Everyone's Pretty

by Lydia Millet

  —What a schmuck, said Alice. —Do you even remember me? I work with your sister. My name is Alice.

  —I am Leon B. Grossman, said the drunk. —Might I interest you in a small charitable act of fellatio?

  —Jesus, said Alice. —If that’s all, I think I’ll be on my way.

  6:07

  Decetes watched her stroll past the facades of commerce. Lenscrafters, All American Burger. They had passed like ships in the night. In time she would worship at the altar of his lingam just like the rest. Time was his trump card. The most recent beating had been a mild one, but in the hurly burly he had become fatigued. He patted his pocket. Yes, he still had the plastic of Leon B. Grossman. It would be a rich, fulfilling evening.

  And Ken was waiting in the wings even now with the movie machine. It would make them immortal. Ken less so than Decetes, of course. Decetes would lie patiently until his strength returned, meditative as the Buddha.

  The wood of his bench was painted dark green, the color of primeval forests fast disappearing. Here, at the bus stop, they were remembered in latex-based acrylic. He for one would not protest. Tranquility. A tree falls. Makes no sound. Still, Ken would not wait forever. Decetes stood up slowly.

  6:11

  Mr. Alan was ready. The bedroom smelled like Krazy Glue. Now she had to pick up her mother’s car to drive him to the Spinks. It was parked like nine blocks away.

  She grabbed the keys off the dresser and went out.

  6:14

  —Ladies and Grunts, attention please. I’m starting the service.

  —Hear hear!

  —Thanks.

  The biker cleared his throat.

  —Jack the Sailor’s life was no walk in the park. He was hatched about twelve years ago, in an open-air market in San José, Costa Rica. In the weeks and months after his entrance into this world Jack the Sailor was subjected to much hardship and suffering.

  —Hardship!

  —Suffering!

  —At the age of six months he was shipped from Costa Rica to Miami on a banana boat. During the voyage many of his associates passed away, some of trauma, some of thirst, and others of starvation and disease. But Jack the Sailor was a survivor.

  —What the hell is this? whispered Alice to the bartender. Patrons were grouped in a semicircle around the grizzled motorcyclist she’d known. He stood near the back of the bar, reading slowly off a sheet of crumpled paper. There was a wreath nailed to the wall behind him, and in the middle of a table sat a shoebox inscribed with the slogan Just Do It.

  —Memorial, said the bartender.

  —For whom? Don’t tell me it’s that bird?

  —Macaw. Jack the Sailor.

  —How did he—?

  —Murdered.

  —Jack was always very precocious. He said his first words in a pet shop in Orlando, where he resided following his stay in Palm Beach. I didn’t know him then, but I heard from his previous owner what the words were. One sunny day, not five nautical miles from Disneyworld, Jack ruffled his wingfeathers, spread his tailfeathers and said, “Hi. I’m looking for a gerbil.”

  —Jesus, said Alice. —It never rains but it pours. Vodka tonic please.

  CHAPTER THE SEVENTH

  Burials take place; a sheep is shorn; the Innocent is set free; and an Honest Man is robbed of his Freedom

  THURSDAY EVENING

  6:21

  When she parked her car, he had been forced to leave his own behind and follow her at a distance of half a block. After assisting the transient on the sidewalk, she had disappeared into a bar. Now he was relegated to the cement expanse of a Toyota dealership, where he stood perspiring in the gray, smog-laden twilight. Ground-level ozone was both unhygienic and hazardous to his respiratory welfare: insofar, of course, as he permitted it to be. If he were not acutely aware of the risks presented by cuticle infection, he would be biting his nails. She had entered the bar, surely, in an act of provocative abandon; she wanted to be told what to do, forcibly restrained from the self-immolation of vice. She wished to compel him to take a firm hand. And yet such a calculation would suggest she was aware of his presence.

  —May I help you sir?

  —No, said Phillip. —Please leave me alone.

  —Were you looking for something sporty, or a family vehicle?

  —Nothing, said Phillip. —I already have a car.

  —We have a very affordable two-door in the $17,000 range.

  —I am not, I repeat not in the market for an automobile.

  —With only $2,000 down, our customers have the benefit of an unbeatable 100,000-mile warranty.

  6:27

  He would reclaim what was rightfully his. If necessary, he would employ force. Alan H. might be a slave-driver at HQ, but in his own home he would be at a distinct disadvantage. He would soon be persuaded.

  —Wait for you here?

  —Yes Ken. Guard the camcorder Ken, and guard it with your life.

  If he remembered correctly from the confidential personnel files, Alan H. lived on the second floor. He made his way slowly up the outdoor stairs, favoring his right foot, which had been trod upon by the giant from Sizzler. It was a split-level Italianate villa with a tile roof. Alan H. did not stint on his comfort.

  The door was heavy wood, unpainted, with a wrought-iron window grille. Decetes knocked once forcefully, then again.

  No answer.

  —Hey Decetes!

  Turning swiftly to reprimand Ken for the intrusion, he felt a pang shoot up his right leg. His ankle buckled and he collapsed against the door, shoulder cracking. Swords and plowshares!

  The door pushed open and he staggered in and fell.

  —You okay Decetes?

  —Ken, I would be alone.

  —Here Decetes, grab onto my arm.

  —Anybody home? I will rest a moment on the couch Ken.

  —Nice place. . . .

  Ken forged a path into the interior, shuffling through the kitchen while Decetes nursed his leg. The living room was well-appointed, he was willing to concede. Its ceilings bespoke cathedrals, its walls museums. There was a stark contrast between Alan H.’s austere art objects and the fluffy bric-à-brac with which Bucella lined her nest.

  —Hey Decetes! Wow Decetes! You gotta see this!

  6:30

  Barbara was helping herself to Planter’s Peanuts. She ate like a pig, but she could hardly be blamed.

  —You’re safe here. We’ll have dinner and you can stay for the night. Your husband has to learn he can’t go taping you to plumbing willy-nilly. Plus his thieving has to be nipped in the bud. That should be a condition if you two make up. I will not tell our employer yet, but I may have to if the thieving continues. We have an honor code. You can sleep here tonight. My brother comes home late when he comes home at all. You’ll take his couch. It folds out. He can just sleep on the floor.

  When Bucella came back from the bathroom Barbara had found one of Dean’s Publications and was gaping at the centerfold.

  —Put that away! It belongs to my brother, snapped Bucella, snatching the rag out of Barbara’s limp hands. Mentals were notorious for their indecent interest in Adult Matters. This was why Barbara had shed her clothing so quickly under the influence of Alcohol. She must be taught to restrain herself. It was embarrassing. —He is the black sheep of the family.

  —Naked ladies.

  —Yes, they are naked. But we’re not interested in them.

  6:39

  —My personal favorite is the Corolla, here on your left. Optimal gas mileage, one of the top ratings for service in Consumer Reports, smooth handling and a luxury feel.

  Phillip had reached the end of his rope. He stepped onto the sidewalk and crossed the street.

  6:41

  —Len, two drafts.

  —A draft and one Tequila chaser.

  They were all converging at the bar. The biker, at her elbow, set his shoebox on the counter. He smelled of sweat.

  —’Preciate you being here, he said. —Hardly
knew him.

  —He swore at me a few times, said Alice.

  —Beaten to death, said the biker. —Random violence.

  —I know it well, said Alice. —Was it something he said?

  —Lemme get your drink, said the biker.

  —That’s not necessary, said Alice.

  —Least I can do, said the biker. —Gimme a break here. Sorry for that message on your machine. It was outta line.

  —Alice!

  She turned to see Phillip Kreuz standing behind her, in coat and tie. Fish out of water. He had his hands on his hips.

  —Phil! I didn’t know you went to bars! Shouldn’t you be at work?

  —Alice I know what you want.

  —That makes one of us Phil. A drink?

  —I mean it Alice. Come with me. We will leave.

  —Who the fuck is this guy?

  —A coworker of mine. Is something wrong Phil?

  —Alice I know your father is deceased but grief is not a license for debauchery or sins of the flesh.

  —Sins? This guy’s pissing me off. She’s with me, okay guy?

  —I’ll handle this. No one’s sinning Phil, at least no more than usual. I took half a sick day. Don’t worry about me. I’ll see you tomorrow. I promise I’ll make it to work alive.

  —Alice that is not the point. A place like this is inappropriate.

  —Listen guy, I understand you work with Alice here but what she does on her sick days is none of your business.

  —This individual is not the kind you should associate with. He is a lower-class individual. Riff raff off the street.

  —Okay. This fucker is asking for it.

  —Phil, I appreciate your concern but now is not the time for a socioeconomic discussion.

  He leaned toward her urgently.

  —Alice, I received your communication.

  —My—?

  —I know the lay of the land. You asked for my protection. Now come with me and leave this den of iniquity behind. Your father’s death was a blow, I realize that, but you cannot let it affect your moral judgment. The person beside you is gutter trash. You could catch something.

  —That’s it. Get the fuck out of her face.

  6:49

  —Ken my boy, it would appear to be a corpse. There cannot be any doubt.

  —Decetes how come there’s holes for the mouth and nose but not the eyes?

  Decetes leaned over the bed once more and peered into the gauze-wrapped face. It was certainly Alan H. Thin lips, thin arms. And he had been mummified.

  —It’s like a bodycast Decetes. Like in the movies.

  —This is not a cast Ken. It is the sheets. He is wrapped in torn sheets.

  It was not Decetes’s place to question the mysterious workings of providence. She was ever his mistress.

  —You grab his shoulders Ken, I’ll get the ankles. We’re taking this lad on his final vacation.

  7:02

  Omigod he was gone. There was a dent in the mattress where he’d been, but he was gone. The Mummy Walks. She stood in the bedroom door staring, and then checked under the bed. In the closet. In the bathroom.

  —Mr. Alan?

  If he got up and walked away it meant he was okay. Okay!

  She’d just went crazy and imagined everything. He probably gave her drugs last night in the Dr. Pepper and made her see hallucinations this whole time. Peyote or maybe it was some really bad acid. After all he was definitely sicko. And now the drugs had worn off.

  She jumped up and down. Happy.

  7:12

  —He’s just fine there Ken, a Dumpster is better than a coffin. Sturdier Ken, and abundant fresh air. I have a few calls to make Ken, wouldn’t want them to find him before the cat’s out of the bag.

  They made their way to a payphone on Wilshire, leaving the Dumpster behind. Decetes fingered his pocket with its new wad of cash. Alan H. had apparently not trusted banks.

  —Go to the store there on the corner Ken, here’s some money. I am in some pain Ken. Get me a pack of Marlboros. If you would be so kind.

  With Ken safely out of the way Decetes dropped a quarter in the slot and called HQ. He disguised his voice craftily, by means of a plastic bag for static.

  —This is Alan. Won’t be in for a couple of weeks, checked into rehab. Some people did an intervention. In the meantime I’m rehiring Dean Decetes. He can act as editor in my absence. Don’t question this, I realize it’s a stretch, but Decetes does know the ropes. I’ll call again in a week.

  He hung up quickly. Ken was approaching with two cigarette packs.

  —Here Decetes, they had a special two for one deal.

  —A place I know Ken, called Korean Massage. I have associates there. It will be on the house Ken. My treat. A reward for your first day of service. And that is only the beginning Ken. Tonight we will paint the town red.

  —Ladies from the magazine? July: Jezebel?

  —These ladies, Ken, are free agents.

  —But how about July: Jezebel?

  —You will meet her in time. Jezebel has a busy schedule. Her dance card is full Ken, more often than not.

  —But when Decetes? When?

  —Perhaps tomorrow Ken, we’ll see. Here we go my boy, right here. I will escort you inside.

  7:17

  —Take your hands off me, Phillip cried indignantly, but they jostled him out the door and sent him sprawling with a shove. Though his temples were throbbing from the rough handling he righted himself immediately and began the walk to his rental. She was much farther gone than he had expected, enslaved to her vices. The bitch! Humiliation. No, no. Quell the anger. Sin could not be beaten out of her skin, but must be coaxed. Her face and her voice were veritable walls of denial. They denied her pitiful outcry, that pitiful and virtuous outcry made in the silent language of paper. She was afraid to yield, her habits were ingrained, and she disguised her fear with composure. The letter had been a plea for help from a lost woman who was battling her sordid impulses. But he must not give in.

  Striding briskly, he took a shortcut through the parking lot of a minimall, distracted by a pain in his neck. Possibly whiplash. He hedged his way between two vehicles and was already past them, on the sidewalk, when he stopped dead and turned. It was the hit-and-run, the purloined Pinto responsible for his Hyundai’s destruction. He recognized a rust formation on the hood.

  If he waited to confront the driver, in his weakened state, he might be at a disadvantage. He must take steps. But his cell phone was elsewhere.

  He approached the car hesitantly and touched the rear bumper. No alarm was activated. It stood to reason. He tried the front door handle on the driver’s side. Locked. He walked around to the passenger side. The window was rolled down: about three inches at the top. He hooked his arm in and popped the lock. There might be identity documents in the glove compartment. The culprit could be isolated and punished.

  He opened the creaking door gingerly.

  —Step away from the vehicle with your arms raised.

  Phillip threw up his arms. Colored lights, rotating. Then he was relieved. It was the Los Angeles Police Department.

  —Officer! Thank the Lord.

  —Keep your hands in the air. Step away from the vehicle.

  A uniformed man approached, touching the bulge on his hip.

  —No no, said Phillip impatiently. —You don’t—

  —Turn around, spread your legs and place your palms far apart on the window.

  Phillip complied reluctantly. The man patted his sides and legs, rather abruptly. —I was just about to call. The person who was driving this automobile—

  —You are under arrest, said the policeman, and snapped a metal bracelet onto his wrist. Handcuffs, used on common criminals.

  —But this isn’t my car! I’m not the one who stole it!

  —You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you—

  —No no! The person driving this car hit my car! It was a hit-and-run!r />
  —in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney.

  —Last night! Let me explain!

  —If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you.

  7:34

  Alice and the biker walked down to the beach. Sand between her toes. He was intent on cremation. Jack the Sailor would go out like a Viking.

  Set on a pyre of crumpled newspaper and dead fronds on the sand, the shoebox was slow to ignite. They watched the spikes of palm curl and blacken in the growing dusk. There were colors in the sky, soft strips of purple and yellow over the ocean. Alice stood awkwardly with her arms crossed, eyes fixed on the grubby cardboard. At long last it went up, Just Do It to Do It and finally It. It was a blurry pyre, spits of flame licking the cardboard, sparks drifting over the gently rolling surf.

  The biker was crying like a baby. She put out a hand and touched his shoulder.

  —I’m gonna scatter his ashes off the pier, said the biker. —Will you come?

  He sniffed and blinked as he raked ashes from the sand with his fingers. Progress was slow across the sand: he carried the small pile tenderly, cupped in his palms.

  —Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, he said finally, and spread his hands. —Now Jack the Sailor is at one with the sea.

  Now Jack the Sailor was a waterborne pollutant, but that didn’t make him a lesser soul. Behind them, the pier was ablaze in the setting sun: bumper cars screeched, bells jangled, the ferris wheel rotated sluggishly and teenagers milled at the entrance to the arcade. A man walked past with a tray of fluorescent straws and plastic trolls, suspended by a neck strap. The biker gazed west, eyes brimming.

  —So how did he get his name? she asked.

  —Because he survived. It’s a song, said the biker, and sang.

  —Jack was every inch a sai-lor, five-and-twenty years at sea.

  Alice watched the vendor approach the end of the pier, where a few strides away from them a lone gull pecked at gray, flattened popcorn. The biker wiped his nose with the back of his hand; the vendor took the tray from around his neck and set it carefully on the planking next to the rail. Then he stooped, bent over and ducked between the bars. A light splash. She could barely hear it.