The Lucky Star

by William T. Vollmann

  Her cell phone chimed. Hunter was calling and calling. Xenia turned it off.

  5

  . . . Although everything was already determined by the irresistible immensity of her loving force, from each of our individual points of view we made unique choices to love her, choices which the retired policeman’s example proved that we did not have to make; and because she loved each of us differently, seeing who we were and responding to our natures just as a talented equestrienne conforms herself to the horse she rides, neck-reining, whispering or spurring according to the animal’s nature, we did not uniformly feel betrayed by the fact of her riding others before and after each of us—which is not to say that some worshippers were not more patient than others. In Judy’s case, for instance, there were always emergencies.

  Whenever we came to Neva our hearts were pounding; and when we left we found ourselves bedazzled, dizzy, exhausted, with headaches, sore throats and various photosensitivities. The better Neva made us feel, the more depleted we were afterward. How could it be any other way?

  6

  Kissing the lesbian goodbye, Xenia turned resolutely toward the stairs, but not resolutely enough to prevent her looking once more over her shoulder at her who stood in the doorway, blowing an extra kiss. She began to descend the carpeted stairs. With each new step between her and Neva she felt sadder. She tried to understand what the sadness was about, but it did not seem to be about any specific thing. Sorrow became grief, and her eyes vomited effortless tears. The overhead lights appeared to flicker; they hurt her eyes. Her head began to hurt. She longed to be alone in the dark somewhere, curled up and sobbing.

  7

  Shantelle, smilingly playing with her clitoris, pretending that she was slowly feeding the lesbian sleeping pills adulterated with fentanyl, playing with her, only playing, which is to say systematically and discreetly following a deliberately murderous procedure, sat up in the double bed and listened to the lesbian being sick in the bathroom. The door was closed, and cold water ran loudly in the sink, but Shantelle could hear almost as well as a feral kitten. She was not charmed, remembering when her girlfriend Charisse got shot in the back of the head and started vomiting on her.

  Finally the lesbian staggered palely out. Shantelle explained: Neva, you don’t need nobody but me. Gimme a chance; I’ll love you so good you’ll be screamin’.

  You’re already such a good lover, said the lesbian.

  Come over here, said Shantelle.

  The lesbian stood before her.

  Neva, I fucked up some guy who never did me wrong.

  Oh, said the lesbian.

  Ask me why.

  Why?

  I did it for money. J. D. paid me two hundred dollars, and it looked like money that Judy stole from your wallet. An’ I . . . an’ I took it and did it. I feel bad.

  Honey, you wanna tell me more?

  He choked Judy and hit her upside the head, so from J. D.’s point of view, he was just protectin’ his bitch.

  He loves her, said the lesbian.

  He wants to get her away from you. He said if I help him, maybe there’ll be more of you for me to get into, you see what I’m saying?

  Sure, said the lesbian.

  How does that make you feel? Goddamn it, girl, don’t you ever get mad?

  I have something for you, said the lesbian. Let me get it from the closet. I bought you this white blouse; I was thinking it would look nice on you.

  8

  And sitting in the Y Bar to the right of the black man in the yellow city vest who sat enchanted by the dark screen of his little phone, I tried to understand Neva. It felt like trying to remember exactly where stood the Diana Hotel, where I once stayed; was it on Ninth and Harrison or maybe Ninth and Folsom? Beside me sat the retired policeman, who was thinking: Maybe Karen’s like the shoplifter who can’t even explain why she loves to steal.—Beneath the dormant disco ball, the straight man played liars’ dice with Shantelle.

  On our muted television the beautiful Chinese anchorwoman pulled her best somber look while the crawling caption said BREAKING NEWS: NEW INFO ON WHITE ON BLACK POLICE SHOOTING IN SAN MATEO: BLACK TEEN SHOT 16 TIMES IN BACK WHILE FLEEING IN STOLEN CAR: BREAKING NEWS: BREAKING NEWS.

  We all watched the BREAKING NEWS, hoping for anything exciting to happen. The retired policeman came to life. As Sir Walter Scott wrote about his wholesome romantic hero Waverley, the conversation gradually assumed the tone best qualified for the display of his talents and acquisitions.

  He said: I knew right away that this was a clean arrest. The kid had already tried to take the gun, and that was proved forensically, and the cop still had the guts to go out to arrest him. Then he gets on the freeway and recklessly—

  But in the fuckin’ back! said Shantelle. What the goddamn fuck for?

  They hang you out to dry, he explained. Here’s a brave cop just trying to protect the public, and then the department, well, they bend to the pressure of the community in many ways. What they were trying to do by not giving out the information on the shooting, well, they thought it would fuel even more violence. That kind of community, you can understand it—

  What do you mean, that kind of community? What’s that code for?

  Let me finish, Shantelle. Often the choices they make make no fuckin’ difference at all. I’m not excusing the bad shoots. But this courageous officer who put his life on the line and now finds himself suspended, well, let’s just say I’ve lost all respect for that chief of police.

  One of you goddam pigs just executed a man on account of his color. And you sit there on your fat white ass and tell me—

  Returning from the bathroom (I won’t say she didn’t smell a trifle like puke), the lesbian approached Shantelle, who whirled on her to say: You shut the fuck up, white bitch! Get away from me!

  You be nice to Neva, said Francine.

  Oh, fuck you all! Nobody cares . . . !

  I see you looking at that glass, said Francine. You so much as wrap your hand around it right now and you’re eighty-sixed forever. I won’t have no racial violence. You start to lift it up and I’m ready with the baseball bat.

  I love you, Shantelle, said the lesbian.

  Shantelle (otherwise known as the black Judy Garland) cocked her fist, so Francine whipped the bat down onto her knuckles and she screamed. For a moment everything else stopped while Shantelle stared at her bleeding hand as if it were an offering from the Three Wise Men; then, even as she opened her mouth to really truly screech, the lesbian said: Come on, honey. I’ll take you to the doctor.—They began to leave; then Neva came back to collect Shantelle’s purse.

  Well, said the retired policeman, there’s a lawsuit about to happen.

  Francine grinned an ugly grin.—I know how to hit, she said.

  I suppose she was anxious on the inside. But as it turned out, she was right. Shantelle came back in two hours, making a big show with an icepack on her hand, but before she could say a word, Francine told her: Now you listen. I saved you from assaulting Neva or J. D. and maybe going to jail. You shut up and make nice and I won’t eighty-six you. Now do you want to shake hands and make up or do you want to be banned for life? Well? All right then. One Peachy Keen over ice coming up, on the house. And, J. D., do me a favor. Just dial down your political commentary a little. Some people may be sensitive.

  Oh, fuck you, said the retired policeman, but then she poured him his own consolation.

  9

  And they never leave me alone, said Francine. Sometimes I get so stressed out I can’t sleep. I’m so sick of this I wanna just . . .

  C’mere, honey, said the lesbian. Give me a kiss.

  Oh, Neva, the world’s in such sad shape and we’re all such losers and I can’t fucking stand it! God knows, even Shantelle had a point . . . !

  So did you, said the lesbian.

  What are you,
anyway? You only tell us what we wanna hear . . .

  I’m trying to love you.

  Oh, Neva, I’m sorry; I didn’t mean it. Hold me. Hold me tight; I can’t stand it—

  10

  Although she had now lost eleven pounds, the transwoman had momentarily given up on passing or even improving herself. She was my brother and I her sister because neither one of us could be troubled to stop being drowning mermaids even though two or three flips of our scaly tails would have kept us from sinking deeper. I entertained myself with the idea of overdosing on goofballs, while she lay awake at night fantasizing about licking the lesbian’s anus, to indulge her appetite for degradation.

  You know what I keep imagining about you and me?

  The lesbian caressed the back of her neck, saying: Tell me, Judy.

  We’re in a fancy restaurant. And suddenly I stand up, so that everybody stops talking and looks at me. And then I piss myself. And you shout at me and call me all kinds of names, and walk out, so I have to pay the check. And everybody’s disgusted with me. And finally they let me go, and you’re waiting for me across the street, and you tell me that I’m your good little girl.

  Is that really what you want?

  I think so. Would you do that with me?

  I’d never shout at you in public. If you want to pee on yourself, I’ll hug you, and we’ll pay and go home.

  But then you’d get piss all over you.

  That’s okay, said the lesbian.

  Would you still love me?

  Sure.

  Neva?

  We need to get dressed now.

  Whose turn is it?

  Someone’s.

  You mean you won’t tell me?

  It never makes you happy.

  Tell me.

  Richard’s.

  Oh. I don’t mind him so much, because he’s just a nothing. I hope he has fun. You think he’s gonna off himself with goofballs?

  Not yet, said the lesbian.

  I know you’ll be nice to him.

  Sit up, honey, and I’ll hook your bra.

  Neva, I want to love you better and better. What should I do?

  Sweetie, you already love me very well.

  That’s what you told Shantelle and Xenia and everybody. I want to be the best.

  Can you be better with J. D.?

  What do you mean?

  Love him. That’s the way to love me.

  Neva, don’t throw me away! I’ll do anything—

  Okay, said the lesbian.

  What will you make me do?

  Keep losing weight. Brush your teeth. Work on your look. Xenia and I will help you practice.

  And Sandra . . . !

  Sandra loves you, too.

  And if I don’t make the grade you’ll fire me, right?

  Well, I’ll just keep loving you, said the lesbian.

  11

  Judy got the message, or at least some of it. She tried to be more independent, to as we Californians said work on herself. She stuck a feather down her throat.

  She went to the Pink Apple, and, penetrating the long line of fishnetted buttocks and bare backs with black straps, bought drinks for a dancer named Starfire with whom she wanted to fall in love, maybe just to show Neva. Just as they sat down, a woman in nothing but a jockstrap, black leather fringes and a black bra announced in a deep bass voice: You will not reveal your choice. We have gotten out the most talented, bootylicious female talent for you . . .

  Frankly, I don’t know how people can live in the spotlight like that, said her new friend.

  The transwoman said: I wanna be more like Judy Garland, or at least like you—

  Sorry, Judy, but you’re—

  Oh, I know, I know! Especially since I’m so disgusting . . .

  You’re not disgusting, Starfire assured her, perhaps a trifle mechanically. But right now I gotta—

  Oh, really? I always heard I was disgusting. But I’ve lost almost forty pounds. You think I could be a showgirl?

  Well, in Vegas the minimum height is five foot eight, so you’d qualify there, and maybe you could do the naked-chested part, but frankly, Judy, even in a dump like this—

  You mean you’ve worked in Vegas? Wow, I’m so lucky to meet you!

  Nice to meet you, too. And good for you for aspiring to something. Hopefully you’ll get . . . But you know what? Vegas stinks. It’s a good old boys’ town. The Strip looks shiny to outsiders. But we don’t party on Friday because we can’t afford it. Of course all the money is in stripping. And San Francisco is the worst. And you know what else? I’m tired and the tips are bad tonight, so I think I’ll go home.

  Can you tell I’m a T-girl?

  Never would have guessed, said Starfire sarcastically.

  So what would your manager in Vegas have said if . . . if some really beautiful tranny who passed wanted to join the chorus line?

  I don’t know. I think if a guy could pass for a girl, well, our manager Angie hated boob jobs, but if they were beautiful she would let them out onstage. Actually we had a famous tranny named Heavy John Twinkle; I think she got her hip injections way back in the sixties, and that so damaged her body . . . But here you can look like whatever, so . . . See ya, Judy.

  And Judy went home dreaming! By now she’d lost thirteen pounds, which is not quite forty, but still respectable. She could go her own way—without Neva or the retired policeman—and dominate the line, flaunting her big fat tits, flinging them around and singing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow”!

  But no! Neva was her brightest star of all . . . !

  12

  Indeed, Neva continued to seem perfect in every way—a situation which, whether or not it is possible, becomes fundamentally intolerable, which is why every divinity must sooner or later be overthrown—but by no means too soon, and not without a replacement. Anyhow, we were still far away from that.

  Oh, thank you, Neva, thank you! we all cried out.

  And the lesbian bent over all of us, apparently thousand-armed, so many of us did she hold in her gentle hands.

  Onscreen

  In those days, I thought you achieved a state of loving by acting out those airy gestures.

  NATALIE WOOD, 1966

  We have been that mind, but we have never known it.

  CARL JUNG, 1961

  There may only be perhaps one or two moments that you feel proud of, and these can be easily missed if someone gets up to buy a bag of popcorn.

  NATALIE WOOD, 1966

  On the television an airbrushed actress mother and daughter were carefully cuddling, with their long-lashed eyes pretending to see each other but actually alluring us . . .—and not a hair mussed, no smear on the lipstick, oh, no; for a second Xenia could not look away; then she was confiding to Francine: I can sense it on my radar as a sex worker because I am there to be desired and enjoyed, but in the real world I am so clueless. In the real world no one approaches each other anymore.

  Three dollars, said Francine.

  Here. Honestly, I’m pretty clueless in my real life. I mean, don’t you think so? Somebody has to hit me over the head, or I think they’re just being friendly.

  Come on, said Francine. You’re a real smart lady.

  I’m used to just rejection after rejection, said Xenia. I’m in my forties, so it’s definitely different. I’m a woman, and we get hornier and culturally less desirable.

  I desire you! said Judy.

  Well, slut, you don’t count—but she smiled and laid her hand on Judy’s arm.

  And Judy, who when she was very high could sometimes see in herself the charming chubby alertness of Natalie Wood’s baby photographs, now laughed along with the rest of us as soon as she remembered that no matter what Starfire had said, she and Starfire were both disgusting.

  N
eva was not quite so new to us anymore, but it remained so exciting to just walk past the apartment where she lived and watch people go in and out as we wondered which of them might be close to her through affection, knowledge or proximity. The retired policeman told her: I’ll do what it takes to get you out of town.—She replied: It won’t be much longer.

  Divings of a Mermaid

  Two women very much in love do not shun the ecstasy of the senses, nor do they shun a sensuality less concentrated than the orgasm, and more warming. It is this unresolved and undemanding sensuality that finds happiness in an exchange of glances, an arm laid on a shoulder, and is thrilled by the odor of sun-warmed wheat caught in a head of hair.

  COLETTE, 1941

  We lose our identities quickly in what we’re doing, we women. And you give it back to us when you show us that we’re basically your sweetheart . . .

  JUDY GARLAND, 1955

  1

  Sandra had been wanting to come and see the straight man, who in despair temporarily removed to Boston. It was going to be in March for sure. She was going to let him know exactly what dates worked for her.

  Then at the beginning of February, she kept putting it off, so he finally asked her to please let him know by Saturday.

  On Saturday she called but she only had ten minutes because she was very busy.—Well, I keep looking at my schedule and I’m perplexed, she explained. I might be able to get away from Friday night to Sunday night; maybe I could cancel one Friday shift . . .

  That’s not much time considering the long flight all the way out here, he said, wanting to make it easier for her.

  That she accepted gratefully. She was going to call him soon.

  He would maybe try and come and see her in March, he said; he knew it was his turn . . .

  She did not sound excited.

  He said: And by the way, sweetheart, you know that I accept your having another boyfriend. Since it looks now as if you’re not going to see me for awhile, I know you need sex and companionship.

  She had said she had to break up with that boyfriend in January, before coming to see the straight man. So she had lied. And to this little hint she now made no reply at all.