it into his mouth.

  Alice harbored a phobic loathing of his wiry brown handlebar mustache. She looked away as he drank. It was early. They were alone in the office. She sat back in her chair, took another deep breath and stretched out her legs. Her feet were sore from high-impact contact in the tight shoes. It was a relief to know she was a wreck, a waste. It lightened the burden. There was no need for achievement. She slipped the shoes off and stretched them, splaying her toes in the air.

  —I believe—hygiene regulations? began Phil Kreuz. He was a by-the-book man. Clinically there was a possibility he was obsessive compulsive, but she was not qualified to diagnose.

  —Phil, I just ran six blocks in these shoes, she said. —I respect your professionalism but please have a heart. There’s no one else here. I promise, I’m not a carrier of athlete’s foot, plantar warts or hoof and mouth disease.

  —Foot and mouth, corrected Phil Kreuz. —Commonly associated with cattle.

  —There you go.

  He cleared his throat again, caressed his mustache and walked, with stiff military gait, to a potted philodendron against the wall. He inspected a leaf. She extracted a black comb from her bag and ran it through her hair.

  —Where is your four-door Mazda, said Phil Kreuz, turning from the philodendron.

  —Um, it’s in the shop, said Alice. —The, uh, CV boots disintegrated.

  —Most accredited auto shops provide dropoff services for their customers, said Phil Kreuz, nodding to himself. His eyes flicked nervously from her toes to her shoes. —Dealerships certainly.

  —If only you had told me that before, Phil, said Alice. —It would have saved me all this trauma.

  —Barbara was in a fire last night, he revealed abruptly.

  It was a rare personal disclosure.

  —Oh, said Alice. —A big one?

  —Two fire trucks, said Phil Kreuz. —A residential fire. She is unharmed.

  —I’m glad to hear that, said Alice. —What a relief for you.

  —Of course I should not have permitted her to attend, said Phil Kreuz, shaking his head. —A social gathering with alcohol. Inappropriate. I should not have allowed her to go. She is unharmed, but in a state of shock.

  —Well, Phil, said Alice, slipping her left foot back into its shoe, —sometimes a person needs to get out. Don’t blame yourself Phil. It’s not your fault. A fire is force majeure. An act of God Phil, so to speak. Beyond your control.

  —In the first place, she should not have been permitted to attend such a gathering, said Phil Kreuz, pacing, fondling the mustache. —Alcohol, and a large number of guests. She should have been with me at the Reading Room. We had a discussion group.

  Phil had recently been forced to miss a Church of Christ Scientist meeting for a funeral. Alice remembered his reluctance.

  —Sunday evening discussion group, he ruminated. —She did not wish to attend. It was her sister’s birthday.

  —You did the right thing Phil, said Alice. —Don’t blame yourself.

  She stood and lifted the coffee pot from the corner of her desk.

  —Blood, said Phil Kreuz.

  —Pardon me?

  —Blood, he repeated, and pointed, eyes bulging, at the back of her leg. She twisted and looked down. A long drip was approaching her ankle from a scratch on the back of her thigh.

  —Flesh wound Phil, nothing more. From the bus.

  —Antiseptic wipes at the First Aid station, said Phil. —Hydrogen Peroxide, U.S.P. 3% Topical Anti-Infective. Do not move. It could get onto the floor. I will bring you a swab.

  Bucella came in while Alice was standing beside her desk awaiting his return. —I don’t get it, said Alice. —Aren’t they supposed to not believe in medicine, or something? The Christian Scientists?

  —I don’t know.

  —I saw your brother at a party last night, by the way.

  —You have my condolences, said Bucella.

  —He did not wish to attend an AA meeting, said Alice.

&n
bsp; —I am not surprised, said Bucella. —Your leg is bleeding.

  —Nothing, a scrape. Phil’s getting me something for it. He fell on top of me and had an erection.

  —My Lord, said Bucella, white-faced.

  —He said it was his lighter.

  —But Phil doesn’t smoke!

  —Your brother, Bucella. Phil doesn’t get erections.

  —Shh!

  —Three swabs, said Phil. —Dispose of them by placing them in this Ziploc bag, then sealing it. A receptacle in the ladies’ room would be best.

  —Thank you Phil. I appreciate it. Phil’s wife was in a fire last night.

  —Lord, said Bucella.

  —She is physically unharmed, said Phil, tight-lipped, and turned his back.

  —I apologize for my brother.

  —You are not your brother’s keeper Bucella, lighten up. Anyway Bucella, I have strayed from the fold. I’m not exactly a walking advertisement for the Twelve Steps.

  —The path is not an easy one, I understand, said Bucella, from behind her partition. Alice heard the hum of her computer.

  —What happened to you?

  Finally, a secular presence.

  —Cut myself.

  —Rusty blade? That’s a beautiful dress.

  —It stinks of cigarettes and beer.

  —You smell like a rose garden. Good morning Bucella.

  —Ernest—

  —I downloaded new sample data to your folder, Phil Kreuz told Ernie, wiping his fingers with a moist towelette as he passed. —For the radon dose-response model. From Utica.

  —Thank you Phillip, said Ernie, and winked at Alice.

  10:10

  He had seen it. Blond hairs. Bermuda Triangle. The, within. No, no. Banish. Sins of the body are a concession to brute matter and deny His sovereignty. God works in the spirit. The physical dimensions of our lives are creations of our limited perception. Matter is a distortion of the senses. Everything from lust to subtle acedia.

  Still, she needed his help, she sought his guidance, she was lost without him, a golden virgin. But home is where the heart is. And so careless. He could shield her if only she asked. He had been fully prepared to apply the swabs himself. Closer to the source, he might have seen again. Kneeling. Touching. Then—interruptus! Intruders. Heat filled his cheeks. It was shameful. Self-control! Discipline.

  Phillip retired to his cubicle, where he sprayed the desktop, as per usual, with disinfectant. It was a necessary precaution due to the unsanitary habits of the so-called sanitation workers who were charged with the task of cleaning the workstations at the end of the day. They were not trustworthy. He had recently observed a hispanic housekeeping employee, bearing the nametag Jesus on the breast pocket of his blue uniform, crunching his cigarette butt into the soil of a ficus tree. The premises were nonsmoking, of course.

  He had reported the transgression of this apocryphal Jesus to Ernest, but strongly suspected he had taken no action. Ernest routinely ignored memoranda pertaining to the problems Phillip documented. He put them in the Circular File. This, at least, was Phillip’s strong intuition. Ernest did not take hygiene seriously. Cavalier attitudes like his were the fuel that powered diseases in the Third World, the oil that greased the wheels of raging superviruses. They were directly responsible for the flies in the eyes of African children, the sores on beggars in Calcutta. Without cleanliness there could be no godliness, and vice versa. Dirt begat death.

  Ernest had had the temerity to rebuke him for spraying his keyboard, on the grounds that the liquid could seep between the keypads and disturb their operation. Phillip remembered the incident clearly. Ernest had leaned over his shoulder and asked him what he was doing. —Better leave that to the folks who deal with the hardware, Phillip, he had said.

  —The numbers from Utica, he said now, over the partition. —You remember offhand what the sample size was?

  The informality of Ernest was seldom refreshing.

  —It is in the file, said Phillip coldly.

  Ernest moved away, nearly colliding with an approaching Bucella as Phillip gritted his teeth.

  —Oh—excuse me Ernest! said Bucella. —Phillip, will you still be able to bring Barbara for dinner tonight? After her traumatic experience?

  —I believe so, said Phillip, nodding. —It is scheduled. I am sure her morale will be restored by this evening. She was physically unharmed.

  —Oh good, said Bucella. —I’ll make spinach lasagna.

  Phillip did not favor Italian fare.

  —We will be punctual.

  She was a devout woman in her way, but Catholics were notoriously flighty. They were given to weeping and gruesome depictions of the Crucifixion. Moreover they were often lower-class immigrants with a dark and promiscuous attitude toward sins of the flesh. Also they were quite melodramatic, a definite sign of incipient mental illness. It was from their parent country that the fat women singing piercingly came, and the men blown up like bullfrogs.

  Many of these puffed-up singing men merely pretended to be Catholics, but were in truth deviants. You could tell just by looking at them. Such men were more than unpleasant, they were a threat to public morals. Barbara had tried to watch The Three Tenors on public television just two weeks previously, forcing Phillip to confiscate the remote control. He had set her straight on the subject of these three so-called tenors, deviants one and all. He would not be surprised if the one with the beard soiled innocent children on a regular basis. He was too fruity even for the other Sodomites. Phillip had written a series of letters to PBS regarding The Three Tenors but had received, as yet, no reply. In addition, many non-Sodomites, poor people with dangerous hygiene habits, were, in addition, Catholics. An ominous connection.

  He had also been forced to take disciplinary action when Barbara attempted to watch a narrative drama entitled Murder She Wrote, a virtual Gomorrah of prime-time indecency in which females far past their prime rudely rejected appropriate modes of behavior and seldom if ever acknowledged their spiritual debt to the savior. Failing, in that unseemly instance, to gain possession of the remote, he had gone straight for the fusebox. Nipped it in the bud.

  However, Bucella Decetes demonstrated remarkable restraint, for a Catholic. At least she was polite and neat, unlike some other employees of Statistical Diagnostics he could name.

  10:28

  Her knees were shaking. It was from the nearness of Ernest. In her cubicle she stared at a Garfield card sent to her by an aunt in Anaheim and tacked to her bulletin board. There was nothing funny about a cat with a stupid face.

  Beside Garfield was a postcard of a place called Chichén Itzá in Mexico. It had not been sent to her but to Alice Reeve, but Alice Reeve had thrown it out. Bucella had never been to Chichén Itzá Historic Site of Ancient Mayan Temple, but there was something about it. Men with painted chests and long black hair beat drums and chanted. Carried aloft on a flowery bier was a young, beautiful Maiden, clad in white. She had long hair and clear skin. It did not look like Bucella, but it was her.

  The skirt of her flowing dress hung down on each side of the bier, flowing. The strong men danced, they beat the ground with ornamental sticks and howled. Jungle trees were a backdrop. Up the long stone ramp they carried her. Carvings of monsters flashed by. Women pulled out their hair, mothers wept. Little children tore their teeth out.

  Black thunderclouds were low on the horizon, the air was moist and warm, and Bucella could smell incense. Pyres burned and columns of smoke like purple tornados rose into the orange sky. It was common knowledge that she was a Virgin. Her hair was beautiful. Her dress continued to flow. They were bearing her to the Well. They would drop her in from high above, from the roof of the Temple. They reached the summit and lowered the bier onto a marble platform. She was anointed with something. They bowed down before her. They raised their muscled arms to the sky and called upon the primitive rain god which was actually just a bunch of meteorological conditions.

  Then came the High Priest in ceremonia
l robes, wearing a headdress of pure gold inlaid with big jewels. It was Ernest. They knelt at his tanned feet and chanted, urging him to hurl her to her sacrificial death. Ernest’s eyes met hers. Her eyes also met his. He lifted her up high, preparing to drop her into the fiery Pit. Then, gently, he lowered her to her feet beside the Well. He turned to the populace teeming on the ground at the bottom of the temple. He raised his staff, at the end of which was a serpent’s head with ruby eyes, that looked kind of Egyptian even though he was Mexican. His voice boomed out strong and determined. —No. I will not let her die.

  The crowd was taken aback since they had been expecting a good sacrifice, but then a low murmur rushed through their ranks. They were in awe of the High Priest. He knew best. They prostrated themselves by the thousands crying with joy. —She shall be my sacred bride, said Ernest. —Okay, said the crowd in one Voice. Night began to fall as they were borne aloft to the bridal temple. The crowd rejoiced. The children’s teeth were set back into their heads by fully qualified oral surgeons.

  Or maybe they were baby teeth anyway. Yes. Baby teeth so the real teeth just grew in. It was fine.

  She stopped looking at Chichén Itzá. It was just a pile of ruins anyway, where heathens had run around clubbing each other on the head. While good things came to those who waited and the Meek should inherit the Earth, it was true that Job, visited by Plagues and Pestilence, had not lived happily ever after. So far she was Job, in a more subtle way. She would have to make a leap of faith. A Leap was required for Salvation. She was called upon to throw Caution to the Winds. Ernest had to realize she was the One.

  —Your brother called me a zealot and a missionary, said Alice, craning her neck around the partition.

  —That’s nice, said Bucella. There was no privacy here. Laws of Personal Space were not respected. Bucella picked up a sheet of paper and a pen, concealed it in the pocket of her denim skirt and padded across the carpet to the restroom. She locked herself into a toilet stall, sat down and began to write.