The thief never saw it coming. Suddenly, out of the shadows between the door and the window, a pair of white eyes and shiny white teeth materialized. The thief screamed as an invisible force wrapped its fingers around his neck. Boy stood with his mouth agape, watching as the thief was strangled by Philly Ghost. Boy could see the ghost; the thief could not.
Blood splattered across the thief’s face as the shadow man took a bite from his ear. The thief was pulled to the ground as the man wrapped his legs around him, gnashing at the thief’s face. Eventually, the thief escaped his grasp and burst out the door.
Boy stood on the bed holding the broomstick, trying to catch his breath. Thanks mister, he said.
The man nodded and smiled at Boy. His new teeth and the whites of his eyes disappeared back into the shadows of the apartment. He never saw the man again.
₪₪₪
‘So, Salome was going to bash your head in?’ Friend asks. ‘Damn, that’s fucking twisted.’
‘Yeah, I woke up just in time,’ Boy says.
Friend takes a hit off a thinly wrapped joint. ‘That’s fucked up,’ he says. ‘For real, man.’
‘Yeah, but whatever, she’s finally going to go to the doctor.’
‘We need to go back to Mexico?’
‘Not that doctor.’
Friend grins like Yogi Bear. They are sitting in Boy’s living room. Outside, the day is changing to night and the temperature is dropping.
‘Partake?’ he asks, waving the joint at Boy.
‘Nah man, I need to lay off.’
‘Don’t be so paranoid.’
‘It’s not that,’ Boy says, thinking of Maeve, Salome and the blue paintbrush that dragged itself across his living room floor. Why hadn’t he seen anything actually dragging the paintbrush? Was he losing his strange ability?
‘Man, I got some real bueno shit here. Straight up mix between Afghan and blueberry kush. When I got the stuff, it stuck to my finger like glue… a bitch to clip though.’
‘And you’re smoking a joint of it? What a waste.’
‘Nah, plenty more where this came from.’
‘So what do you think?’ Boy asks.
‘About you almost getting your face smashed?’
‘Yeah, what would you do? You know, about Salome?’
‘Man, if a girl came at me like that I’d karate chop the shit out of her,’ Friend says with the appropriate gesture.
‘No, really.’
‘I don’t know.’ Smoke fills the air around Friend’s head. ‘I guess I’d just wait it out a little, see if she actually gets help. Everybody’s deranged these days. Must have been nice back in the day when psychological ailments didn’t exist. That is, unless you got something on the backburner.’
Boy looks away from Friend, tries to hide a guilty smile.
‘Wait, what?’ Friend sets the joint into a groove on the rim of the ashtray. ‘You getting a little play on the side?’
‘I don’t know what I’m getting.’
‘Just tell me!’
‘Last night I went to this bar and was just working on some art and this girl started flirting with me. Anyway, we exchanged numbers and she texted me after Salome went to sleep. I ended up meeting her at Kirby Lane, and now she wants to chill tonight. Her name’s Maeve.’
‘She been texting you a lot?’
‘Yeah, texting me kissy faces. Whatever.’
‘Let it happen.’
‘Maybe.’
‘You going to meet her tonight?’
‘No, I’m with you right now.’
‘Invite her to come with us tonight,’ Friend says, always the instigator.
‘To what?’
‘That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you about. There’s this art show party happening off Chicon. Bunch of people who put on Flipside are hosting it. Probably going to be some wacky shit man.’
‘You dosing?’
‘Thinking about it.’
‘What’s the celebration for?’
‘Elvis’s birthday was earlier this week.’
‘Is there going to be a bunch of Elvis impersonators?’
‘I fucking hope so,’ Friend says.
‘And you think I should invite Maeve?’
‘Why not? Shit, you know I won’t tell. Just kind of feel her out. She live near here?’
‘Yeah, I think.’
‘Why don’t we just stroll over there and see what’s up. Maybe she can drive us?’ Friend nods at the genius of his plan. ‘Win-win.’
₪₪₪
‘So, we are seriously going to an Elvis party?’ Maeve asks.
‘That’s the plan,’ Friend says, crawling in the backseat of Maeve’s borrowed car.
Boy is a little too high to speak. A couple passes by in UT shirts, baby in tow. They look like moving Dante’s Infernos in their burnt orange and their baby’s burnt orange and the burnt orange on their stroller, and their burnt orange shoes, and their burnt orange socks, and the burnt orange scrunchy in her hair. Got to get the hell out of here.
‘One of you needs to sit up front,’ she says. ‘I’m not a chauffeur.’
‘Sorry…’ Boy opens the door and gets into the passenger seat. His body gets in before his mind does. His mind is still outside, sitting by the curb doodling a picture of a flower in turquoise chalk.
Boy looks at Friend through the rearview mirror, who’s trying his hardest to contain his laughter. He ignores him, focuses his attention on Maeve. She’s wearing a loose fitting summer dress and a vintage water droplet necklace. He suddenly wants to grab her by the necklace and kiss her.
‘How do you guys know each other?’ Maeve asks.
Friend waits for Boy to respond and when he doesn’t, Friend starts laughing.
‘What’s so funny?’ she asks.
‘Nothing,’ Friend says. ‘We know each other from a job we both had a few years back. Plentiful Prints. We both worked the overnight shift because it paid a dollar more.’
‘You guys look high.’
Friend starts laughing again.
‘You laugh like a hyena.’
Boy’s cottonmouth has him licking his lips. He looks from Maeve to Friend, trying to tell if she is annoyed or not. She doesn’t seem to be. She turns on her stereo and Spoon starts to play. Salome’s favorite band. Boy suddenly thinks of his girlfriend and feels guilt wash over him. As if she’s reading his mind, Maeve clicks to the next band: The Octopus Project. Bouncy synth pop awash in distorted guitars spill out of the speakers.
Outside lives are lived. Jogging man, homeless man, college man, taco stand. Leaves continue to fall like love letters from Juliet’s balcony. Some Christmas lights are still up. Some tasteless graffiti is still up. Some advertisements for Budweiser with lime are still up. Some grad students drinking coffee are still up.
They pass under I-35 and the song changes. The Sword. Boy rocks his head back and forth to the warm stoner metal.
‘You on the Austin mix today?’ Friend asks.
‘I guess. A friend made me this CD. I don’t like most of the stuff though. ‘Music Capital of the World’ my ass. This metal is pretty cool, though.’
‘Don’t hate…’
The Sword continues to chug their way into metal bliss as Friend and Maeve talk about the Austin clichés. It’s hard to take in the music, the voices and the scenery together, so Boy focuses all his attention on the scenery.
Boy sees the visible change from west to east as they move away from the interstate, across what used to be the old segregation line. Them there, us here. Boy likes the East Side. Outside Bennu coffee and a faded blue laundry mat. Crapshoot houses that look like stacks of wet bread. Good, vibrant art. El Federico makes his mark. Clapboard Baptist churches. Old Barbeque joints smoky as their products.
Boy looks at his phone: one missed call from Salome. One text message from Salome: Where are you? Boy looks to Maeve. Maeve winks, turns her head back to the road. Boy texts Salome: I’m busy tonight.
�
�That’s it…’ Friend points at an abandoned warehouse with a rusted sign that says O-O-D-S. Hanging from an old oak tree out front is an Elvis piñata. Boy wonders what kind of candy is inside. They pull into the back of a line of cars. Bumper stickers read: End the Occupation, Keep Austin Weird, Infowars, Black Swan Yoga.
‘Take a right,’ Friend says, ‘we’ll park up the street. Fuck paying to park. Not in my America.’
₪₪₪
Two women wearing matching dominatrix outfits and gold-rimmed Elvis aviators take money just inside the door. They’re sexy, too cool for Boy to even try. Not one to give up so easily, Friend nods, flashing his how you doin’ smile. The one with blonde hair yawns in response.
They walk down a long corridor decorated with pictures of the King of Rock and Roll at various stages of his life. They pass framed pictures of pill bottles, groupies, mountains of cocaine, Elvis in the Oval Office with Nixon, both looking like some chumps. Amber, Timberwolf, Bistre, Rufous. Techno music spliced with Elvis throwbacks swim up the narrow hallway like a school of Tennessee Black Bass. Friend leads the way, dancing with his arms above his head.
They enter a large room with a thirty-foot ceiling. Elvises congregate all around them. They come in all sizes and genders. Most wear the famous white costume, with its cape and red underarm stitching and golden beads, but a few wear the black variation, and a handful of them have gone old school with the Jailhouse Rock outfit. An Elvis rides by on a sequined Segway, talking into his cell phone. Techie Hound Dog.
‘Bar!’ Friend says, pushing his way into the crowd.
‘Buy us something!’ Maeve calls after him. Friend turns in time to get a twenty dollar bill from her.
Before he can do anything else, Maeve hooks her arm in Boy’s and steers him towards a banner that says GRACELAND. She tries to grab his hand, but he shies away. Besides, his hands are still bandaged from the DEAD END sign he failed to rip down.
They walk outside to find a trail of lights with a street sign that reads Elvis Presley Boulevard. Walking along the lighted path, they come to a sign that says MEDITATION GARDEN. Next to Elvis’ gravestone are two topless women in Elvis wigs and sunglasses meditating. One looks familiar, but Boy can’t quite place her.
‘I love shit like this, but I never know how long I should look,’ he says.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t want to seem as if I’m gawking just because they’re naked.’
‘But you want to see the naked women, right?’
Boy says, ‘I think every man, at least every straight man, wants to see a naked woman. I have yet to be proven wrong about this.’
‘Then look! Fuck it, enjoy yourself. No one’s stopping you.’
‘Dranks!’ Friend says, appearing behind them with some cocktails. ‘One for you and one for you.’
‘What’s in it?’ Maeve asks.
‘Some Elvisy concoction.’
‘Such as?’
‘Well, I think this one was called Heartbreak Hotel and that one was called Devil in Disguise. Keeping it classy!’
‘It’s good,’ Maeve says, sipping from the straw.
‘I’ll meet you guys inside. I saw some people I know up in there,’ Friend says, turning to leave. He fist bumps Boy before he goes.
‘Is yours good?’ Maeve asks. Boy turns his straw towards her and she sips it, keeping her eyes trained on him. ‘I like it,’ she says. ‘I think I want that one next time.’
They continue walking until they get to a sign decorated in sparkling lights that says JUNGLE ROOM. Three makeshift walls have been erected and painted green. Aged leather sofas sit around each other in a scattered pattern next to fake plants and stuffed teddy bears. Holding it all together is a blue guitar leans against a golden palm tree lamp with a single orange bulb on top.
‘Let’s sit here,’ Maeve says, pointing at an ottoman decorated with green pillows.
‘Do you think it’s ok to sit here?’
‘Of course it’s okay, the sign says so.’
‘So how long have you been in America, again?’ Boy asks. Say something, anything.
‘Oh, for a long time now. Before that I was in Australia. But here in America – well I got married six years ago – so six years continuously.’
‘Married?’ Boy gulps, choking on the word.
Boy’s stomach twists; he suddenly feels fileted, betrayed. The irony of the entire situation passes over his head. He stares down into his drink as if the answer floats on top of a chunk of ice.
Maeve laughs it off. ‘I thought I told you. Technically I’m still married, at least on paper, but we’ve actually been divorced for six months now.’
‘How does that work?’
‘Green card. I have to live here for ten years, married here for ten years, before I can get citizenship. When we decided to break it off – I mean, we were friends first – he agreed to stay married to me until I was eligible for citizenship.’
‘And he lives in New York?’ Boy is looking at her curiously, trying to cover his alarm with a faint grin, trying to discover her angle.
‘Yeah, when he’s not traveling.’
‘So, you’re divorced, but technically married?’
Maeve laughs awkwardly. ‘Is that strange to you? It’s just a piece of paper.’
‘Yeah, I guess you’re right,’ he says, relaxing onto the ottoman. Paper rules everything. Maeve scoots closer to him.
‘This is so cool.’ She waves her hand at the party. ‘I’m so glad you invited me!’
A cackle of Elvises sits down on the sofa across from them. They start helping each other fix their glued-on sideburns. Maeve inches closer to Boy and begins lightly running her hand across the small of his back. He bends forward to place his drink on the ground. Moments later they’re kissing, and Boy’s stomach is filling with razor-winged butterflies thrashing and flaying his insides.
Chapter 8: Maeve
Boy’s Age: 24
Elvis is a good lay.
This makes it worse in a way; Boy was secretly hoping the sex would be bad so he could get the urge out of his system in a single night and forget about it. No such luck. Elvis is on top of him, her arms holding the elbows over her head.
The more lovers he has, the more he has to compare to. Boy can’t imagine spending his whole life with just one, but at least with one, he’d never know how much better or worse it could be. The twenty-first century isn’t designed for this type of simplicity. Blame TV, books, movies, internet porn, high divorce rates, art and fruitless acts of expression. Hard to chain yourself to a tree in a galaxy-sized forest.
He wishes he could see what will become of these societal norms. The past is as much of a noose as the future. It’s fascinating to think how much one generation struggles for something, and how quickly the next generation forgets it. Damn and be damned, fuck and be fucked.
Boy shouldn’t be contemplating the future while he’s having sex with Elvis – just doesn’t quite do it justice – but his mind has always wandered during the act, except for that time with Lucy, the slit-eyed ghost from a few years back.
Elvis drops down onto his mouth with her tongue out. Slimy. Warm. Tastes like spirits. Seconds later she’s sucking at his nipple, curved over, inhaling his chest. He’s drunk enough to forget how Maeve got the Elvis wig and gold rimmed glasses in the first place. Elvis-Maeve stands, squats down onto him with her back to his chest and her feet on the couch. His prick starts to lose its girth, likely because of the condom or the alcohol or both.
Maeve is whispering in his ear. She’s breathing heavy, making a purring sound with her throat.
As she moans Boy gets a glimpse of Glass Wings, hitting the creature across the back with his baseball bat, wings shattering to the floor. His hair pricks and he responds by pushing Maeve away. Glass Wings is back. No he isn’t. He was hit by a car.
‘What’s wrong?’ Maeve asks. ‘Am I not turning you on?’
‘N-n-no, you are. It’s the condom,’ he
lies. ‘Hard to get it up with it on.’
Without saying a word, Maeve flicks the condom off. Boy looks at her apprehensively. He doesn’t want a kid – first thing that goes through his mind every time he has unprotected sex. He doesn’t want another STD – the second thing that whistles across his psyche.
‘Don’t worry,’ she says, slipping Boy inside her. ‘Are you…?’
‘It will be fine.’
₪₪₪
Outside slight breeze cold macadam. Boy’s walking with his eyes fixated on the sidewalk with one of his shoes untied. He’s hiking up the hill on 32nd Street, wishing he’d arrived home already. Maybe he should have just spent the night at Maeve’s, but the urge to leave was overpowering, and she didn’t seem to mind.
Boy’s home is past the frat houses, past the bakery with the awesome gingersnap cookies, up the street from a hardware store, not far from Spider House. There’s a co-op down the street with good vegetarian breakfast tacos and a restaurant called Zen, which offers a Japanese/Mexican hybrid menu. Globalization isn’t so bad, relax jingoists.
NO END. That’s what the sign says. Boy whips around to make sure Glass Wings isn’t there. Maybe he really is dead. The shiver that whooshes over his body tells him otherwise. His hands go in his pockets and he feels the sting from the bandage across his palms, finds his cell phone. Two messages from Salome: Are you okay? I’m worried about you. That and, Are you ignoring me? What are you doing? One message from Friend: OMG.
Front porch. He kicks his legs up onto the old table he uses as a footrest. A cat meows in the bushes of the house next door. It sounds pissed, ready to pounce. From his reclined position, he reaches above his head and fiddles with his mailbox. Empty.
What now? He’s cheated on his girlfriend and the situation must be addressed. Boy feels guilty only in the sense that people are programmed to feel guilty about cheating. He remembers the way he charged at Maeve, the way he threw her onto the couch, the way she pulled him down, straddled him, shoved her tongue into his mouth like something out of Alien.
Boy versus Self: (A Psychological Thriller) Page 13
