Boy versus Self: (A Psychological Thriller)

by Harmon Cooper

  His phone buzzes in his shirt pocket. Salome. Boy silences the call. The phone rings again. Boy silences the call. The phone rings again. Boy silences the call.

  ‘Who is it?’ Maeve asks.

  ‘Oh, it’s nobody.’

  ‘Nobody seems like they really want to talk to you.’

  ‘It’s fine. I can talk later.’

  ‘Is Nobody your girlfriend?’ Maeve asks.

  ‘No,’ Boy says.

  ‘So, you’re single?’ her friend asks. Pulled tight across her chest is a Daniel Johnston shirt that reads Hi, how are you?

  ‘Oh, what is single?’ Maeve asks aloud. ‘All of us, everyone in this bar, has someone they are interested in or maybe slightly seeing. Labels just complicate things.’

  ‘What if those people had been seeing each other for a while, like a month or a year?’ her friend asks.

  ‘Well, in that case, they’re dating.’

  ‘So, you can be single and date?’

  ‘I’ll be single until a ring’s on my finger,’ Maeve says as she finishes her margarita.

  ‘You want to talk about marriage now?’ her friend asks in a peculiar tone.

  ‘Shhhhh,’ Maeve says, nodding at Boy. Both women laugh.

  Boy stands. ‘Restroom.’

  ‘Okay, go call Nobody,’ Maeve says.

  ₪₪₪

  The restroom is sparse, covered with band stickers and permanent marker tags. It looks dirty just to be hip, but it’s actually clean. Faux punk hip. As Boy pisses, he reads the tags and wonders why people feel the urge to proclaim they were once somewhere. So much marker scribble. His phone rings and he answers it with one hand.

  ‘Hi. Sorry, I didn’t hear the phone,’ he says. ‘On the East Side. Just doing some sketches. What kind of food? We ate tacos yesterday. I’m pretty sure we ate tacos yesterday morning and the night before that. What kind of tacos you want? Sure, I think I can manage. Maybe an hour? I’m kind of in the middle of something. Hey, you should be writing. Finished? Well there’s a Blue Moon in the fridge for your reward. Sure, you can read me some tonight. Are you spending the night? Don’t get upset, I didn’t mean it like that. Salome wait, don’t hang up. Okay, no it’s fine, sorry. Sure, see you soon.’

  Boy hangs up the phone and fixes his hair in the mirror. It has darkened slightly, still almost blonde though. He returns to the table.

  ‘How’s Nobody?’ Maeve asks, as he sits down.

  ₪₪₪

  Boy arrives home to find Salome sitting on his porch, pecking away at her laptop next to a bottle of Blue Moon. Her glasses are on the table and her eyes are red. She’s smoking a cigarette, flicking the ashes into an old flower pot filled with Crayola crayons: Mango Tango, Jazzberry Jam, Electric Lime, Fuzzy Wuzzy.

  A cold breeze twists into the pile of leaves in his yard. Winter in Texas: cold enough to wear a light jacket, but not cold enough to actually make a dedicated effort to stay warm. It would pass quickly and summer would come hotter than ever, like holding your hand over an open flame. Hopefully, he’d be living somewhere else by then.

  His cell phone vibrates in his pocket. Maeve, the woman from the bar, had already texted him once in the twenty-five minutes it took him to pick up tacos and drive back to West Campus. The text was short and sweet: See you soon, ;-)

  Boy drops the bag of tacos onto the table next to Salome’s beer.

  ‘What kind?’ Long drags off her cigarette give definition to her cheekbones. She sniffs at him, a playful gesture that has become a habit of hers.

  ‘Some East Side cart. You know, that little courtyard down from Ria Rita’s. Two fried avocado tacos and one special of the month.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘It’s like a taco pancake or something. A pancake with a strip of fried chicken inside covered in maple syrup and a dash of Tabasco sauce, the green kind.’

  ‘That sounds awful.’

  ‘I thought so too, but I ate one at the stand, and it kind of blew my mind. That’s why I bought two fried avocado tacos, just in case you didn’t like it.’

  ‘That’s thoughtful of you.’ Salome unwraps the pancake taco and looks at it skeptically. Boy’s phone buzzes again.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Oh, just some friends I ran into at Rio Rita.’

  ‘Wow, this is awesome!’ Salome says, speaking with her mouthful.

  ‘Told you so.’

  Boy sits down in his usual spot, kicks his feet up onto an old coffee table that has found a second life as a footrest. The canvas skin of his left Converse has started to peel from its rubber heel, something that could easily be fixed with a little duct tape.

  ‘Perfect,’ Salome says, finishing the pancake taco. She reaches into the bag for one of the avocado tacos. ‘I can’t finish this one.’

  ‘Well, you should try. It won’t be good in the morning.’

  ‘You have it.’

  Salome tosses the bag to Boy.

  ‘How’s the writing coming?’ he asks with his mouth full.

  Missionary Style, a series of novellas that recast bible stories with a pornographic twist, was Salome’s first foray into the online publishing world. Ecclesiastical smut. The series continues to grow in popularity; Salome has climbed up to the top ten erotica list on Amazon. The digital future has arrived.

  ‘I’m nearly finished with the mother-daughter-king threesome. It might be one of the best things I’ve ever written. It’s the grand finale in my collection, where my namesake comes from.’

  ‘Salome?’

  ‘Yes, the biblical story of Salome. Kind of a sendoff before I start work on my next serial.’

  ‘Freud and Jung’s Sexcellent Adventures?’

  ‘No, but that’s a great title. It’s going to be called, Lemony Dickettes: A Series of Salacious Encounters.’ Salome finishes her cigarette, drops it into the flower pot full of crayons.

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘I’m toying with that or, Sex in the Middle East. It’s the same basic idea as Missionary Style, but using the Quran.’

  ‘You probably shouldn’t do that.’ Boy grins at her cautiously. ‘So, mother-daughter-step-father threesome, care to share?’

  ‘Not yet, I’ve been thinking about sex too much today. It’s about time I had some.’

  ‘So you want to spend the night then?’ he asks, anxiously.

  ‘I don’t know why you ask me like that.’ Her voice thins.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Boy looks away, focusing on a spider abseiling from its web in the corner. He knows Salome’s sleeping problem isn’t her fault, but it didn’t make it any less frightening.

  ‘The tone of your voice is off, kind of like you don’t want me to spend the night or something.’

  ‘Well you spent the night last night and nearly choked me to death. My neck needs a rest.’

  She snaps her laptop shut. ‘If you want me to leave, I will.’

  Boy stands, feeling his body fill with the drama that could likely follow. He steadies himself in front of her and puts his hands on her shoulders. ‘I didn’t mean it like that, please… please stay.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘You’re not just saying that?’

  His phone buzzes again.

  ₪₪₪

  Salome drops into his bed and Boy hurries into the bathroom to clean up.

  Shower mildew and hot steam. Colors: Cosmic Latte, White Smoke, Cornsilk. Boy leans backwards, letting the water drum against his chest. The old bottle of shampoo needs replacing; shower head needs replacing; rusted shower handles look antique and need replacing; life needs replacing. It’s not that bad, lighten up. The water burns his skin Flamingo Pink. He scoots further away from the falling stream. Loves the hotness, can’t handle the pain.

  Opening the door, he finds Salome fast asleep, face down on the pillow. Cold air from the bedroom rushes around him like a wintery nimbus. Boy sighs, sits on the corner of the bed, checks his messages: How’s Nobody?

>   He walks over to Salome and kisses her on the cheek. Her hair smells of cigarettes and shampoo. How’s Nobody…

  His pants come on and he tosses a shirt over his bony torso. He was laid off a few months ago and has been on unemployment ever since. Four more months of stress free living, then it is back to the workforce, or maybe he can prolong his unemployment checks. Thanks, Obama.

  In the living room, Boy opens his laptop and logs onto a job finder website. He quickly submits three résumés to various companies – work for the week is done. He doesn’t feel good about being on unemployment, but he also doesn’t feel bad. It’s nice to take a break. Maybe he’ll be able to sell enough paintings soon and just live off that. Maybe.

  Painting. He enters the study attached to the living room. His canvases are stacked like slices of bread. A few tubes of acrylic paint are scattered about his workspace. Colorful smears blemish the old mahogany desk with its chipped edges and oily brass knobs. He curses and scrapes the dried bits of acrylic off with a screwdriver. He knows that he needs to take his art more seriously, especially if he ever hopes to accomplish anything through it.

  Last summer’s sketchbook lies open on the table. A few outlines of the Mexican suns with their dimensions and notes are scrawled across the pages. The various concepts are shaded with crayon, a habit Boy formed when he first moved to Austin and money was tight. Sketch it, try some colors, make it real, stack it in the corner. He’s afraid of how much art he will produce if he doesn’t start selling more soon. Too many pieces have been given away for free.

  His eyes fall on the canvas with the larger suns from the restaurant he visited in Mexico. The piece rests at an angle against the wall. It will be a large work, long and vibrant. There is something so pure about the colors they use in Mexico, so simple, yet so culturally defining. The brightness had warmed him. Too bad he’ll never go back there.

  ₪₪₪

  Boy pulls out a small glass pipe from the drawer in the living room, fills the glass pipe with a hunk of weed covered in red hairs.

  On his front porch, he lights the pipe and takes his first inhale. He coughs, tries to hold the cough in to keep quiet, which only makes him cough even harder. His eyes water and he feels the weed tingling in his bloodstream. His head is empty, full of space and spongy air.

  Outside cold empty streets. Tenebrous walk. Boy will walk then paint. Paint first. Hard to tell what to do first. Inspiration comes to him at weird times. He wishes he could control it. Phone buzzes again. From Maeve: What are you doing?

  To reply or not to reply, that is the question: Whether tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings whatever the hell that means, Boy can’t remember. He takes another toke.

  Back inside, he drops the pipe on the end table, glances at his painting by the door. Sri. The colorful explosion is something only one of three people will ever truly understand: Boy, Friend and Aiden (who’s since disappeared).

  Shoes? Yes, they’re on my feet. Keys? Yes, they’re in my pocket. Anything else? Headphones. No, quiet walk. Walk then paint. Move then express.

  The night breeze is like a ghost whispering through a thin sheet of parched rice paper. A porch light flickers on when Boy approaches a dark house in his little cove. The light sends white tracers and scattered images across the macadam. Paparazzi flashes. Too cold for crickets and no other sound aside from the occasional car.

  Boy doesn’t want to sleep next to Salome tonight. Nothing like waking up to being strangled. Choking in a dream, choking in real life. Boy likes Salome, practically lives with her, but sometimes the sharks close in and it’s time to go.

  He hangs a left, turns around and looks at the sign leading to his little cove: DEAD END. He hates that sign, reminds him too much of the futility of life. Boy turns away from the sign, turns back, turns away and finally turns to his house. The sign must come down.

  He bursts through the door and fumbles around in his desk drawer for a wrench. Finds it next to a half-eaten Butterfinger. He hears a yelp from the bedroom – Salome’s night terrors have announced themselves.

  ‘Not today.’

  He leaves quietly and lets Salome continue her screaming. It brings him to tears to hear her like that. Something bad must have happened to her and he knows it, she knows it, yet neither is willing to talk about it. Suppress and let wither: a solution.

  Back in front of the sign.

  No longer will this street be a dead end. He reaches up to remove the screws and a car drives by. He jumps to his left, avoiding the headlights. ‘You’re high,’ he says to himself. Who else is there to talk to? Friend is busy with his new girl or playing video games. Salome is in his bed screaming. Maeve is messaging him. He feels like talking to someone.

  Boy pulls out his phone and replies to Maeve: I’m taking down a dead end sign because I hate it. He sends the message.

  The dead end sign is old, not like one of the new street signs that are pop-riveted. Lucky him. Just some bolts, old bolts, but he’s able to get three off without any trouble. The fourth one doesn’t budge so easily. His phone buzzes in his pocket. Ignore it.

  Using his body weight, Boy tugs at the sign in an attempt to strip it from the last bolt. The sign wilts and the sharp edges rip into his palms. His hands throb with pain. He wipes the blood on his black jeans and tries to pull the sign from a different angle.

  Boy glances at his phone, smears the back side of the device with his blood. He knows who it is without looking. The message: Are you free? When you’re done doing stupid illegal things, do you want to meet me for a late night snack? I’m hungry.

  Boy looks back up at the sign. The blood from his hand contrasts brightly against the silver backboard. The back end of the sign, now yanked over the front, partially covers the word DEAD. The sign now reads END. Boy wipes his blood off the backboard, steps a few feet away.

  ‘End,’ he says aloud, ‘I can live with that.’

  ₪₪₪

  Back to his house with stinging palms. He thinks about wrapping gauze around them, but doesn’t want to look like a boxer. He decides to wipe his bloodied hands across his painting of the Mexican suns. He drags his hands across the hardened oils and the fresh lesions widen. It works. Noticeable, but not blatant. He likes it. He can clean it off later if it’s too much.

  Time to meet Maeve.

  The restaurant is near his house, a twenty-four hour place called Kirby Lane. He plans to walk there, doesn’t want her to know he lives nearby so he takes his sweet time. Boy leaves Salome after rolling her to her side and putting a pillow near her face just in case she starts screaming again. Muffle it a little. Amazing she doesn’t wake herself up doing that.

  ₪₪₪

  Kirby Lane is chocked full of University of Texas students in matching fraternity shirts, matching muscles, matching tan lines, matching orange UT paraphernalia covering various parts of their body like trophies – things they would hold onto for the rest of the their lives, no matter how bleak or wonderful they became.

  Boy sees Maeve sitting at the counter drinking a Topo Chico and reading a book on her Kindle.

  ‘Can’t sleep?’ Boy asks.

  ‘Hi.’ She sets her Kindle face down.

  ‘What are you reading?’

  ‘You don’t want to know,’ she says.

  ‘Ah, it’s fine, just tell me.’

  ‘No, I’m embarrassed.’

  ‘Fine.’ Boy opens his menu.

  ‘Don’t worry, I already ordered for you,’ she says.

  ‘How would you know what I wanted?’

  ‘I didn’t. I ordered two things I wanted and figured you would like at least one of them.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘You should feel lucky that I care.’

  ‘You care? Enough to not let me order for myself…’

  The pot is affecting his vision. He’s too distracted by the upbeat frat colors that pepper the restaurant like obnoxious Easter M&Ms. Not as frightening as it sounds but more frightening than it s
ounds.

  ‘Your hands?’ Maeve frowns at his palms, which are wrapped in gauze. ‘Stigmata?’

  ‘Hardly.’

  ‘The handiwork of vandalism?’

  ‘More accurate. Although I wouldn’t call it vandalism. I’m simply doing the community a favor. No one needs a dead end.’

  ‘What about a false start?’ she asks.

  ‘I’ve never seen a false start sign.’

  A couple sits down in the booth behind them. The man is beef-necked and wearing a white polo with the collar popped. The girl is bleach blonde and tanned orange. Atomic Tangerine, Peach Yellow. White, oh so white. They are both caricatures and so am I.

  ‘Where are you from?’ he asks Maeve, kick-starting the conversation.

  ‘I’m from Ireland, originally,’ she says.

  ‘Wow, no accent.’

  ‘I was born there, but raised in the States. Back and forth. Then some time in Australia and Montreal.’

  ‘And now you live in Texas?’

  ‘I’m just visiting for a few months.’

  ‘A sabbatical?’ Boy asks.

  ‘Yeah, you could call it that, or an extended holiday.’

  ‘And what do you do?’

  ‘I have a job waiting for me at a logistics company when I go back to New York. I just needed a break from the New York scene.’

  ‘I’m planning to move there,’ Boy says.

  ‘Who isn’t planning to move to New York? That or Portland or LA or Denver. Anyway, New York’s a great place as long as you can navigate it. Here’s not so bad either.’

  ‘You said you were born in Ireland, are you an American citizen?’

  ‘In a way. It’s actually a long story. I don’t want to scare you off.’

  ‘You have lots of secrets.’

  ‘So do you,’ she says.

  Something about the way her eyes narrow into slits when she smiles reminds him of Lucy, the ghost he had sex with when he first moved to Austin. He shudders, remembering the last time he saw Ghost and Lucy. They haven’t visited in years.