“So what was she like?” Eric said, waking me up.
“What time is it?”
Two-thirty—you dig her?”
“We have similar interests.”
“Did you drop your drawers?”
“What?”
“Did you screw her?”
“Eric, I went there for spiritual guidance.”
“I’m just buggin’ you.”
“It was purely business.”
“Anytime someone does that braille thing with your mind, man, it ain’t purely business.”
“We didn’t even get to that. She had a migraine. However, we’ve made plans for a second rendez-vous.”
“A second meeting?”
“Yes,” I said, grinning.
“Damn.”
“What?”
“Uh … Nothing. I’m sure it’ll be fine.” He scratched himself and started walking away.
“What?”
“Just watch out for that voodoo shit, man.”
“What do you know about it?”
Eric didn’t turn around. “Believe me,” he said, “I know.”
“What do you know?” There was no response.
Needless to say I woke up the following morning feeling like I’d worked graveyard at an all-night convenience store.
The day that followed was spent napping, researching psychic phenomena and circling potential jobs in the classified adds. Paranoia left me wondering if Lucy had read my every thought during our previous day’s conversation and perhaps considered me an idiot. Could she have known I had destiny illusions of my own?
Over the next two get-togethers conversations with Lucy reached an alarming intensity. Stories were strewn out like war anecdotes in a British pub; bordering on magical, angry yet funny, loving yet painful. Lucy’s veritable potpourri knowledge of alternate thought—mythology, psychology, religion—and her continual popping of vitamin complexes and Tylenol 3’s made it for me an experience not unlike talking to a smorgasbord. For every hunger I had, she said something to fill it up. On top of all that, she was genuinely interested in what I had to say—a conclusion I drew from her insightful responses. We didn’t do a reading. I considered it a stay of relationship execution.
On a Sunday evening I drove alone to the university and sat on the steps outside the physics building. It started to rain. It started to pour. Fitting, I thought. Two phone calls on Eric’s answering machine from my parents asking if my marks had come had left me aware that whatever vision of destiny I still possessed, it could no longer match my parents’. There would be no Nobel Prize in the future. There probably wouldn’t be a magic antiserum for world pestilence, either. I understood why, too. So the following day I revealed the reasons, self-deprecating as they were, to Lucy. Why? Because I was feeling like a house fly spinning in a cauldron of beer, torn between drunken bliss and inevitable demise. For as smitten as I was for Lucy, our relationship was business—and once the psychic reading was done, reason told me, so was I. So if I had to go, I decided, I’d go with, if not style, honour.
“I have to tell you this, Lucy. I’ve discovered some things in the last few days … about myself that, well, I know what your opinion is of people with destiny-filled ideas; convoluted, megalomaniacal, split personality and so on. Still, I must confess that I, indeed, am one of those people. Yes, all my life I’ve believed I was preordained to get closer to God through scholarly pursuits or, at least, something of that nature; perhaps I’d discover the AIDS vaccine or find scientific evidence proving the existence of one God.”
Lucy laughed. “Christ couldn’t even pull that off, Shel.”
“Please,” I said, firmly raising my hand and avoiding eye contact, “let me finish. When I was in the tenth grade I decided I wanted to add muscle mass to my concave chest—my older brother had a great chest, hair and everything—so I convinced myself to try and do ten push-ups every morning before school. I knew I couldn’t do ten. But I knew that trying to do ten would help me do six or seven and I also knew that if I would have set the goal at six or seven, I only would have done four or five. That’s human nature. So away I went. What happened? On the third morning of going through the routine, on push-up number two, I heard a popping sound so loud it woke the neighbors. Turns out I pulled what specialists call the rotator cuff—a shoulder muscle known mostly in baseball circles—and to this day I can’t comfortably scratch the back of my head. Hence …” I pointed at my boney chest.
“You have an itchy head?”
“Don’t you see? Big dreams don’t pay! I should have learned my limits and never left them.”
“That’s a stupid attitude. You have to have big dreams.”
“How big, Lucy? So big they crush your heart when they don’t come true?” Lucy laughed. “You find that funny? I don’t find that funny.”
“I’m sorry, Shel, but as a little kid you figured your destiny was to change the world and at twenty you find out it ain’t that simple and you’re eaten up over it. That’s funny—I mean what the hell did you expect?”
“A shot at it, Lucy. A plan. Something. Not only did I not get anywhere, I never even constructed an idea of how to get somewhere. I never had time! It was hard enough getting A’s in calculus without the burden of mankind on my shoulders. I should have known I lacked the necessary ingredients; the dream, the plan, the drive and the talent. The four stars. Anyone who’s ever made serious social impact, good or bad, has had them; Josef Stalin. Mozart. Hitler. Albert Einstein. Sir Isaac Newton. William Blake. Albert Schweitzer. Maybe even Wayne Gretzky. The dream, the plan, the drive, the talent. Four aces, full house. Four stars. Three star people are capable of a lot, too. Winston Churchill. They can move small mountains. Two star people are terrific with the space left behind. Sylvester Stallone. One star people are useful, but only to others, and only if that one star isn’t the dream. If a person possesses no plan, no talent, and no drive, but they happen to have a dream—especially one of absurd proportions—they become, as my roommate so aptly pointed out, a social burden. And with that I offer you … Shelby Malcolm Lewis. One star.”
“Shit, Shel, destiny is bullshit. Now you’re free to do what ever you want!”
“Destiny gave my life foundation. I am now a man without legs.”
“Shel, destiny is. That’s it.”
“That’s it? Person A ends up on the moon, person B starves to death in Somalia and that’s it?”
“Bad luck, mate,” she said in an Aussie accent. “Best o’ luck next time.”
“But don’t you see? I’ve been shafted, too. I wanted to contribute.”
“Shafted? Shel, if you don’t contribute—whatever that means—it’s only because you’re a lazy slob.”
“You hardly know me.”
“So you’re not?”
“I just feel I’ve been—”
“Close your eyes.”
“What?”
“Close your eyes.”
“Why?”
“Close your eyes.” I did. “Now stick out your finger.”
“What?”
“Stick out your finger.” I did that, too, and Lucy took it in her hand. I felt something smooth and soft. “Do you know what it is?” she said. At first I thought it was her cheek. Then her chin.
“Your chin?” I said.
“Nope,” she said. “My cheek.”
“I was going to-”
“Guess this one,” she said. It was soft again but a little more solid. I thought it might be her forehead or her elbow.
“Your forehead,” I said.
“Nope,” she said. “My right thumb nail.” I didn’t mind being wrong. I didn’t think right and wrong was the object. “Turn your face to the left,” she said. I felt a little pressure on my cheek. I had no idea what it was, maybe a finger or a toe.
“Your finger,” I said.
“My nose,” she said, “you sure need some practice.”
“You mean there are people who are good at this?” L
ucy didn’t answer. She just kept throwing out body parts until we’d touched about everything to everything; knee to forearm, shoulder to back of the leg, heart to palm of the hand, cheek to eyelash. I was actually getting better at it. Then she told me to use my lips. I felt something soft. It was her earlobe. I guessed mouth. Maybe I was hoping. Then I felt something soft again. Like a finger-tip. I was getting confused—and aroused. I could feel my erection pushing awkwardly in my pants. My tie was uncomfortably tight; I became disoriented, my eyes had been closed for too long. Body parts were flying through my head.
“Um … nose,” I said, not really concentrating.
“Wrong,” she said. “Nipple.”
“Nipple?” I said.
“Yeah. Nipple,” she said.
I opened my eyes. It took about five seconds for them to adjust to the candle-light. Lucy was sitting in front of me, cross-legged and naked, covering her breasts with her arms. Her clothes were on her lap.
“You’re naked,” I said.
“And you think that’s destiny? Shit, even if God had written you a script like that, his angels would have edited the crap out of it. It’s not destiny, Shel. It’s life. And what’s gonna happen next is a mystery, too. Do you know how bored God would get if he knew what came next? At best he’s an understaffed zookeeper. He can’t keep up with the calls on his heavenly switchboard. Take a look around, Shel. Have you seen the papers? The world’s a mess. L.A. is on fire! Who in his right mind would plan that?”
“A married Baptist couple and their small child came to Eric’s door last week and told us all these miseries have been prophesied—preplanned, if you will—and that we should make some quick decisions.”
“Oh geez! Converting the terrified. L.A. has burnt to the ground. What does it mean? And we’re here. What does it mean? Luck. That’s it. And we should be thankful.” Lucy stood up in the dim light. She pulled a record out of its sleeve. “It’s this week’s favourite,” she said. “And while L.A. burns, and the Kurds rot, and another woman is raped somewhere in this big ol’ land, and Miss J.W. 1992 walks around door to door saying Armageddon is next Tuesday at four, just like her Daddy did twenty years earlier, and while your dreams of destiny go down the fucking tube, I’m going to play it!” All I could see was the shadow of her back. “Because I like it.” All I could hear was the crackling of what sounded like an old album. The music started playing.
“Take Five!” I yelled.
“You know this?” she said.
“Yeah I know it! I love it! Dave Brubeck! My brother loves this genre—as do I, second only to Baroque! Charles Mingus. Miles Davis. Theodore Monk. Charlie Parker. Derek’d sit in his bedroom for hours blowing on his clarinet—or his licorice stick as he’d call it! Ha! He was good, too!” I got so excited I almost forgot she was naked.
“Good,” she said, “then lie down.” I lay down and Lucy came and lay down next to me. She held out her hand. “To never knowing what’s going to happen next!” she said. “Clink.”
“Here, here.”
“To Shelby Lewis’ brush with reality.… Clink.” We were really laughing. Lucy put her hand on mine. My heart started beating out like an African rhythm section. My mouth went dry.
“Dave Brubeck,” I said nervously, “who would’ve thought?”
“Who would’ve thought?”
“You’re right Lucy, if I want to contribute, that’s up to me.”
“Close your eyes,” she said, “and imagine making love. Imagine it’s the only place you were ever destined to be.”
“Okay.”
“Imagine it’s destiny.”
I closed my eyes and we lay there without speaking. After hours of talking, words suddenly lost their significance. I’d never experienced that before.
V
I went to the Garden of Love
And saw what I never had seen
—William Blake
Much to my surprise, after I finally received a psychic reading (a short-lived affair dealing only with the cleaning of my chakras and for which I was not billed and during which Lucy continually complained she was losing the knack), we still continued with our daily visits. It took an evening of wine in excess for me to finally sleep over, and that meant on the front room floor where I awoke fully clothed. There was a blanket on the couch. I didn’t recall falling off. The calico cat was on the windowledge. Numbness in my right leg forced a slow ascent. I checked my watch: ten after five. There was a note on the coffee table. I read it while rubbing my thigh.
Morning. I went for a walk. Help
yourself to anything in the fridge.
Lock up when you leave. Thanks,
Lucy
Lock up when you leave? Was I supposed to go? She made it sound like I was the plumber—and what was she doing going for a walk in a downpour at five o’clock in the morning? Why hadn’t she woken me up? I lay down on the couch and waited for her return. My eyelids started to get heavy …
“Hey!”
I shot up. Lucy was standing by the front room door, drenched and smiling.
“You moved off the floor,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Listen, it’s six-thirty and I’m tired so I’m going back to bed for a few hours. You can stay there if you want or you can join me.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m just going to towel off a little. It’s pouring out there.”
“Okay.” Lucy left the room. I lay back on the couch and listened for her to finish in the bathroom. Nervous as it made me, I decided to join her and got an erection. I heard her walk out of the bathroom. Then I went to the bathroom and took care of general hygiene; brushing my teeth with my finger and a dab of Colgate, wetting down my hair and so on.
I walked to the bedroom and opened the door. It was dark inside and when I closed the door behind me I couldn’t see anything.
“It’s me … Shelby,” I said.
“That’s what I figured,” she said. “You joining me?”
“If that’s all right. As a rule I wouldn’t bother you but that couch is as stiff as—” CLUNK. “Ow!”
“Are you okay?”
“I stubbed my toe on the—” CLANG. “Aah!”
“What are you doing?”
I fell on top of the covers, grimacing in pain. “I think I’ve fractured my shin,” I moaned. Her hand touched my arm. The pain lessened. I lay there without moving, nervous, trying to inhale.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Yes. Thank you.” Lucy reached out and pulled me into a cuddle.
“Destiny sure is giving your leg a tough time, eh?”
“Yes,” I said, trying to relax my arms enough to wrap them around her.
“You don’t have to keep all your clothes on,” she said.
“Oh, yes … uh … okay.”
“But you can if you want to.”
“No … I think I’d be more comfortable with some of them off.” I undressed with minimal movement, aware only of darkness and my erection. I put my right arm awkwardly around Lucy. She gave me a hug. My left arm was crushed and hurting but I didn’t say anything. I modified my position and let out a strange sounding, high-pitched grunt.
“You all right?” she asked.
“Me? Yes. Fine. You?”
“Yeah, I’m good. You wearing boxers?” she asked.
“Sorry?”
“Are you wearing boxer shorts?”
“Me? Yes.” I said. “You?” It was a dumb question.
“Am I wearing boxers?”
“I mean, do you ever … Have you ever worn boxer shorts?”
“Um, yeah, I guess I have. Why do you ask?”
“No reason,” I said. There was a pause. “Should I take them off?”
“Do you want to?”
“What do you think?”
“It’s up to you,” she said, “they’re your shorts.”
“Yeah, I guess … yeah. I’ll just see how I feel.” I fell out of the hug, bent down to pul
l them off and accidentally kneed Lucy in the thigh.
“Oops, sorry, I, uh … my leg got … I … sorry.”
“Vee have vays of dealing vis people like you,” she said in the worst German accent ever. My armpits started sweating. With her hand Lucy caressed my nipple. It was soon erect. She kissed me lightly.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked.
“Yes. Thank you.” She put my hand softly on her hip. I could feel her warmth. After a few minutes I slowly tried to lift my leg over her.
“Hang on, tiger,” she said.
“Oops, sorry, I … I was …” I was embarrassed. I pulled my leg off. “I didn’t mean anything by that,” I said. Lucy rolled over, turned on the bedside light and opened the top drawer of her night table. I froze imagining the headlines: GODDESS SHOOTS IDIOT. She turned back with a condom in her hand.
“You okay?” she asked again.
I nodded. “I thought you were grabbing a gun.”
Lucy smiled. “You want me to grab a gun, cowboy?”
“Uh …”
“Lie down and close your eyes.” I did, and felt the covers come off me. Lucy stroked the base of my testicles and I felt a rise inside that suddenly stopped. There was a crinkling of the condom wrapper. My heart started to throb, as did the rest of me. I couldn’t catch my breath. From behind my eyes I saw flashes of light. I could feel the condom on my helmet. My buttocks flexed and my head flew back-
“Uunnhh.”
“Aaah!” she shrieked.
“Ooh.”
Then laughter.
From Lucy.
Gasping, I reached down and pulled a blanket up and over my face. Then I felt myself: soft, gooey, the condom loose and saggy.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Could you turn the light off, please.”
“It’s okay, Shel, just … just go clean up.”
“No,” I said, “I’m fine, thanks.”
“Come on, Shel. It’s okay,” she said. I remained still, numb with humiliation. “Shel?”
“If you don’t mind,” I said, “I’d appreciate it if you’d turn that light off, bury your face in the pillow and let me leave without looking at me.”
Shelby Page 5
