by Vince Taplin
I immediately frame the picture. I frame several actually. They are blown-up images of perfection, singing to me from the walls of room 9. Every time I enter I see us together. A strong reminder. A reminder my work is paying off. The plan is working. Drink the water, Vick!
I sent Javier, my very gay and very good, personal shopper, out for lotto tickets as I’ve done every day for the last few weeks. I’ve amassed 6,000 dollars’ worth of scratch-off tickets. At night, I scratch. I scratch and I throw them into 1 of 3 piles. The larger pile holds the duds. The losers. The Krayas. The peasant tickets, worth less than the paper they’re printed upon.
The middle pile is the mini-winners. Tickets that won mere dollars. Maybe 10. Nothing substantial enough to catch my attention. The third pile was for the big winners. The exciting pile. So far I’d hit several 100-dollar wins and a few 500 dollar.
It’d become a nightly routine. Finish at the office, go to the club, work out, hit the spa, eat dinner, have a glass of wine, and scratch off more tickets. Of course, I still keep close tabs on him throughout the day. My phone chirps and vibrates when he is on the move. I’ll pet his face on the screen as I watch the scattered surveillance cameras. Isn’t he lovely?
I found time to get other things done, too. Tasks I’ve had on my list for far too long. I added hair removal cream to Kraya’s conditioner, careful not to contaminate Vick’s nearby bottle. The thought of his precious hair being poisoned — ugh! What a nightmare. I bought Vick a brand new bottle of shampoo, too, to make sure he didn’t run out and use hers.
I had another draft of the contract written and an anal bleaching treatment. The girls at the club rave about it. They were right. Things are cleaner and Vick will love it.
I’d been dreading this moment though. I hadn’t seen Vick in weeks and it’ll be another 13 days until the party. If there is ever a time, it is now. It will heal by then.
Every time I see him, I sweat. My forehead glows. My thighs tingle and my armpits drool. Disgusting, unforgiving, wet, pooling sweat under my arms. The inside of my sleeves are always soaked when I’m finished with him. There is only one solution. One. I’ve tried expensive deodorant and I’ve tried lasers and medication.
The spoon is red hot. Vick’s face encourages me from the walls of room 9. I watch him on the screens. He’s on the couch, watching TV at his house. Kraya is sleeping, as usual. Peasant cunt. She can’t bring herself to sit by him? Talk to him? If she only knew how lucky she is. Or was.
The torch, a standard blue flamed tool from the hardware store, has been blowing fire on this spoon for 5 minutes. This is the moment. I hold the vanilla bottle tightly. Clench my teeth against cloth and press the smoldering spoon into my armpit. I hear the sizzle and I feel the burn of my nerves shrieking and dying against the fiery heat. I grit harder and shriek, watching Vick on the couch. “Never again will I sweat like a pig. You’ll see. I’ll be perfect for you.”
I pull the spoon from my armpit with an open mouth gasp for air. Strings of burnt flesh follow like pizza mozzarella. I whimper muffled yelps behind the shirt in my mouth. I drop the spoon and slap the wet, alcohol-soaked rag onto my burn. Scar tissue cannot open for sweat glands. It closes them off like glue. Alcohol will stop an infection. Lightning and pain strike my armpit and I feel every muscle in my body ignite. The pain is a 10. Maybe a 20 on a scale of 10. My eyes are wide and my skin is bumpy — I’ve never experienced this much pain. I’m doing this for you, love! One pit done. Now, on to…
The room is getting darker. I can’t see his face in the monitor anymore. My thoughts are drowning in the pain, gasping for air. I struggle to stay awake, but I am overcome and the room turns to black…
Chapter Thirty
Boom! Boom! Boom!
What is that noise?
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Is it getting louder?
Boom! Beep. Beep.
My eyes fluttered open and I had a headache so strong I could feel my pulse in my temples.
Beep. Beep.
I sat up in bed. Kraya was beside me, out cold with her legs strangling a pillow. I wiped the crud from my eyes. Yellow pebbles fell onto my chest. What day is it? What time is it?
Beep.
I shuffled to the window. A flatbed tow truck was backing into my driveway, my car asleep on the bed of the truck. Beep, beep, beep. I pulled on some sweatpants and a big jacket, and ran out my front door, nearly tripping over my tired feet.
“Hello! Hi!” I yelled to the tow truck driver. He was out of the cab, unchaining my car. I could see my breath in the winter air. Snow was powdered sugar on my sidewalk.
“Drop off for Victor?” He’s greasy. Not just because he is covered in oil — the kind of grease that lingers in the way he dresses and smiles. I nodded. “Sign here, chief.” He handed me a yellow piece of paper. I noticed the stamp on my wrist as I grabbed the sheet.
Holy shit. No wonder my head was playing the boom sticks. Is this a new watch on my wrist, too? I signed his paperwork. He walked to the assembly of levers and lowered the car. The hydraulics were loud and shook the car as it tipped to the concrete. Nothing on this machine was quiet.
Bits and pieces, small fragments of the night were coming back to me. I squinted in the morning sun. The cold air hurt my lungs. I remember…
She yelled over the thumping music. Said something like, “I told you I have a surprise for you,” and beckoned one of the waiters.
I remember the man, another waiter, I think, bringing a box to our table. It had a fat red ribbon around the outside and a pretty bow. Alex handed it to me, thanking me for helping her again on her quest for fertility.
Inside was a watch. A watch with a teeny crown at the top of the face. A Rolex? Holy shit. I looked at my wrist in the morning light, pulling back the jacket far enough to see the glimmering face. Yep. Rolex.
“All done, Victor.” The tow truck driver pulled the last chain from my bumper. “Have a purdy mornin’.”
She must have towed my car from Nick’s house here. Fuckin’ rich people. I’ve done the walk of shame back to my car at the bar countless times. Never have I thought about sending a tow truck to bring it back for me. Gotta love the way they think.
To my surprise, the doors were unlocked. I opened the passenger side and spot a stack of pages on the seat. A familiar stack, held together with that same struggling paperclip. Looking through the pages, I saw it was signed and dated — all from last night. I rubbed my skull with a furrowed brow. My headache still doing the macarena between my ears.
I started reading. I only lasted a few seconds before I realized it was too damn cold and I needed coffee. I also needed something strong enough to kill the little drummer boy in my head. Probably Ibuprofen.
Kraya was still sleeping. The kid, too. The whole house was nestled snugly in their beds. Our Christmas tree smelled amazing, the fresh pine smell that peaks its head around the holiday season. I plugged in the Christmas lights, brewed some coffee, turned on some holiday tunes, and read.
It took a while, but I managed to understand the basics. I needed to go back to the tower soon. I was to “arrive at The Twelfth Floor Clinic at ten-forty a.m., CST on December twenty-ninth…” No rest for the wicked…
I checked my watch, surprised again by the foreign piece of shiny steel. I was expecting my old digital watch with the date at the top in blinking square numbers. I don’t know where anything is on this thing.
Francis wore a watch like this. I remember her telling me that. I flash back again, a momentary jogging of memory.
She’s sitting across from me, lights still flashing and weirdos still dancing. I was smiling because my body felt about twenty pounds lighter. She asked me if I was enjoying myself. I was. She told me about her late husband. How she adored him. How a child will put everything right in the world. She asked about my wife. If she appreciated me. If she loved me the way I needed her to love me. I remember thinking that was strange, but people tend to get awfully personal after a few purple t
hings.
I grabbed a cup of fresh coffee. I brewed it strong today because I need it. I threw back a few maroon Ibuprofen tablets and sipped coffee from an old mug. Shit — how did I get home? Everything is a blur. Though, not a disgusting blur like a night of too many whiskey shots. A thrilling blur with twists and turns and helicopter rides and dancing women in cages.
Holy shit. Alexa was dancing, too, next to our table. A seductive, twisting choreograph of legs and skin. It flashes, bits of memory coming together in a strobe of images. She didn’t dance with me though. With someone else. Who was that someone else? Think. What happened?
It was a woman. Yes! A younger woman with a nice yellow sundress and black hair. They held hands, grinding torso to butt. Skin everywhere. Do I remember them kissing? Damn! I can’t remember it clearly. Maybe it’s safer if I forget.
I spot a pool of hair on the floor. Kraya’s hair. I remember that now, too. I hear cries from the baby’s room. He’s waking up.
Chapter Thirty-one
Christmas morning came and went. The kiddo ran downstairs, stuffed puppy (Pup-pup) in hand, excited to see the tree and the enchantments beneath. Kraya was too tired to come downstairs. I made pancakes, bacon, and eggs and the two of us had breakfast. I had to chop it up for the lad, of course.
I waited two hours before Kraya graced us with her presence. She drifted in and out of consciousness on the couch as Junior and I opened the green and red gift boxes. Wrapping paper flew wildly around the room as he opened his new toys. After lunch, Kraya livened up enough to give me a gift.
A tall, foiled box with a card that read, Merry Christmas, Vick. I love you. I ripped open the paper and peered inside at a glimmering new lamp. A lamp — yes — a lamp. Things haven’t been the same since Kray took a turn. She has good days and bad. Mostly no bueno.
On the really bad days, I drink. I’ll start with an early morning cocktail and leave the pub at five. I usually limit myself to four or five drinks. She’s not just sick, she’s turned into a black hole of negativity and sleepiness. I drink to relax. I drink to forget the problem at home that lives in my wife. My beautiful, wonderful wife who’s shifted toward something icky. It’s temporary, I remind myself, and she’ll be back to normal. The docs promise me this.
The doctors still say it’s post-pregnancy anxiety and depression. Can last up to four years, they say. Awesome. Sign me up! After the worst Christmas I can remember, I tried to set her up with yet another appointment. This cannot be normal. There must be a solution; more medication? Or maybe less medication? Something. Anything that can bring my wife back from the zombie that’s inhabited her body.
Of course, the doctor’s office is crazy this time of year. Christmas break and New Years are unforgiving.
I check my watch — December twenty-ninth. I switched back to the digital watch. It’s easier to read and a lot lighter. I sold the Rolex on eBay for a fortune. A fortune I turned around and invested into bills and paying down properties.
Today is the day I drop back into the tower for one of two more deposits. I hate to admit I’m excited. I have a hop in my step. Not for the fun part (although the tug on a rug won’t be terrible), but for the paycheck. Things have been pretty tight since Kraya has been understandably unhelpful. I’ve had to hire an in-home babysitter, not a cheap one either.
I excused myself, passing the torch of responsibility to the babysitter, and left the house. My car was still warm from the earlier trip to the grocery store. I pulled out of the garage and almost clipped the passenger mirror on the doorframe.
I whistled a Christmas tune while I drove. My new tires gripped the road well, despite the fresh ice. I parked near the front door at the tower, next to a row of handicapped spots.
I checked in at the front desk, that same marble monstrosity I’d visited a few times prior. The girl I talked to last time wasn’t there. A fresh crop of headset-wearing ladies waited for me to approach. Before I could speak, the brunette on the left called to me: “Mr. Victor Miller?”
“Yes.” Am I becoming a regular at Livingston Tower? Pretty cool.
“Mr. Miller, please follow Mr. Needle. He will escort you to your appointment.” She pointed to my favorite little man.
“Mr. Miller. Come with me please.” He was as delightful this time as he was the last. We looped through the familiar halls to the elevator. He pressed the number twelve with a feeble finger, smiling smugly in place of casual conversation. I tried to converse, I really did, but he didn’t respond. The classic “Let it Snow,” by Bing Crosby, played over the speaker in the elevator.
The door chimed. When it opened, Mr. Needle pointed to The Twelfth Floor Clinic. I exited and he (again) didn’t. His expression didn’t change as he lifelessly pushed the elevator button. He kinda reminded me of a toy robot with a low battery. What a charmer.
I introduced myself at the counter. This time I did recognize some people. A few of the same receptionists were here. I recognize the doc, too. “Did you miss me?” I extend a hand.
“Sure,” he said, shaking my hand with a dead-fish grip. “Welcome back, Mr. Miller.” We entered a different door this time. He unlocked it by pressing his ID card to a panel. “Do you understand the procedure we are going to do today, Mr. Miller?”
I walked past several rooms with different colored lights above the doors. “I mast…” I looked around to make sure none of the nurses or patients who lingered in the hallway could hear me. I whispered, “I masturbate in a cup, hand it to you, and you give it to Alex?”
He looked back at me, stethoscope bouncing every other step. “Miss Livingston, yes. You are aware we are all going to be in close proximity? Privacy will be at a minimum, Mr. Miller.”
Chapter Thirty-two
He opened the last door in the final stretch of the hallway. One big room housing two beds, a doctor, a suited fat guy I’d never met, and Alex. “Mr. Miller is here, Dr. Mackelby.” Was that necessary? It was pretty obvious I was there now. The room was unexpectedly small, a smidge larger than my bedroom. It’s decorated with a desk, two beds, a multicolored plastic skeleton, and a scale. The two beds separated only by a hospital curtain.
That’s it? A shower curtain? I’ve gotta perform in this room?
“Thanks for coming, Vick.” She was lying on the opposing bed. The suit handed me a few forms to sign. I read through the first few lines. He pointed to the plastic “sign here” tabs. My pen scratched my signature on the page. My pen is the only sound in the small room and I felt like everyone was looking at me. They were.
I signed next to the last red arrow and handed the metallic clipboard back to him. I didn’t read it. It looked standard and I panicked with all the eyeballs on my back. I saw a confidentiality agreement, a hold harmless, blah, blah… The doc who brought me into the room told me to sit on the bed behind the curtain. I could still see Alex and the others across the room, no farther than a stone’s throw.
He handed me a small plastic cup, a magazine, and asked me if I was ready.
“You guys get right down to business, don’tcha!” Holy hell I feel rushed.
“We only have a small ovulation and temperature window, Mr. Miller.” The doc started closing the curtain. He asked, “Is there anything else?”
“I’m good. Thanks, Doc.”
“Please begin,” he said as he closed the curtain. Small talk couldn’t have hurt anything, consider it foreplay. I hadn’t caught up with Alex since the party. I suppose this is the result she wanted, no need to schmooze me anymore.
I pulled myself out and began doing what I do. It was difficult to concentrate with all that silence on the other side. They were all listening. I tried my best to keep it silent, but I wasn’t getting hard. Someone cleared their throat.
I’ve never milked the moose with an audience. C’mon. C’mon. No pressure. Just act like nobody’s there. No biggy. I heard the door on the other side. It opened and closed.
“Do you need better visual stimulation, Mr. Miller?” I heard fro
m across the line. I could see their feet under the curtain.
“No. I’m fine.” Fuckers — shut up! C’mon. C’mon. I tried to clear my head. Closed my eyes. Tried to think of nothing, just focused on the way it felt — the warmth of my hand sliding around and the way a release would feel. I made it to half-mast, just a few seconds from a full salute. It was all downhill from there, baby.
“Is there anything we can do for you, Mr. Miller? To make it go faster?” the doc said.
“Yes. You can shut up! Pretend I’m not here, Doc. Stop talking!” For Christ’s sake, Doc. Seriously?
I needed to start over again. I started polishing and did my best to tune out the world. I closed my eyes, cup in my left hand, and rocket in my right. Wax on. Wax off. Easy.
Some ass-hamper clears his throat again. C’mon. C’mon. I keep at it. A minute passed. I was close, almost to the boiling point. Ignore them and focus on how it feels — they’re a million miles away.
I was too close to care anymore. I was about to strike white oil and it didn’t bother me if they heard it. I’m a pair of mumbling, flailing pigeon toes below the curtain. I stopped, looked at the cup, and I was pretty proud of myself.
Both docs barged in unexpectedly. I stowed my baggage and handed them the cup. One of them used a rubber turkey baster thingy to suck up the spaff. The other held the cup like it was a ticking bomb, keeping it level and safe. God forbid he drops it and I have to make another hundred G’s.
They whipped open the rest of the curtain and rushed to Alex’s side. Then, I heard it. Words I never expected to hear today.
“Vick. Come here…”
She called me to her side again. It’s surreal; a moment so strange, exotic, and natural, I could never have predicted how I’d react. I walked toward her.
“It’s beautiful.”
