by Atticus Lish
A rhythmic, low-frequency sound was coming from somewhere. There was music, which from a distance, sounded Romanian.
He held himself on the fence around the park and began urinating. There was yelling and a man came sprinting down the empty street, his leather shoes slapping, and ran around the corner of a dilapidated house. Several seconds later, another man came chasing after him, running very fast for a man his size, and followed him around the corner. Skinner, still urinating, stared after them. The second man had been carrying a ten-inch butcher knife. Nothing came back out of the darkness between the houses into which they had disappeared.
The low-frequency sound was coming from a truck idling. It was parked in front of a club with a blacked-out window. He went inside. A bath of blue light. There were people in the corners dressed in cowboy hats and boots. A fat man wearing an enormous LA Dodgers shirt stared at Skinner with drugged eyes. Skinner stared back at him and was acknowledged with a nod. It was so formal, it might have been mockery. A mirrored ball turned above their heads. A woman climbed up from her table by the door and tried to speak to him in Spanish. Skinner said, I don’t know. He fell into a table. She went to the bar and came back with an opened Coronita. He gave her what he had and it was four dollars. She took his dollars to the bar and showed them to the woman there who had the face of troll and big maternal breasts and, yes, it would be okay.
At the next table from Skinner, there were no women, only men. They had their backs to him. One man, who had an elongated body like a panther in mid-leap, was leaning in, talking to the others, talking in a self-punctuating way, gesturing with his long-fingered tattooed hand. A neatly folded and ironed bandana hung from his waist. All the men had neat short hair. Some were razor bald and their skulls were tattooed. Skinner saw a scorpion on someone’s cheek. They wore clean clothing and clean plain sneakers with rounded toes. The same ironed and folded bandana hung from all of their pockets.
When the speaker finished speaking, he tilted back in his chair and rested his arm on Skinner’s table. Skinner looked at the arm on his table. The smell of a different deodorant or laundry detergent brand was noticeable. The man seemed to be aware of Skinner. He seemed to be holding his head in profile to look behind him. He turned his head all the way back to look at Skinner directly. When he did, his entire face was black with tattoo ink except his eyes. There was a cross on his forehead, a skull with horns and Gothic letters, scorpions, webs and leaves and thorns and spiral lines, like tornadoes around his eyes. He acted handsome and confident.
Just doing something different, huh?
Gettin drunk.
Same as everybody. Everybody drunking. But it’s different, right?
What?
You is. You is different from everybody. Where you from?
Pennsylvania.
What you say?
Pennsylvania.
So, what you doin here instead of Pennsylvania?
Gettin wasted.
Qué? one of the others at the young man’s table asked. Skinner’s response was translated into Spanish. In the blue light, someone else, someone with his lip and the bridge of his nose tattooed, glared at Skinner.
What else?
That’s it.
The speaker in his white sweater let his chair tilt forward again and for several minutes they didn’t talk, while Skinner was left staring at the man’s elongated back.
Dude. Hey, dude.
Skinner nudged the man’s shoulder with his Coronita. The tattooed face turned back around.
Where the fuck are you from?
Why the fuck you wanna know?
Later, the man held his hand out and beckoned over one of the short women and talked to her commandingly—you could hear the cadence of how he talked and see the way he didn’t look at her when he talked. She took the neatly folded bills, folded like their bandanas, from between his long tattooed fingers and later returned from the bar with another round of beers and limes.
Hey, dude. Hey. Hey, motherfucker. You wanna know where I’m from.
I know where you from.
The fuck you do. I’m from Iraq.
What happen to Pennsylvania?
You tell me. What happened to your face?
What? Qué? the others asked.
All this shit. What’s that for?
It’s like religion. For him—the speaker pointed upwards in the dark. And that one too—he pointed down at the floor.
Who’s down there?
You know who is down there. Everybody knows.
Skinner swayed and the man pushed him off with his elbow.
Careful, carnal.
Hey. Hey, dude.
Skinner held out his hand until the guy shook it and threw it away. Skinner tried to get the others at the table to shake his hand. He was stared at and ignored. Someone told him to sit the fuck down before he got hurt. This wedo wants attention.
Are you a CI? the speaker smiled. Confidential informant?
I’m a trigger-puller, Skinner said.
The man’s eyes moved: the whites, which looked blue in the blue light, turned in his decorated face. And the last exchange that Skinner would recall having with him before Skinner found himself wandering through Flushing Meadow Park went something like this:
You kill people?
A few.
Which one?
The enemy. The Iraqis.
Anyones is fun?
A couple. We used to play chicken with them. Like one time, these two idiots were in a house. Our translator tells them to come out, it was okay. Then as soon as they came out, we’d light them up and they’d run back in. Then the translator would fuck with them. He’d say what did you do wrong? You must have showed a weapon. They were swearing on Allah, no, they didn’t have no weapons. So the translator tells them, okay, I’ll talk to the Americans for you. So then he goes, I’ve talked to the Americans and you can come out now. But this time, he tells them, you’ve got to sing a song. He teaches them a song right there on the battlefield. They’re hiding behind this piece of wall singing it. He’s like, no, you’re off-key. The United States didn’t come here to this fucked-up country to hear you motherfuckers singing off-key. He made them rehearse. So they come out. The translator was telling them to do their best, making like this was American Idol. He’s yellin at them: you’re being judged. Everything is cool. They’re coming out, so far so good, they’re singing. Everything is cool. Then, boom, we engage his friend. Now, one guy’s left. The translator tells the guy, your friend was making you sound bad. Now sing it by yourself. This one’s for all the marbles. How bad you want it? He sang the whole fucking thing, and we applauded.
We picked up a head on the battlefield and made somebody carry it. My sergeant put it between a body’s legs. He made it wink. We took corpses and made them do nasty shit. Like sit them up, like Weekend at Bernie’s, wearing shades. Or have them fuck and make a movie. Whatever you can think of. Dress them up. Play WWF. Body-slamming body bags. We shot their fuckin camels every chance we got. We shot their donkeys. I probably laughed at shit that no one would believe.
You get in trouble? the tattooed man asked.
No. Whenever somebody got killed who wasn’t supposed to, we just dropped a weapon on them, or some wire, if we had to.
So you’re slick.
Not so much slick as experienced. As far as that, maybe.
But tell me, how did the song go?
I’m not singing it.
We have a song like that too, I think, in my country. It’s called a wedding song, the way we sing it. You tell a woman, she got two choices: you can love me for tonight, or you can marry my gun and he will love you forever.
Pulling up his clean white sweater, he showed Skinner the tattoo on his forearm.
What’s that supposed to be?
She getting fucked. Real good. With a plastic bag over her head.
Skinner laughed. You’re a fuckin idiot.
The handsome man laughed too. You see? You laug
hing. May as well enjoy it.
Who’s that behind her?
There was a skeleton with a pistol aimed at the asphyxiating woman’s head.
That’s the best man she ever gonna know.
45
YOU ARE HERE FOR me at all? she asked Skinner.
What more do you want?
I feel like everything it’s just my problem.
He heard this with a disturbing lack of surprise, failing to remonstrate.
I don’t know what to do, if I can get married with you, if it put me in trouble, I don’t know. I try to figure it out, it’s okay, but it’s no one I can ask. Everything cost money—
You mean, this is about money?
No, it’s not about the money—
After all the times I took you out?
No, it’s not money! Money, it makes me worry, but it’s the small thing compared with somethings else.
In mid-sentence, she started crying, wiped her face and kept trying to talk.
Something else is more important, I know. I don’t want to ask nothing out of you, out of no one, I rather to be alone than take advantage from you. I’m worry for you all this time. I see you stay inside this room and I feel scared. What happens to you, I don’t know. So I try to bring you some things too. I can’t do much because of money. If I have a way, I would take you to the hospital, Skinner. I would give anything I have, because if I lose you, I feel like I’m losing everything.
She kept wiping the tears off her face so she could keep talking to him.
And you hurt me, Skinner. You hurt me so much. You throw me away, leave me in the street, you run away. And you don’t call me, not for two or three day. You don’t think about that! You never even say sorry to me. Why not? Because you don’t have to, because I’m Muslim people, immigrant? So you don’t respect? If it was your mother, you would leave her like that? I give myself to you. To you maybe it’s just nothing, some girl like this dirty book you read, some garbage person. Is it true?
No! he said, That’s not true. I never thought of you like that. I never treated you like garbage.
You say, to get married, fine, it doesn’t matter whether we do or not, like you don’t care.
Treat you like garbage? he repeated, squinting at the basement wall. I never once treated you like garbage. Don’t go saying I did. You want to talk about garbage, I know a little something about that, and you haven’t been getting treated like garbage, not from me. I’ve seen a few people getting treated like garbage and it doesn’t look like this. It’s a little bit different from this. I’d say this is pretty good. There’s a long way down from here. And I’m sorry if I’m not perfect. I’m really sorry if I ruined your plans on Saturday when I took you out, yet again, for lunch. I’ve done a lot of things wrong. I guess that’s just another one. Have to add that in to all my other mistakes. Sorry you had to meet a fuckup. Sorry I’m not your idea of a perfect whatever. Yeah, I’m real sorry. As you sit there and tell me what you want from me. As you order me to marry you the proper way.
She rubbed her face in the crook of her elbow, muttered, I don’t talk to you.
Man, he said, whew. He bit his lip, shaking his head. I don’t know… No, you’re gonna talk to me. You’re not gonna call me a shitbag to my face. In my room. In my country. That I fought for. While you did what? Sneaked over the border? Yeah. I owe you. Here. Let me see what I got.
He took his wallet off the bedside table and threw it across the room. It hit her chest and fell on the floor. She stood up immediately to leave him.
Wait! he said, jumped up, and tried to stop her. She went crazy fighting him, kicking. He held her around the waist, pulling her back to the bed. No! she cried. They fell. Wait, wait, wait, I’m sorry—he repeated, saying it in her ear, driving his weight into her on the mattress. She headbutted him sideways, twisted under him and punched him in the head. He got on top of her, tried to pin her arms. She kneed him in the back. He winced. She stared up at him through her hair all wild around her panicked desperate face, covered in sweat and tears. They looked at each other. She kneed him in the back again where she had hurt him the first time.
Go ahead. Get it out of your system.
She kneed him again.
He frowned.
I hope it hurt, you fucking asshole. You call me NAMES? she screamed. NAMES? Sini sikey kot ghuy. She bucked and swiped at his face again. You don’t know how scared you will be. I take your eye. I’m sorry, he said. She laughed at him and went wild trying to hit him.
Please don’t fight, he said.
I hate you.
That’s fine. I just don’t want anyone getting hurt.
I hate you. You had me but now you don’t. Now you will be alone. Get off me.
He got off her.
She got up off the bed and straightened up her shirt and pants, fixed her hair. He asked her what she was doing. She told him, it was finished—meaning they were.
Zooey, please don’t go.
She looked right through him to the door through which she would be leaving and told him to get out of her way. His begging didn’t move her. This was really it.
Skinner said, I can’t believe this. I didn’t know this would happen today. His voice had gotten quiet and shaky.
You get what you wanted.
It’s not what I wanted.
Since he couldn’t change her mind about leaving, there was one thing she should know before she left. He moved from the door. I’m not stopping you—you can go any time you want—I’m just showing you something.
She watched while he fetched his assault pack, sat down, unzipped the pouch, reached in and pulled his hand out holding a heavy military-issue handgun. It took her brain an extra second to see this.
Don’t be scared, he said, pointing the weapon at his head.
Skinner, don’t!
It’s okay. Don’t move. You’re fine right there. Just listen. I want you to know something. I’m—his face cringed and tears rivered over his cheeks. He paused. I’m no good. I’m no good. I’m no fucking good. I’m no fucking good. I want to die. No one knows. I’m sorry. I’m really. He paused again. I’m sorrier than I can tell you. You deserve better. But never doubt you meant the world to me. You can go now. He closed his eyes and breathed.
Skinner, I’m coming toward you. Don’t do anything. Just take calm. I touch your arm. This my hand. I am friend.
With the lightest touch, as if she were holding a nightingale in one of her mother’s stories, she placed her hands on his arm and gently guided the weapon down from his head. She had to take his fingers off the handle one by one, lifted the firearm out of his grasp and set it as far away as she could in the corner.
They lay holding each other on his bed for a long time.
I say a prayer to God for us.
Thank you. Tell him I said hi.
Later he asked if she still wanted to leave him, and she shook her head.
There must be a God.
I don’t know you have a gun.
I know.
Maybe we can take the bullets out.
He got up and unloaded it and put it away.
Maybe we ought to eat something.
I don’t want you to buy the dinner for me again. It’s not fair to you.
I didn’t mean that, Zooey. Would you please share my dinner with me?
Maybe we should do something else.
Oh. Okay. You sure?
Yes. She extended her arms to him. But when they tried to make love, he had difficulty; he kept falling out of her.
It’s okay. It’s okay.
No it isn’t.
Yes it’s okay. I help you.
Finally, he was able. When he was done, they were both hot and sweaty and dirt from the mattress was embedded in their knees. He was relieved that it had worked in the end, but it had taken him a long time. He asked if she was okay, and she said that she was fine. She was going to take a shower. Night had come down on them while they had been working on the bed. T
he room felt filled with smoke. It was just his eyes, a loneliness. A place on earth without a power grid. A wilderness of rubble. He turned the bedside lamp on as an orange campfire against the wild. The harem-purple walls came up and he was back in Queens where the colors had been chosen by the people from whom he rented.
One thing, you better wear your clothes out there. There could be someone out there.
Someone’s in the basement?
This dude comes down. You never know.
Okay.
Used to treating everything outside the immediate confines of the sleeping area as a public space, she thought nothing of this and acted accordingly, exiting the room fully dressed, taking along his Camp Manhattan towel.
After she had showered, dressed, and brushed her wet hair, he took her to Fratelli’s for pizza. While they ate, he reached across the orange table, trying to reach for something of hers. It felt like a particularly dark night. He settled for her elbow. She was using both hands to hold up the triangular pizza slice, which kept buckling in the middle, like a corpse being carried to a helicopter. He held her elbow, watched her chest move as she performed the functions of life—breathing, eating.
It’s just the pills.
I know. You are a young strong man.
Today everything was weird.
The sweet sharp pain that foreshadows weeping visited him again in the throat and eyes. He put his head down, glanced sideways at his reflection in the vertical mirrored strips that covered the wall of the pizza parlor. His eyes looked like someone had sprayed roach spray in them, an allergic response. He thought of chafed, reddened mucous membranes after the friction of sex.
Did you notice anything when we were… ?
Just you are tired.
No, I mean, did you notice anything? Did you hear anything?
Just I hear the sound we making.
Nothing else?
What else?
Like something outside the room.
She looked up at the ceiling, at the ceiling fan, remembering.
