by Lydia Millet
—Don’t call me boy.
—Oh ho! A gratuity will not be forthcoming. I am a man, you are a boy. The epithet was not racial. Ken, we have business before us.
—But uh—my French fries?
—Get ’em yourself you midget freak.
—Forget the fries Ken. We will have him fired on our way out.
— . . . just the fries—
—What’s your IQ Ken? Can you tell me that?
—20/20 . . .?
—Forget it Ken. Damn his eyes I asked for medium rare.
—Don’t wanna make trouble—
—Trouble? We’re building a new country Ken, founding a dynasty of better men.
— . . . ketchup?
—Better watch your back you bigot-ass shit, hissed the waiter as he swooped by with a tray of chicken tenders.
Ken mixed ketchup and mustard into an orange soup on his plate.
—Are you with me so far Ken?
—Put too much mustard. Tangy. Need more ketchup.
—What I’m suggesting, Ken? Religion and politics should be one and the same. Won’t work with your Judeo-Christian shit, your pantheistic animal-worship hippie crap, your Jihad-loving Arabs Ken. Won’t work with your half-assed so-called fledgling democracies Ken, your military regimes, your failed socialist oligopoly assfucks, your idiots like Mao killing the sparrows or melting down pots, your capitalist giants leeching the poor and denuding the land Ken. Oh no. That much is clear Ken. Only one thing everyone’s got in common Ken, it’s why we’re here and it’s the name of the game. Do you know what that is Ken?
—Food?
—No Ken no, not everyone has food. The sex drive Ken. Sex.
—Yeah, said Ken, a piece of hamburger lodged in the gap between his front teeth. —Yeah. Sex.
11:39
Ginny found a measuring tape in a desk drawer. Dimensions, light and heat. Trigonometry. Assumptions: level curves and linearity. Behind every single thing was its own math. The math of the most basic thing went on forever.
It wasn’t that gross. Yeah he was old, but he was thin and he wore a leather jacket like a music guy. Plus he was nice until the weirdass sex. He said, Take whatever you want of mine. Everything here is for you if you want it, he said.
And he pulled it. He pulled the rope.
And then there was the sound of a crack.
Measuring from the corner of the bed to the ceiling she had to stand on the bed, which made it bounce and Mr. Alan move. He was kind of still smiling. Maybe he was in a trance state like on X-Files.
She tried to look at him. By now he should have been gone like digits, faded into small dots. It was mean of him to stay there. She clenched her teeth and wanted to hit him, but then her arms felt loose and couldn’t even hit paper.
The bowl was still on his stomach and she couldn’t stand to move it. There was something wrong with it. The milk was the same milk she drank at home when she ate her Life in the morning. But it was strange milk.
11:57
Brushing past carrels and bulletin boards, Alice caught Garfield the cat in the periphery of her sight. And then there were the Mayan ruins. Coffee splashed out of her mug onto her fingers. Bucella had plucked the postcard from Alice’s trashcan, where she’d dumped it as soon as she read it. A dead civilization could cast a pall on a day. Ring around the rosy, we all fall down.
She set her cup on her desk and wiped her hand on the back of a chair, leaving brown beads on the vinyl. She felt asleep. Every morning she woke up and knew there was a ritual ahead, repetitive motion. Beyond that she didn’t know what there was. You had to work. Divide and conquer! But they were all born divided. Why was it so unbearable? Alone alone alone. The world screamed it.
She’d been cast as Princess Division in an fourth-grade play: The Court of King Arithmetic. She remembered feeling proud. Division was more graceful than subtraction, multiplication or addition. They were the ugly sisters to her Cinderella. She had a crown with a silver ÷ on it, and wore a pink dress donated by the Junior League.
CHAPTER THE SIXTH
Crimes are committed; ancient Egypt plays a role; me take refuge in Sins of the Flesh; vengeance is plotted; and a noble Soul meets a sad end
THURSDAY AFTERNOON
12:11
—Very good Ken. You finished? The bill? You take care of that Ken, I’ll bring the car around. Make a stop at The Quiet Man after we go by my sister’s.
—Quiet Man?
—A drinking establishment Ken. A bar.
—I don’t drink, I—
—Never say never. Life is short Ken. They got a machine there, you move around a hook above some stuffed animals, try to pick ’em up on the hook, if you grab ’em you win ’em. You’d like that Ken. Wouldn’t you.
—I don’t—
—Good man Ken. I’ll meet you outside.
—But I don’t know if I got enough dollars here it’s—
Decetes was out the door.
12:27
—You disgraced me. There will have to be changes. I will not allow filth in my home. I will not permit it. It is the life of the spirit, Barbara, that sustains and replenishes. You were drunk and disorderly. Barbara you have no morality.
—All I did was have a glass of wine and get sick, and all I want is Bronco Bill!
—Not one glass, Barbara. Many glasses.
—Okay I got a little tipsy. But I gotta keep Bronco Bill. Be the best possible me! You promised!
—A promise made under duress is not really a promise, Barbara.
—It is too! It is too a promise!
She was flailing with her fists. She must be contained. He had only called in sick for half of the day. He was going to be tardy. He pinned her arms against the wall.
—Stop it! It hurts!
—Shut up Barbara! Now shut up!
—I’ll scream and scream! You promised!
He was perspiring. He held both her wrists with his right hand and fumbled in the drawer of the telephone table with his left until he found his roll of duct tape.
—Eeeee! Eeee ee ee—
—There Barbara. Do you see? There will be no more filth in this house.
12:39
On Nature some animals played dead to fool other animals into not eating them. If stupid animals could do it, so could he.
Ginny found a razor in the vanity. She picked up a can that said GILLETTE WILD RAIN SHAVING GEL and took it to the bedroom. A guy like Mr. Alan wouldn’t want his head shaved. If he didn’t notice that, he was definitely not faking. She squirted gel along the hairline on the forehead.
It took a while and was kind of hard and she got hair and foam all over her hands which was disgusting. He was bald like Mr. Clean.
—Okay Mr. Alan, she said, and shook him by his rubber shoulders. They had gone cool from the A/C. —I’m not gonna eat you. Wake up Mr. Alan! Wake up please wake up!
Then it was weird how she was crying. Hot rain inside her head that came out. The bald head looked like this guy with cancer on Lifetime Television for Women.
The hot rain kept going and she huddled on the floor to stay dry.
12:47
Dean was rifling through her desk. Behind him a dirty midget hovered, with long greasy hair in a ponytail, bent over, shuffling his feet. He wore a stained gray suit and filthy Adidas with untied laces. He appeared to be homeless, a Derelict. Poor midget. It was hard to be small. But still. She did not know whether it was his or Dean’s body odor that filled the room, but the Stench was overpowering.
—Dean!
The midget jumped and turned. Lordy! A horrible Wart! It covered half his cheek, jutting out from the side of his nose. He had hair growing out of his ears.
—Don’t bother us Bucella.
—Don’t bother you Dean? This is my house, Dean! And I’m running late! That’s my private desk! Get away from it.
—She is not one of us, said Dean to his newest friend.
—What are you doing in my desk, Dean.
<
br /> —Reclaiming what is mine.
—Nothing is yours. What are you holding, Dean? Scrunched up in the palm of your hand? Stamps? Is that a roll of stamps, Dean? My roll of stamps, Dean?
She moved forward, reaching out for it.
—These stamps resemble your stamps but are in actuality mine. One stamp looks much like the next. Stamps are not one-of-a-kind, Bucella. A stamp is not the Mona—
—You never bought a stamp in your life. Hand them over and give me back my housekey.
—All right Bucella, you drive a hard bargain, here are the stamps I’ll let you have them this time. I will absorb the loss Bucella. Charity is my middle name. But about the housekey, I beg your forbearance here Bucella, but I was wondering—
—No Dean. I told you, you’re evicted.
—I am turning over a new leaf Bucella, I need my sister in these times of reevaluation, of rejuvenation and rebirth. I have seen the error of my ways Bucella, I am a new man, Ken here is going to help me, right Ken? I am taking initiative. What is family for, Bucella, if not for this, a little compassion in moments of crisis?
—Don’t give me that speech again, Dean.
—Speech, these words are from the heart Bucella.
—Please. The key.
—Ken, go get yourself a Coke. They’re in the fridge.
—I’m not . . .
—Go, Ken! A Coke will do you good.
—Okay . . .
He clasped his hands in front of him and bent his head like a contrite little boy. The stinky Midget ambled out of the room.
—Bucella, don’t make me beg here. You don’t want to see me cry do you Bucella?
—I don’t mind.
—So cold, so cold—the ice sister, Bucella! The ice queen! We used to play the game remember, you were the ice queen and I was the king, when the old man was wasted?
—I don’t want to reminisce Dean.
—The time he cut your hair off, shaved you bald Bucella you were ten, what did I do Bucella? What did I do for you then?
—You made me a crown.
—I made you a crown! So you could be the ice queen. A crown Bucella!
They stood silent, their faces turned to the light from the window.
—Did I protect you then? I did. What did I do when he locked you in the bathroom Bucella? Did I climb up on the fire escape Bucella? Did I pass you food through the window? For two weeks? Did I feed you Bucella? When he broke your finger Bucella what did I do then? When he broke your finger, was I the doctor Bucella? Did I kiss the finger Bucella? Did I kiss the finger?
—But you’ve changed since then.
—A man has many troubles Bucella. It takes a worried man, to sing a worried song.
—You always do this!
—I know Bucella, I’m not always the man I would like to be. You can help me be that man, Bucella.
—But the drinking. You’re just like him.
—Bucella, a cruel word. You kick a man when he’s down. Your support, that’s all I need. Your love.
—Dean. . . .
—Is that so much to ask? You’re all I have Bucella.
—All right Dean, okay. Jerry Frenter’s waiting to drive me to the car rental place. You can stay for now. But behave yourself.
—Okay Bucella. Your word is my command.
Ken shuffled in with a Pepsi in hand.
—No Coke.
12:58
—Calm down, calm down, said Alice, leaning her cheek on the receiver as she lit a cigarette. She got up and opened a window to flush out the smoke before the others came in. Little Bo Peep had lost her sheep. —Here’s what you do. I left you a key, so you can get in and out. Wear my clothes. There’s some cash on the counter. First you call your husband. If your daughter hasn’t come home, go to the police station and file a report.
—She has my car!
—Good, so they can look for the car. Give them the license plate number and a description. You call me when you get back, and we’ll decide what to do next.
—My Lord! You’re smoking in the office!
—I have to go, said Alice. —You have the number here. Hanging up, she stubbed out the cigarette. —Sorry Bucella. I was hoping no one would catch me. How was your dinner party?
—It did not work out. Phillip’s wife vomited on my carpet. It was newly cleaned.
—How rude, said Alice.
—She had a seizure or breakdown or something. And my car was stolen.
—Mercy Bucella. We live in a lawless society.
—Good morning Alice. Bucella. The Los Angeles Police Department is an incompetent bureaucracy. They confirmed that the automobile that hit me was stolen, but when they went to impound it this morning it was gone. I will lodge a formal complaint.
—What did I tell you Bucella, said Alice. —Lawlessness. Society is crumpling like a rotten fruit.
Phillip retreated to his cubicle.
—Have you seen Ernest this morning?
—He’s not in yet, said Alice. —Why?
—I had a question, said Bucella.
—He was out late last night, said Alice.
—Out?
—Out, said Alice, and smiled.
Schoolgirl crushes. Alice remembered them, barely. The warm diffuse light of nostalgia, enclosing memory like a globe. Ignorance was bliss. That was before the world flattened out, flattened into a parking lot. There were still mountains on the horizon then, with more behind them, unknown and brilliant in the shadows.
1:02
—John gimme another draft here for myself.
—Look Decetes, I didn’t want to embarrass you in front of your little friend but I heard about your conduct in here the other night with Len. You may or may not know I’m part owner of this bar, did you know that Decetes?
—No in fact, no. You see that? That guy who just passed had a parakeet on his shoulder. Saint Francis of fucking Assisi.
—What I was saying, Decetes, was this: I am part owner of the bar, and as such I have come to a decision. You can finish this drink, it’s on me, but after that I want you to pick up and get out of here. And take your little friend with you. You’re not welcome at The Quiet Man anymore. You can’t talk that way to our staff.
—I was as sober as a judge. The man was refusing to serve me!
—You have a crappy attitude.
—Customer is always right, here you are critiquing patrons’ personalities, is that the way to run a business John? Didn’t you take Management 101 at community college?
—This is a case in point Decetes. Now unless you’re planning to forgo the free beer I suggest you shut up.
—Fine, said Decetes primly. He grabbed the handle and quaffed. —No skin off my nose, spend my pin money elsewhere won’t I John.
—You do that.
From the back of the bar came a long scream of rage. A crash and another voice. John leapt over the end of the bar. Decetes followed, beer in hand. The guy who’d come in with the bird stood in the doorway to the men’s room, his back against the open door. He was bucking and jumping, leaping forward into the bathroom and then back, his arms raised. —Stop! Jesus! Jack—!
—What is it? asked John, and Ken spun into view holding a sodden feathered lump. He smashed it against the wall of the stall, leaving a smear of blood on the gray metal. Feathers whirled, a blue and yellow blizzard. Decetes craned his neck. Ken was a whirling dervish, spit around his mouth.
—Rat you damn r-r-rat! he gurgled, and smashed it again on the side of the stall, while the other guy screamed.
—Drop it Ken, drop it, said Decetes.
—Call the cops, yelled John in the direction of the bar.
—Drop it Ken, come on, said Decetes. —Come on!
Ken’s eyes darted right and left. After a moment he hunkered down and dropped the bird, whose brain matter seemed to be braceleting his right wrist.
—I’ll take care of him, calm him down, said Decetes quickly, and leaned forward, collaring Ken. —Come
on my boy, under his breath, —cops are coming you don’t want to go back inside do you? Stick with me.
—You bastard, sobbed the bird owner, —How could you do that? What the fuck is wrong with you?
—Drinking, said Ken. He was calming down. Decetes pulled him by the arm. —Can’t drink.
—Easy now Ken, come with me.
—Allergic reaction, is what, said Ken to Decetes. —I get it when I drink, I get a little crazy, but it’s over fast see? Now I’m normal.
—Jack little Jack. Jack my friend, my feathered friend.
—Ken we gotta move or you’ll be doing community service for the ASPCA, working on the chain gang building bird feeders Ken. Can you run Ken? Can you run?
They passed the line of barstools, stunned patrons turning to stare, Decetes’s hand on Ken’s head, pat pat.
—Now when I say go you break for the door, you got that Ken? whispered Decetes.
—John have the guy arrested! Jesus Christ—!
—Go!
—Stop the midget, he killed Jack the Sailor! Hareem! Stop him!
—I said go Ken! Go!
They began their sprint, but Decetes slipped on a napkin, napkins everywhere and Ken was outside. Decetes picked himself up again and had to push Hareem out of the way.
—Sorry Sahib, said Decetes, and he was through the door and in the clear.
The Quiet Man clientele did not know their lord and master; they did not recognize his strength. They failed to see the nimbus atop his head, the swords of power jangling at his hips.
1:22
Phillip retired to the restroom to reread the letter in the manila envelope. Alone in the sanctum sanctorum. His heart was palpitating. He was short of breath.
We are trapped in our earthly Bodies, these mundane Forms, we must bring them together—
The delta of Venus, blond and discreet. Alice had shown it to him yesterday. On purpose, that was obvious in retrospect. The cradle of creation, bowl to his staff. The small place hid itself like a shy animal, coy and furtive. Awaiting baptism. Together.
—and dance a holy Dance, the dance of Life itself while He looks on smiling Above us.
Above us. Earthly bodies together. Penetration. Above her. Love is God’s Gift. Above her. The letter jiggling. Words blurred.
1:28
