The Lucky Star

by William T. Vollmann

  I kind of parachuted in.

  Francine stood stonily behind the bar, with the football game so white and bustling upon the ultragreen field of our television. Shantelle was boasting, drunk and proud: Neva’s a grown-ass woman, and I know what she’s gonna do. And I told her, if you wanna cheat, just tell me and I’m down for it! How many other bitches gonna give their ho so much rope?

  A single vodka, straight up, said Colleen.

  Four dollars.

  Let me get that, said Judy.

  That’s appropriate, said her neighbor, because do you know who I am?

  Judy thought for a long time. Francine slammed down Colleen’s shotglass, and Shantelle, whose head kept alertly swaying upon that long sensitive neck of hers, succeeded in shoplifting two dollars which a departing Norwegian tourist had left for a tip.

  I know, said Judy. You’re my . . . my pretty little angel, and I love you.

  Oh, hell, said Francine. What are you high on now?

  Judy giggled.

  Colleen slipped an arm around her and said: Tell me one thing you know.

  I’m . . . I’m disgusting.

  That’s right. You remember that. So embrace your disgustingness!

  But Starfire said—

  Who cares? Be disgusting.

  Are you making fun of me?

  Only if you want me to. Now what does Neva say?

  If you bring forth what is within you—

  What you have will save you. You’re good.

  But what the fuck does it mean?

  Francine was staring at them.

  Don’t stop, Judy. If you have nothing within you . . .

  What you do not have within you will kill you. That’s for you, Shantelle!

  Judy, be nice, said Francine.

  Okay, I’ll . . . Shantelle, I wanna buy my friend a goofball. Make her happy, and . . .

  And so half an hour later Colleen, lolling her head on Judy’s shoulder, was slurring out: I think you’re part of the same soul cluster as me. I mean, you’re in the family. Like, Marilyn Monroe is queer. Have you seen the video of her smoking pot with two lesbians? Before that I never knew that she was queer, but I have seen her in this video, and yes, Judy, she’s one of us, acting totally dominant to this little femme. Because we’re actually a really small family, with our queer ancestors mostly killed. So many of our ancestors were murdered by men. Just to know where we would be now if we had elders . . . ! Oh, Judy, I feel bad . . .

  The transwoman was nodding off, almost snoring. Francine asked me to help them back to Judy’s place to sleep it off. They were so far gone that it was (as Al would have said) like herding cats. But I finally got Judy’s key ring out of her purse and propelled them to the bed. Just before I closed the door I heard the bluehaired woman say: You’ve been with Neva and you’ve been with me. We both care about you . . .

  The next day Judy came into the Y Bar smiling. She said: Francine, how do I look?

  Oh, honey, you look fine. You’re losing weight, and—

  I look disgusting! she shouted. And I’m proud of it!

  Whatever, said Francine.

  Auditions

  You see, I’m so tired of reading articles in the newspapers and magazines in which I’m described as neurotic, psychotic, idiotic, or any “otic” the writer can think of—and also that I am, as I’ve read too often, a desperately sick woman.

  JUDY GARLAND, 1951

  First of all, I had grown up in the belief that my only worth was in connection with my ability to get parts.

  NATALIE WOOD, 1966

  1

  And a couple months ago I met this lady named Helen, who . . . Neva, she was almost famous! She performed in Nashville with Sandrine Summers—a dancer—I should have told you that before, but I got too excited . . . !

  The lesbian smiled, fondly or patiently.

  It was at the Buddha Bar. And she even let me buy her a drink! And she was beautiful just like Julie Andrews, but she said being beautiful’s not the point; the main thing is for me to work on my confidence; that’s how she—oh, what the fuck’s the use? I’m fat and old and ugly and stupid; even J. D. says I smell bad—

  Well, do you?

  I don’t know. Starfire said no. Actually, I don’t care. But I’ve lost twenty-three pounds!

  Judy, take a shower every day. Brush your teeth more. Lose another ten pounds. Will you try?

  No, I’m too worthless . . . ! she sobbed.

  Then don’t do it for you. Do it for me. You’ll please me if you do it; I’ll love you even more—

  Really?

  I promise.

  What if I don’t do it?

  Then I’ll—love you even more! Come take a shower with me.

  And Neva, pitying the way the sadness went on for her and the retired policeman year after year, promised to love her and love her no matter what.

  And I will help you in any other way you ask me to.

  Will you help me kill myself?

  Yes, said the lesbian.

  Tell me something nice. That’s how Sandra talks—

  You’re beautiful.

  No, I’m not. I’m disgusting. But you know what, Neva? I just realized that I don’t care. Did you like those glamor shots I did on my phone?

  The ones you texted me? Yes, honey. Meet me in the shower.

  2

  In the lesbian’s dream, Sandra truly had become a mermaid; they were both slowly swimming at least fifteen feet beneath the surface of a warm and fetid green sea, and she needed very urgently to hood Sandra with a length of heavy seaweed cloth, or perhaps she needed Sandra to help her mantle herself, but either way, they both had to breathe, Sandra still more than she, but the other woman did not complain; she would have done anything for Neva, anything! and so they stayed beneath the dazzling white skin of their world. Now she grew more certain that she was the one being mantled; Sandra was sacrificing herself for Neva’s fulfillment; her doe-like eyes grew wide, intoxicated and desperate; algae stuck ickily to her long neck, and her reddish hair rose up and wrapped itself around Neva’s naked body; yes, they were both naked, and they both really, really needed to breathe . . . !—The lesbian woke up, gasping oxygen in.

  Almost at once her buzzer rang. It was Sandra’s turn.

  3

  Sandra staggered downstairs, shivering. She had learned that curling up alone in bed on such occasions worsened her comedown symptoms, so she proceeded to the Y Bar, where Francine, unasked, slipped her half a goofball—the first purple kind that Sandra had ever tried—and pretty soon her chills flew away and her headache descended into her spine, although the nausea remained wrapped tightly around her liver, sometimes flexing its spider arms around other portions of her insides, at which moments she felt extremely close to soiling herself with a dark brown gush of cold vomit. Laying a hand on her hand, Francine slipped her three bright blue tummy mints.

  And all the while, Sandra sought to outline her latest memories of Neva in the golden ink of gratitude. Francine mixed her a drink: wine and orange juice, the glass so impossibly cold that her fingers went numb touching it. Oh, when the lesbian lay down on top of her, breast to breast, mouth to mouth, slit to slit—the lovely-haired lesbian . . . !—But Sandra’s spine was freezing again. Cherishing all the things that she and Neva had just accomplished together, those secret things that lovers do, she sat wishing to complete herself in death now that she had been possessed by such bliss.

  Erin was right under the television screen, drinking her customary fizzy water. (Back in her drinking days, Erin held a party at her house, and among the guests was a man whom she found attractive. She got drunk. After the party was over, the man came back into her house, entered her room and raped her. Erin was so out of it that she just lay there letting it happen, but just as he finished she began to cry
. He left, and she told no one for years.)

  In came Judy, who was longing all the more to imitate the lesbian’s grace. Sandra, stretched too thin, felt annoyance at the pathetic creature, who could not help using and draining her. Sandra was achey; if Judy sat down next to her she’d slap her! And Judy sat down next to her, of course, turning her big blue eyes so hopefully and dependently on Sandra’s face.

  Sandra had always loved animals. She now had two cats and a dog at home. Whenever she found a stray pet she would take it in and doctor it so that it could better sell itself at the pound. Sandra had a catlike face while Judy was of a doggish sort. Of all of us I would call Sandra the most open-hearted. In short, she could not abandon Judy.

  Judy’s breath stank. Judy raked her unclean fingernails through Sandra’s hair—because Sandra now took the place of Neva as she who could open our hearts’ locks.

  Sandra said: Darling, I’ve got the flu or something. Right now it doesn’t feel good, being touched . . .

  So you hate me.

  No, no, I love you—

  You promise?

  I promise, and Sandra smiled in spite of herself.

  Are you my special friend?

  Of course I am. Francine, how about a drink for Judy?

  Six dollars.

  Oh, Sandra, I love you so much! Will you tell me about breasts?

  What about them?

  Well, about growing up and . . .

  Well, let me see. It’s been a long time—

  But you look so young! I’d do anything to look like you. Sandra, could I hug you, just for a minute? Then I swear I won’t touch you . . . Just like this! Oh, thank you. Now please tell me—

  I guess my breasts were a different thing from what I expected. My breasts confounded me. I was probably conscious of them when I was eleven or twelve. My mother tried to get me to wear a bra and I didn’t want to, because I wanted to be a kid, not a teenager. She would tell me I couldn’t go somewhere unless I put on a bra and I would refuse.

  Sandra, continued Judy in the language of secret eagerness, is a woman’s personality different from a man’s?

  You tell me. You’ve been both.

  Well, based on my experience I would say it is. But maybe I was never male at all, just a little . . .—But I asked you.

  No, I don’t think so. I think it’s more about individuals—

  Then Sandra’s phone buzzed. Neva invited her to come straight back over! It was as if she knew of Sandra’s kindness to Judy, and wanted to reward her. The rest of us got jealous, I can tell you!

  And so Sandra rushed happily back to her beloved; and that something, that strange luminescence possessed by, or inflicted upon, not even one in millions of men and women, that charismatic quantity which departs as inexplicably as it comes—for often, though not always, it pertains to youth, and not merely to the so-called “false flower” of physical grace, but also at least as much to that kindred sunny openness of which we are gradually robbed by life’s stings—tricked Sandra into reading into her beloved a godlike coherence of body, heart and purpose which might have been biology’s accident: Why are some people most drawn to a certain color, and how can a stag be lured toward the hunter by means of a few drops of urine from a doe in heat? The answers to such questions may be comic or pathetic. Perhaps Neva gave off a hormonal fragrance irresistible to most of us—she was everyone’s favorite color! . . . —Another possible solution: Just as in fairytales a prince may fall in love with a faraway princess as a simple result of hearing her praised, so might a celebrity-worshipper surrender to attractions purveyed even by a black-and-white television screen over whose actresses’ faces static swarms like a horde of killer bees. The feeling that Sandra had for Neva—we called it love—projected Neva’s face most hauntingly and beautifully upon the ceiling of her skull, so that Neva smiled down upon the nutlike lobes of Sandra’s brain . . . and the first time that Neva allowed her to hold her smooth little hand, Sandra felt as if they were kissing each other’s brains.

  4

  Xenia’s voice said: I keep falling asleep because someone gave me a Tranquilex and two mellow reds and I washed ’em down with beer, but I’m feeling sad, because I’m all alone down here in the basement and you’re not here.

  I’m sorry, said the lesbian.

  Neva, I’m feeling really frustrated.

  I understand.

  I feel like things are different since last time we were together.

  Oh, said the lesbian.

  I was sexually intimate with Louis—you know, that straight man.

  Well, I hope he gave you a nice orgasm.

  But, Neva, you’re the one who put me in this box. I was just your lover and you had other people, so maybe I was malicious when I did it with Louis . . .

  Were you? I hope you didn’t do it for that reason.

  I can tell that you want to get me off the phone soon. And I’ve been avoiding Hunter, because she—

  Pretty soon.

  Who’s coming over?

  Francine.

  Neva, I feel so sad. And I’m very wet right now.

  I wish I could be there with you.

  But then you’d disappoint Francine.

  That’s right.

  I’m touching myself. When I’m with Louis or Hunter I actually want to be with you but you’re not there, and I love you so much. Do you believe me?

  Of course I do. And I love you so much.

  I feel really guilty, but I don’t know whether to be guilty toward you or toward them, because I . . . Can you call me back later tonight?

  I can call you tomorrow, said the lesbian.

  Okay, said Xenia. Oh, God. Maybe I’ll go see Hunter and get her to . . .

  She hung up.

  The lesbian answered the next call on the first ring.—Well, sweetie Sandra!

  There was a long silence, and then Sandra said: Hello . . .

  Where are you?

  I’m sitting under the same tree where I was yesterday, but it’s not raining anymore and there are people all around me and I feel so nervous . . .

  Then the lesbian knew. She said: Is it over?

  Sandra started to cry. I love you so much, and I tried to be fearless; I thought we could do anything together, and I was willing to be everything to you, but since you weren’t the same I started feeling like a fool . . .

  I understand, said the lesbian.

  Are you going to be okay?

  Of course, honey, and I’ll always love you. Do you want me to say goodbye now?

  Sandra sobbed and sobbed.—Goodbye, she finally whispered. Then she hung up.

  The buzzer rang. Shantelle had arrived. Joyfully high on a handful of blue pills, she began gripping the lesbian’s head while the lesbian sucked, sucked and sucked her purple-brown nipple, which would be very sore the next morning, and Shantelle, for whom thinking about touching Neva was almost like planning out a shoplifting mission at Gracey’s department store, was saying: I love you so damn much and I hate you so much that what I can see right now is . . . Go ahead, shoot me, ho! I see me slappin’ your face until it gets to bleedin’ and me with my foot on your face and I’m grindin’ your face into the sidewalk and you’re just lookin’ at me when I give you two black eyes to teach you to be only with me, forever, and under the ground is the skull of your dead grandfather and when I give you two black eyes his eyes come back into his skull so he can . . . so he . . .—to which the lesbian, saddened and frightened, if only a trifle, at the implication of these words, kept sucking Shantelle’s nipple and gliding her hand up and down her body from shoulder to buttock, so happy and giving in her touching, while Shantelle went on crooning her violent visions, remembering the cool white glowing evenings of late spring in Los Angeles, the clean and shining traffic on Western, a fat white girl on a bus bench, and Shantelle’s littl
e boy (whom she had signed over to her grandmother forever because he was no fucking good) playing with her braids for the last time; a cool breeze; yellow price numbers on a gas station’s pumps, steady silent airplanes in the cloudless sky; then the tall glass cliffs of skyscrapers, boom boxes vibrating out of car windows as she rushed down Wilshire past rows of Korean restaurants, and the feeling of openness when she accelerated on the freeway onramp late at night and found herself almost alone on that winding concrete ribbon, speeding into the stars!—even as her flesh went on swelling, flushing, sweating and blossoming under the lesbian’s touch.

  Then came Francine, after which the phone rang. It was Xenia saying: I didn’t bring it up because I was kind of lying to myself. But I do have somebody else who’s attracted to me. She didn’t show up at work for a week, and then a cop called me to ask if I knew where she was, and I didn’t even exactly know her apartment number, but she has a crush on me, and that kind of moved my heart. She was really pale, in really bad shape. She’d been doing a lot of drugs, because she’s so attracted to me . . .

  And you’re sure she loves you? asked the lesbian.

  Well, it’s funny, because that’s kind of trusting my intuition. But I think that’s a strength of mine. You’re thinking about Hunter, aren’t you?

  That’s right, said the lesbian, who was feeling sad and tired. Xenia was saying: I wasn’t fluid about it; I probably compartmentalized. Lesbians can’t say that word. We . . . I’m really really high right now. So it turned into that sort of messy pyramid spiderweb and the top was your name with a heart around it, and that’s why I feel calm talking about it, because you’re the best thing in my heart, but I’m lonely . . .

  Me too, said the lesbian.

  When we were intimate, it was so clear to me. And still I would die for you, and I have these fearless love feelings for you.

  Since Xenia was waiting for her to say something loving and comforting and healing as usual, the lesbian slowly said: I had a fantasy. If I couldn’t solve the problem any other way, I could maybe overdose in your arms.

  That would be nice. But I’d want to die, too. I wouldn’t like to be left all alone with your corpse getting cold . . .