BOOK 4 Misshapen Pregnancies Carol A Scuffle to Whomever I Tried to Care About Winning The Invectives
We were in her living room. The only way she could sit was with her legs wide open, and she was wearing a dress, so she chose, instead, to stand. “Since I don't really know you too well,” she explained, her arms across her chest, switching her stance throughout, leaning on the couch, then the nightstand, then the couch again. She had the glow of a pregnant woman. She had quit smoking and you could sort of tell. But her belly was sharp and angulated. A giant three-dimensional right triangle that pulled her entire dress out in front of her, her breasts pressed and peeking out of what would otherwise be a steady hypotenuse. Standing in profile it looked like her torso had a nose. “The doctors told me not to worry. 'A unique case'. Their wording, not mine. And honestly it doesn't feel odd. I go to a lot of groups, I've met a lot of other girls who're also expecting. For the most part I have the same problems they do. That makes me feel a lot better than what the doctors told me. 'Unique case'? Sounds like they never even saw it before. That's supposed to make me feel better?” She rolled her eyes and from what I could tell took an imaginary puff of an imaginary cigarette. Her husband was at work. A family photographer for Sears. “When we first noticed it, Ronnie, he was pretty suspicious. Gave me a lot of hard looks. At first he accused me of being a user, some sort of junkie. 'Marie,' he'd ask, 'have you been using?' 'Using what?' I'd ask coz', you know, 'using', that's kind of a vague way to put it. 'I dunno. Drugs. Have you been using drugs? Were you using drugs and not telling me?' I laughed at him so hard. Ronnie has always been a tight-laced guy. He wanted to go to West Point but wasn't smart enough. If I knew him in high school he would've thrown me into jail, I'm sure of it. So I laughed at him and said something like, 'What am I? Lucy in the sky?' Y'know?” She sighed and looked down. “I mean, I did marijuana in high school, drank my fair share, did acid once or twice, but who hasn't? By the time I met Ronnie I was only drinking at holiday events with the family, it wasn't even a regular thing anymore. But he was convinced it was something 'sinful' that I did in my past that caused it. So, just to give him a taste of his own medicine, I accused him.” She laughed. “He didn't like that. 'Maybe it's those tighty whities you wear, Ronnie.' 'Maybe it's because you exercise too much.' 'Maybe it's because you're a vegetarian.' It was mean, but I don't feel bad about. I was bawling every night with all the accusations he made. Could barely sleep. Who knows what kind of damage it all had on the baby. But we got over it. I think what the doctors said helped Ronnie more than it helped me. But it was definitely difficult at first, we were both kind of freaking out. “Clothing has been tough. I've been trying to find really long dresses to wear. Basically with even really long dresses they can't cover the entire bulge, so instead it just hangs over, and whenever I sit you see the bottom of my belly and panties. Jeans fit ok, but I don't like wearing them. I don't like altering the shape. “Do I think the shape is going to affect how the baby is? Like, will he turn out crazy?” She laughed. “Well, of course I hope he doesn't turn out crazy. But, like, character-wise? I dunno. I could see him being a real tight-ass like Ronnie, spending nine months in there. But hopefully more successful, a more successful occupation. Maybe as an accountant. Something with finances. That's a tight-ass job, but it's a successful one.”
I asked about the sex. “Oh, we still don't know whether it's a boy or girl. I just want a boy. I got a hunch it's a boy, too. Fingers crossed.�
Glen had a big conference over in some sort of forward-thinking part of California and he figured he’d make the best of it and spend some time on the West Coast as a vacation. He asked me to take care of Carol because he knew I was an open-minded guy, and he thought he could trust me more than any of his other friends. “Why doesn’t she come with you?” “I can’t go on a business trip with her. What would people think?” I knew that already but I figured I could ask anyway and maybe weasel out of it. I did, however, already know Carol. It’s pretty tough to keep secrets among friends who try to lose their sense of control every night. In fact, there has been more than one evening I’ve ended up at Glen’s place, watching as he held her atop his lap by the waist like some quirky showgirl while we drank beer and I asked him questions like, Do you feed her or, How often do you fuck her. Glen makes a lot of money. I’ve lost count of how many times he’s helped me out with rent. He’s a tall pale chubby Irishman, whiskerless and chinless, we get along just fine, he reads the Wall Street Journal, he’s a lot of fun to drink with. Just no luck with women. No luck with women to an extent that he’s completely comfortable with it. “I ran out of tears a long time ago,” he’s told me more than once while cupping her breasts. “It’s really not that bad. If I can’t be comfortable around real women, and I can’t offer them anything other than a way to pay the bills, then Goddammit, I don’t need ‘em. Carol and I get along fine, actually. Isn’t that right, Carol?” Then he’d nod her head down and kiss her on the cheek. So anyway -- he asked me, but I was reluctant. “This is a lot of responsibility, Glen.” He shrugged. “Yeah, I know, but I know you could handle it. You’re a good guy, Beau. You wouldn’t let anything happen to her.” “What would I need to do for her?” “Not a whole lot. Not step on her. Not light her on fire. Not throw her out a window…” “So I mean I could keep her in the closet if I wanted to.” A little prick shot into Glen’s eye. “I’d kind of prefer if you didn’t.” “I understand. I’m sorry. That was rude of me.” “Don’t worry about it.” “Why don’t you just keep her at your place?” He bit his lower lip. “Idunno, I know you’re not gonna understand it, she being a doll and all, but I want her to have some company, you know? I don’t want her left alone in my apartment for a whole month. I’d feel bad the entire trip.” “Alright.” “Plus, I’d just feel safer if she was with you. To sort of protect her.” “Carry out from a fire or something.” “Yeah. She’s helpless. She’s a doll. She doesn’t understand right from wrong, let alone how to escape a burning fire.” “That’s true.” “So what do you think? Could you help me out?” I told him I would think about it.
Then three days passed, I went to go get a new CD at a record store for the first time in years, and when I was told they didn’t have it, well… how can I be held responsible for my actions in such a twisted society? I called up Glen and told him I’d babysit. The Sunday after next he showed up to my place with a black body bag under his arm and I offered him a beer. He sat the bag on the couch while I stood and watched him unzip her. “I think you guys’ll get along really well.” “I hope so.” “I dressed her up to give a good first impression. Hopefully her hair didn’t get too messed up on the trip.” “Uh-huh.” He lifted up the lower half to slip the bag out from underneath. I was only watching out the corner of my eye. I took another beer and then asked if he drove her here in the body bag. “Yeah.” “Arouse any suspicion?” The body bag was off. I kept my eyes on him, kneeling at the foot of the couch by her bare legs. “Nah. My windows are tinted. I figure people would probably be more shocked by a lifesize doll in public than a lifesize body bag anyway. Who’s gonna walk around in the middle of the day with a dead body?” “It could be baseball equipment.” “Exactly.” I watched him look up at Carol and watched his eyes stay on her as he stood up with his hands on his hips. Then he looked at me and saw I wasn’t looking. “Well? Don’t you want to say hello?” Those nights we spent with Carol, I never went out of my way to look at her. Size her up. Now that she was seated on my couch I had to. She looked like a French model with enormous breasts. She wore a blue Spring blouse with white polka dots and a khaki skirt and a red ribbon round her waist. Her skirt went just above her knees, and she had a blonde bob cut, a face paler than her hair, and blue eyes. Her lips weren’t very full. Around her neck was a thin black band, and her arms were stuck out in front of her like a Barbie’s before Glen pushed them into a more proper position and had her hands rest in her lap. Carol didn’t fit her. She was more of an Emily. I waved. “Hi, Carol. I’m Beau.” “Beautiful, right?” Glen was the proudest boyfriend. “Sure.” “That’s the best thing about these dolls. Custom-made. Exactly how you want her. I’ll admit it was expensive, but I’ll be damned if it wasn’t worth it.” Her left hand was on her lap but turned palm up. I had an urge to put my beer on it. She had on little black ballet shoes. “Rest assured that your girl’ll be fine here, Glen. Maybe I’ll take her out shopping.” Glen got worried. “Oh, I don’t know if that’d be a good idea…” “I was just joking.” I noticed she was staring into my kitchen. I positioned myself so I blocked her path of vision to my kitchen. “Well, I mean, I guess that’s it. I’ll be back on the first Wednesday of next month.”
“I’ll mark the date.” Glen bent over Carol and took her hands in his. “Bye, Carol.” He kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll see you in a little bit, ok? Love you.” Glen turned to me again and gave me a really sincere handshake. “Thanks again. I mean it.” “Hey. Sure thing. My pleasure.” Glen had left, and I went to the kitchen to get another beer, and when I went back into the common room I put on some music and sat in my lay-z-boy. Carol kept seated on the couch. I went to bed earlier than normal, that night. The first couple of days Carol stayed on the couch. I woke up and went into the kitchen and she watched me make my breakfast and read the newspaper. She kept looking into the kitchen when I came in and sat down and watched some television or did some reading before going out. She was like a bunch of dirty clothes you leave lying around you’ll know you’ll have to eventually do something about. On something like the fourth day I examined her. Carefully tested the flexibility of the joints. Her skin was soft but with a lingering rubbery sensation. Her hair felt real (it was real; Glen did not tell me about that). I took her from under her arms and tested her weight. She was heavy, but I could throw her across the room if I felt like it. The perfume Glen had put on her was worn off by now and she smelled a little like a pencil eraser. I placed her back on the couch. She slumped over. I propped her back up and sort of leaned her against the armrest and there she stayed for a few more days. Then one night I came home and forgot she was there so when I entered my apartment I nearly had a heart attack, seeing her slightly slumped over figure on my couch, before I remembered who it was and why she was there. That night I took her in my arms and moved her to the closet. That was the first time I had talked to her since I had introduced myself. “Sorry, Carol,” I said while I ballroom danced her across the room, “no more couch for you!” I placed her in a sitting position in the closet and covered her with a blanket so she wouldn’t collect dust. I kept trying to ignore her. If I had a dog I bet it would’ve been easier, but without the dog, on quiet evenings where I didn’t go out or spend time with friends, she could deceive me into believing that she was a friend and confidant. The closet was next to the couch, and its doors had slits I could peer through, and if I looked hard enough I could see her head draped in an orange towel, silent, peaceful, but still looking out from whence she sat, and most times I did look hard enough. Then one night Mick came over for beers. “Hey, Mick.” “Hey, Beau.” “Have a beer.” “Don’t mind if I do.” I sat at the Lazy Boy, far from the closet. Mick sat at the couch. We put on some music.
“So how are things.” “Things are good.” “Did you hear about this.” “Oh, yeah. And how about that.” “Can’t forget that. Here’s a joke about that.” We laughed. There was a pause. I took a swig of beer, but I did it too fervently, and the foam raced to the top, and I had to put my mouth over it. Mick leaned forward. “Something seems off with you tonight, Beau.” “Oh?” “I’m not used to such forced conversation.” “I’m sorry Mick, I guess I’m not on my A game tonight.” “That’s fine. I’m just not used to it coming from you.” “Why, thank you.” “I don’t ever think I’ve seen you off your game.” “It’s something I do sort of take pride in.” “Well,” said Mick as he stood up, “let’s go somewhere then.” “Where?” “Let’s drink in the park.” “Sure.” We walked up and down the concrete paths of the city park and drank mixed drinks out of sports drink bottles. It was pretty late. There were lots of brown masses asleep on the benches. I was drunk. I asked Mick if he wanted to see something. “Sure, I’ll see something.” “You trust me, right?” “Trust you enough. It doesn’t matter either way. I‘ve had a few.” I went over to one of the guys on the benches. I shook him gently with one hand and kept the other in my pocket on my boxcutter. “Hey, brother.” The man was slow to come to. “Brother, wake up.” The homeless man slowly lifted his head and turned it to me. He must’ve been used to getting woken up in the middle of the night like this. He had a better shave than I did but his face was smudged and leathery. “Huh. Wuz.” “Brother, how would you like a place to sleep tonight?” “Whu.” “And a meal?” “Whoreyu.” “A friend with an extra meal.” “A cop?” “No. A friend.” I looked back at Mick and grinned. Mick looked a little spooked. I looked back at the man.
“Come on, brother. Would you like a roof and a meal?” He sat up and didn’t look at me. He coughed into his hand. His jacket lay aproned over his legs. “Not joking?” “No. It’ll be fine” He coughed again. “Ok. Sure.” “Alright. Follow me.” Mick was still a little spooked. He had his hands bunched up pretty tight in his jacket pockets and you could tell they were holding his stomach. But he trusted me. While the homeless guy was getting himself standing I walked over to Mick and said quickly, “Don’t worry -- I’ve always got my knife” which I thought at the time was very reassuring. Then we walked back to my apartment. I asked him questions about where he was from and who he knew and things like that but he rarely had any cohesive answers. They all came out in mumbles and grumbles and smacked lips. Mick was starting to lighten up. He started getting excited because he had no idea what was next. He started getting excited because he realized we were the ones in power. We got back to the apartment, I unlocked the door, and we stepped in. I offered the homeless guy a seat at the couch near the closet. “I hope you don’t mind if we stay up a little later,” I told him. “I can make you something to eat. How are eggs?” “Eggs are good.” “Ok. And a beer?” “Beer’s better.” I laughed. “It is.” I opened a beer and brought it to him. He only had an odor if you were near him and you wanted to smell him. He took the beer. His face was still glazed over. “The eggs will be ready shortly.” “Make me some, too, Beau.” “I will. Later. Let’s get him fed first.” I made him two eggs and two pieces of toast with butter and put them on a paper plate with a fork. We watched him eat. The yolk dribbled down his chin. He wasn’t very old, but he was worn out. When he was finished I threw out his plate. He had already finished the beer, so I opened him another while in the kitchen. Mick put on some music. “What kind of music do you like?” I asked the homeless guy. He tossed his hand in the air as if he were flicking a handkerchief. “Anything. Anything’s good.” “I feel the same way.” “Me, too,” said Mick. “Like Creedence…” “Creedence is great.” “Bon Jovi…” “He’s great, too.” “Everything.”
“Yeah. Say,” I started, “do you want to use the bathroom?” “Sure.” I walked him to it. “Do what you gotta do. Take a shower. Shave. Take your time.” I walked back into the room. Mick wanted to know what was next. “Watch,” I said. I went to the closet and opened the door and squatted down and pulled Carol out from her seated position and her face was over my shoulder so that Mick was looking at it. “What’s that.” “It’s Carol.” “Hi, Carol.” “It’s Glen’s. I’m babysitting.” “When did Glen get Carol?” “I don’t know.” Mick started laughing . “Carol, Carol, Carol.” He said it in silly, high and low voices. “Carol Carol Caroooool!” “That’s her.” “You fucked her?” “No.” I put her on the cushion next to where the homeless man was sitting. “What do you plan to do with her.” “You’ll see.” “Carol’s a classy looking lady. Put on some jazz for the classy lady.” I did. “Dark and blonde and rubber and lovely the doll from Ipanema goes bouncing, and when she passes, yes, when she passes, she goes: doll.” We heard the homeless guy coming out from the bathroom. He entered the living room and saw Carol and stood in the doorway. “Like what you see, friend?” I asked. He looked at her. “She’s a looker, huh?” “What is that.” “Her name is Carol. Don’t be shy,” I motioned, “take a seat next to her.” The homeless guy sat next to her, and when he sat the couch sunk and Carol tipped over on him and he pushed her weakly back. I laughed. “She likes you.” The homeless man didn‘t look pleased. I don’t know how Mick looked because I had stopped paying attention to him. “Tell me, friend. How often do you get to see a beautiful lady anymore? How often do you get to see a beautiful lady who’s not a stranger walking through the park with absolutely no interest in who you are and your life’s story?” He wriggled. “When’s the last time you sat next to a girl and felt fine about putting your arm around her, and maybe slipping your hand over her breast, lightly, not fiercely, so that the two of you
can pretend you don’t even notice?” He mumbled something. He took a drink of his beer and it dribbled down the side of his mouth. “What was that?” “Fuck you,” he repeated. “You want a date?” “Fucking freak.” “I insist. It’s the most hospitable thing to do.” “Fuck you. Faggot fucking freak.” “Don’t be like that, friend. Eggs, booze, and cunt. Man’s holy trinity. Isn’t that right, Mick?” “Aye,” blurted Mick. Mick’s Irish, but not that Irish, but I kept my eyes on the homeless man. “Go fuck each other, you faggots.” “No, friend. We have women to take care of us. Filled with breath and blood and emotions. Now, Emily here may not have any of those qualities, but she is beautiful, and she has orifices. A rare opportunity for one in your circumstance. So waddya say?” Mick started to speak up, I heard him move and inhale, but then he stopped. The homeless man tried to push himself up off the couch. Carol teetered onto him again. He had to push himself up off the couch while pushing Carol off him and he was having a hard time. “Sit down,” I said. “Relax.” He kept trying to get up. I walked over in front of him. I changed my tone. “You listen to me. I bring you in my home and I feed you. I let you drink my drink and I let you use my bathroom.” I took the boxcutter out for dramatic effect. “Don’t you fucking disrespect me like this.” “Fucking faggot freak.” “You ungrateful scumbag.” “Fuck you.” “You’re going on a date with Carol whether you like it or not.” “Fuck you.” He stopped trying to get up. He stayed in place with both his hands on his beer bottle. “You’re having a date with her.” I was shouting. “Do you understand me?” “Faggot.” “When’s the last time you’ve been with a girl? You gotta wack off in the bushes?” “Fucking freak.” “You’re getting a date and we’re watching. Don‘t fuck with us.” I put the boxcutter back in my pocket and grabbed him by both wrists. He was weak. He spat on me. I ignored the spit and took his hands and put them over Carol’s chest. “How’s that feel .” “Fucking faggot.” “Doesn’t it feel good?” I looked over to Mick. “Can you hold his wrists a second?” “Do I have to?” “Dude, he’s harmless. The worst he’ll do is spit.”
Mick walked over and grabbed the homeless guy’s wrists. He tried kicking Mick but he wasn’t strong enough to hurt him. He kept calling us faggots while I unbuttoned her blouse. She wasn’t wearing a bra. This piqued my curiosity. I put my hand up her skirt. No panties. Well, I thought. I guess he wanted me to, after all. I slipped the skirt off but I kept the blouse on her, just open and spread, and then I took the homeless guy’s wrists again and I put his hands over Carol’s breasts and rotated his hands around them. “You like that, friend.” “Faggot.” “You can fuck her. Free of charge.” “Faggot.” “Is your dick getting hard?” The homeless guy was silent. He was angry with what he was feeling and you could tell. “There’s no shame in it,” I said. I turned to Mick. “Watch him.” I went into the bathroom and took out Vaseline and hand lotion from the drug cabinet and came back out. “She’s very pretty. We’re not judgmental people, either. Just take her. You get the pleasure of sex and we get the pleasure of watching the doll in action.” Desafinado came on. “Just be careful. No hair pulling or anything. Fondling’s good. Groping’s ok. But don’t damage her.” He didn’t respond. His face was drooped and downturned from Carol. “Ok?” He was shaking a little. I tossed the Vaseline and hand lotion onto his lap. “Just give me some time.” “We’ll give you as much time as you need. We have all night. Pretend we’re not even here. We’ll be watching but we won’t make things weird.” I let go of him. Mick sat back down. I went back to the kitchen and got Mick and I beers and we turned on a movie and played a drinking game. The homeless guy sat there next to Carol. Defeated and sullen. Mick and I did a good job of getting wasted and learning to be completely comfortable with what was happening and actually looking forward to what was happening. Then around 3 in the morning the homeless guy started fondling her. We heard his kisses on her body and the full whisper of pants being pulled down. Mick and I kept grinning at each other and stole inoffensive glances. He had put her on her back on the couch with her pussy facing us and then his ass hovering above it, jiggling, and it didn’t even look like he was thrusting. He grunted and worked and breathed deeply to himself. You could see a corner of Carol’s face -- eye hair and bridge of nose -- and it shook mildly. Listening to his breaths let you know how fast he worked and when he was finished, which was quick, I handed him some paper towels and told him not to touch her. I watched the homeless guy all night. I didn’t get a wink of sleep. He left around 5 in the morning with barely a word exchanged. I took Carol to the bathroom, placed her horizontally in the tub, and grabbed some paper towels and scooped whatever I could out of her. I was drunk enough not to mind and to forget that this might give me a disease.
Then, when I got as much as I thought I could, I took another slab of paper towel, dampened it with some water, and washed Carol down. I worked very carefully. I did not want to damage her. Panic hadn’t started setting in until Mick had left an hour before. With fatigue and the creeping of a hangover and the silence of a living room where a homeless man had sex with my friend‘s doll while I watched. The bathroom light was consoling, though. I was on my knees with my right shoulder slightly turned into her twat and her legs jiggled whenever I cleaned a bit rigorously. Her head rested on a towel. I didn’t smell him on her, either. That was good. I’d have to find some information on how to adequately dispose of whatever was left inside her. Douching, probably. That doesn’t sound too rough. You probably had to do it every time so she wouldn’t get backed up. What a post-coital head trip. I lifted her back out of the tub and placed her back on the couch in the living room. I pulled her skirt back on and buttoned her blouse. Her hair wasn’t too tousled, not that I was very worried about that. All in all she didn’t look too bad. I noticed her shoes were off; they lay by the couch, and I picked them up. I stood at the end of the couch with her prostrate body lying there in front of me as she had been while the homeless fucked her and one at a time I lifted and held each leg with two hands like a pool skimmer next to my head and before I put on each shoe I kissed the sole of her foot with puckered lips. I left her resting there and got to sleep at six in the morning. I fucked her two nights later. I cleaned her, brushed her up, put on some perfume, and then that night I got drunk home alone, sat her up and knocked back drink after drink while staring at her, and when I was ready I knocked her down and did it quickly and violently, exactly how I was never allowed to do it, and it was wonderful. They designed her so she somehow managed to push back and interact with her partner. Afterwards I covered her with a towel and fell asleep with a beer bottle still in my hand. It was the next day. I was watching the news and Carol sat next to me on the couch. It was about 6 o’clock. I had just finished watching a pundit make a smarmy joke about our president. I looked at over at Carol. “Fucking spic nigger cockamamie juden kike mick wop asshole licker bullshit. Fucking mongoloid retard 9/11 AIDS chink. Nazi infanticide honky kraut juden faggot. Communism dyke assplay.” I took a deep breath and stretched my arms over my head. A White House staff member was on tv. “Kill the president, kill the president, kill our president, torture him, castrate him, open his face through his nostrils, put pikes through his eyes, feed him to the vice president, poison the vice president.” A commercial for hair loss came on. “One time I had a dream where I sucked cock and I liked it and instead of cumming I pee’d but it felt just as good.” Carol kept looking into the kitchen. I leaned up close to her head and cupped my hand over her ear and said in a normal voice:
“Kill the rich. Burn down corporations. Kill the pigs. Drown the white man. Bomb the offices. My penis isn’t very big. I clogged the tub shaving my pubes in college.” A new news show came on. I did a forward somersault off the couch. I felt a sudden surge of energy shoot through my body. I started spinning in circles while running in place until my legs gave out and I got too dizzy and I stopped, stumbled, and I aimed myself so the upper half of my body fell on the couch next to her. I dug my face into the cushions and listened to myself breathing. Then I timber’d backwards and lay on the floor sprawled out and looked up at the ceiling while listening to the television and my own breathing. I kicked one of Carol’s legs without even looking. Then, I came home a different night, drunk, and I sang to her a song I had made up. “Oh, Carol, you whore For conversation you’re such a bore The only good thing that you’re good for Is a fuck in any hole and more!” I sat over her chest while singing and slapped her in the face. I took my penis out and slapped that against her face. I rubbed up against her hair. Then I jacked off over her with my testicles touching her forehead, the semen landing on the armrest. I sat next to her with my hand in her vagina while I sang some more. “Oh Carol, my love You’re not much use as a glove I don’t think that our lord above Brought you here to be used as a glove” I ended that night on the bathroom floor after throwing up. There was one more week before Glen got back. Old Carol and I had been through a lot. I had stopped shaving and stopped going out. Mick hadn’t been in touch with me since the night we first hung out with her. She had spent nights in the closet, on the couch, the floor, in the tub, in my bed, upside down, resting across the head or the foot, and at my kitchen table. But she looked alright. That’s what I thought, at least. No bruises and nothing had fallen off and nothing was broken. Spending time with her made me feel like I could probably do a good job as a professional torturer, managing to keep a person intact while putting them through agonizing pain and humiliation. Carol didn’t look a day older than when Glen had brought her over. I went shopping for her with that one week left. Got her a nice tennis shirt and some capris. Some underwear, too. When I dressed her she didn’t turn out as stylish as I had expected. I was disappointed. I took the capris off and put them on her head. I took the capris off her head, took off her shirt, put her shirt up over and around her legs, and put the capris back over her head. I put her week’s worth of panties on her arms like giant fabric bracelets. Then I took everything off and stuffed as many of her panties into her mouth as I possibly could. She sat naked on the couch with worn out bright pink blue and green sticking out. I pushed her eyelids as far open as possible. That’s when Glen called. “Hey, Glen.”
“Hey, Beau.” “How’s the trip?” “Awesome. Beautiful. California’s incredible. I am so happy I went.” “Good.” “How’s it going over there?” I took a seat next to Carol. I put my arm up on the back of the couch. I stretched out. My leg touched hers. “It’s going good, man. The same old.” “How’s Carol?” I grinned so Glen would hear it. “She’s doing just fine. She’s been hanging out.” “Good to hear.” “You’ll still be in next Wednesday?” “Next Wednesday.” “Great. The three of us should have like a little dinner the night you get back. You, Carol, and I.” “That doesn’t sound like a bad idea.” “I’ll make some chicken or something.” “I like it. Cool.” I stood up and sized up Carol. “Alright, yeah. So just give me a call when you’re getting in and we’ll figure it out.” “Great.” “Enjoy the rest of your week, Glen.” “Ok. Take it easy.” “You too.” I hung up. I flung the phone at Carol, and it careened off her left tit and thudded to the ground. Two nights later I stood in front of her and set her panties aflame, one by one, daring her to challenge me. I started to dream about us running away. Going on adventures across the country. Seeing the Grand Canyon and using her however I pleased until she was worn out and worthless. I’d explain why I took her away from everything, from Glen, while sitting in the back seat of a bus to wherever, my arm around her shoulder for practical and not affectionate reasons. I’d throw away my phone and eventually I’d settle down in one of the Dakotas. Maybe Carol would be around then, maybe she wouldn’t. And I’d rename her Emily. Or Mina. The more I looked at her the more I determined she looked like a Mina, not an Emily, and certainly not a Carol. Three nights before Glen came back we watched the big game together. I gave her a Mets cap and put on Guided By Voices while the game played on mute. I sat on the lazy boy, drinking my beer, and she as always on the couch. Every so often I looked over to her and said her name. “Carol.” “Cay-roll.” “Cay-rolline-a.” “Emilina.”
“Emimina.” “Carol-mina.” The hat fit her awkwardly. She looked more like a doll than ever before. Not even when she was in the tub, or being fucked by the homeless man, or stuffed with panties. I think it was because the brim covered her eyes, but she still had a tender mouth. No one has a tender mouth while a hat covers their eyes. The Mets won, and I left Carol on the couch with her hat, and I had a dream where Mick and I robbed Glen’s car. The next morning I threw her tennis shirt and capris into a bag. The hat stayed. I found some old sunglasses and put them on her. She looked like a celebrity. I had done a bad job of putting on her dress -- it wasn’t completely zipped in the back, and one of the straps was off her shoulder. I threw some things of my own in with her stuff and then an additional bag with even more clothes for me. I strapped both bags diagonally across my chest with the bundles up on my back. Then I put Carol over my shoulder and carefully walked down the stairs from my apartment. It was brisk outside. I could see my breath. On the sidewalk I took her off my shoulder and stood her up and held her by the waist. The bus terminal was a thirty minute walk. I got a cup of coffee at a local coffee shop. We sat at a table and I drank the coffee quickly. People around me made short jerky glances up at us. I kept my smiling eyes on her. Even in the cold weather my back sweat from carrying the bags. I was out of breath by the time we got to the terminal. It was midday, and it was small, and there were two other people there, seated on blue framed metal seats. I walked up to the attendant and asked her when the next bus came in. “Twenty minutes.” “Two tickets, please.” I paid with my credit card. I found an open spot for Carol and I on the bench. One of the people sitting was a big man with red skin and a red sleeveless shirt and a bushy moustache the color of parched dirt. His arms were crossed and he was looking at the floor. When he saw Carol and I take a seat, he looked up, stared for a minute, and then looked back down. Then he coughed and hocked. The bus arrived. There was no one else on it. It was just the two other people. I went on first and took Carol to the backseat. The man in the moustache sat up front. The other, a chubby Hispanic girl in all denim, sat in the middle. The bus turned out of the terminal. I waited till we were on the expressway to talk to her. I let her sit by the window while I enjoyed the extra seat we got by sitting in the back. I raised her hat a little bit. I took off her sunglasses. “There,” I said. I put her hair in my mouth and bit. “Porphyria.” I stopped. “No. Emily?” I shook my head. “Mina.” I grinned. “Mina. She was a great singer, you know.” I took out a candy bar from my bag, unwrapped it, and ate it while talking to her. “I guess it’s you and me now, Mina. No more Glen. Glen’s going to be awfully upset. Especially when Mick realizes what I’ve done and tells Glen about the homeless guy. Poor Mick and Glen. They have a lot coming up on their plates.”
I exhaled and stretched my arms over my head. “I don’t understand how Glen loves you like he does, or acts like he does. I don’t think he understands your potential entirely. He thinks he has to treat you just like everyone else. I think that’s stupid. I think if someone has you, Mina, I think they should treat you how they wish they could treat everyone else. You’re a fantastic punching bag, you know that? If they gave you a voice so you could agree with everything I said and laughed at all my jokes you’d be perfect. I wouldn’t need anyone else. You’d be just fine. “I’m not sure how Glen doesn’t see that. He’s too hung up on being a regular dude. It’s kind of stupid. Poor Glen. When else are you gonna get the opportunity to jack off on someone’s forehead? Or punch someone because you feel like it.” I punched her. “See that? Perfectly fine. Victimless. No one gets hurt. “Do you think Glen will buy another one? Just like you? Maybe different, to help forget about you. Probably more to forget about me. Maybe he’ll press charges. Maybe we’ll be fugitives. Carol and Clyde. Mina and Clyde, excuse me. That could be fun. We still got a day, though, before we find out if anything will happen. I still have my phone on me. I’ll get rid of that soon. How long do you think you’ll last this way? A month?” I stretched my arms again, this time by putting them out in front of me. Then I took Mina’s head and slammed it against the window. “Who knows. A month sounds right. We’ll find out soon enough. Who cares anyway.”
She was a very petit girl. I caught her at the end of her run around the neighborhood. She walked briskly, her grey hoodie four fifths zippered, showing her white tee-shirt underneath, and her water bottle half full rocking up and down in syncopation with her steps. She was out of breath but she could talk. “God, I hate how time is such a big part of it. I need to keep reminding myself when it was the last time I saw her to remember where we are now. I mean, she didn't pick up on it until three or four months in. It was already tough enough, her situation. She came to me and showed it to me. We were up in my room. Winter break?” She looked up, stopped walking, trying to remember. Her hands leapt to her hips. One, two, three, deep breaths. “January, February... yeah. Winter break. Two, three months ago.” She took a sip of her water. “Which means she's at her third trimester if she decided to go through with it. “Anyway, yeah, she called me, said she needed to come over when my parents weren't around. It was complicated. She still hadn't told her parents, and she lied to them about winter break, told them she was going somewhere...? Mexico? But she was in town the entire time. She just stayed at his place and laid low. So of course there was no way she could ever come over when my parents were over, because they would go straight to her parents. 'Wasn't Katy supposed to be in Mexico? We just saw her yesterday.' and her cover'd'been blown. I was really pissed she didn't tell them. We had a few fights about it. But how could you not understand her position? I just tried to be as good a friend as possible.” At this point she had turned toward me and gave me her full attention. We were at the corner of Fuscia and Cerulean (it was the color-themed neighborhood). Behind us was a great big lawn, and across from us was this ominous looking dark-grey house, darker than the sky. “I'm sorry.” She uncapped her water bottle again and took a drink. “I'm going all over the place. I should just stick to the story.” “It's fine. I'm following fine. And I have the recorder anyway.” “Ok. I forgot about that. I've been all over the place since she disappeared.” “It's ok.” “Ok. You know, part of me trusts she's fine. She's always been very level-headed and independent. But another part of me... you're carrying a fucking life inside you. I don't think there's such a thing as a right choice in that situation. There can't be. You're thinking too much in black and white to believe that.” She paused. Looked back at the lawn. Uncapped her water and took a drink. Her face wouldn't turn all the way back to me. She looked out at the opposite corner. “So. She comes over. It's like ten o'clock, so both of my parents are at work. This whole time I'm thinking it would've been easier for me to meet her at Joe, her boyfriend's, place. She gets in and that's the first thing I said and I immediately regretted it because she looked miserable. I could tell she'd been crying. In fact, she was still sort of crying. I took her up to my room, and she showed me it.” She exhaled hard. Her voice wavered. “It was tough. She came to me for support, you know? But the whole thing, when I first saw it, it made me want to cry. It looked like a giant flesh-colored door knob or mushroom was growing out of her. The base wasn't much thinner than the head, but you could notice the head... protruding. She showed it to me in my bedroom, both of us sitting on our knees on the floor.
'Something's wrong,' was all she could say. I was speechless at first. She had come in with really baggy clothes on, obviously, so I had no idea what to expect. I think to keep from losing my cool I asked her a bunch of obvious questions. Have you seen a doctor? Does Joe know? Have you done any research on something like this? Got her to calm down, too. She hadn't seen a doctor, Joe didn't know, and she had researched it, but she couldn't find anything. She had wanted to keep it. After seeing Juno. I swear to God. She hadn't found a family yet, and now she knew no family would want it. I managed to get a question about abortion. She got really shaky. Said she didn't know. She kept repeating that. Back in high school we used to make jokes about abortions all the time. “I took her out to a diner to discuss things more. She told me she was planning on spending the rest of break in a motel and not having a doctor look at it until we got back to school. She didn't want Joe to know about it until that happened. Poor Joe. He's such an understanding guy, you know? When they found out she was pregnant, he was like at her service. I'd go over their place and she'd be seated and he'd be up and doing everything possible to make her feel ok. I tried to explain to her that I didn't think he would leave her over something like this, but she was too scared, and, again, who am I to judge? It's a lot.” She sighed. “And... well... that's really it. I didn't see her after that. I tried calling her with no luck. I didn't see her when I got back to school. For all I know her parents think she's going on another trip this summer. Joe said he heard from her, but that was all he's told me. When we got back he became a recluse, but he didn't drop out or anything. After she came over that one day I think I was cut out of the picture. It became her problem. I guess sort of Joe's too. I don't think she wants anyone else involved. She had money saved up. She's always been a good kid. No one has any reason to be suspicious. She's never lied before. I guess being good her whole life gave her a sort of free pass. “But this would be like the 33rd week now. I don't know. I figure once she gets this all ironed out she'll get in touch with me. I couldn't imagine her keeping it. I don't believe that she thinks she's capable of taking care of it. Who knows, though. It just sucks. But I trust her. And, really, she goes to school for an extra semester, you know? Not the end of the world. Plenty of kids do that.” She finally turned her head back to me, as if coming to a conclusion. “Yeah. She'll be fine.”
I got into a little scuffle at school. Oh, it wasn’t too much. Davey Jimmy called me a big booger brain. So I said that he was a poopy-faced idiot. Then he walked up to me and got in my face and I didn’t back down. He called me a pillow-biting faggot so I told him he was a shit-eating transsexual. His face got red, he started breathing really heavy and told me to say it again. I did. That’s when he shoved me. I shoved back. The kids around us were cheering us on. Kind of barbaric now that I think about it. Then ol’ Davey punched me in the side of the head, so I hit him square in the nose. Blood started coming out, his face got all crinkled and ugly, and he pounced on me and scratched at my face. I felt him breaking skin so I started kneeing him in the groin and gouging his eyes while I was on my back. I guess he didn’t like having his eyes gouged at, because he grabbed my right hand and bit down on my index finger. It hurt a lot and I tried shoving my finger farther down his throat. He started puking and let go. He managed to get the fingernail, though, and as soon as he pulled back I started punching him in the face while my other hand grabbed at his earlobe and tugged as hard as possible. While this was happening, Davey dodged my punches and still managed to head-butt me. That’s why my incisors are missing. I learned what incisors were earlier, during health class. Finally the earlobe ripped off and I took the piece of skin and rubbed it in his face. Davey screamed and started trying to bite my fingers again. By now I had stopped kicking him in the groin. Either the students were no longer cheering or I couldn’t hear too well. But the next thing I knew I was being pulled off Davey by a teacher, and I saw him lying on the ground, screaming and writhing around in his own blood. So I guess you can say I won.
I baked a cake for you but you weren’t home when I went to your house so I left it on your front porch. I just thought I’d write and let you know, because it was a really nice cake and I want to make sure you got it. I made the batter and frosting from scratch and I decorated it with all these little pieces of candy and I put your name in big letters on top. I rang your doorbell a few times when I stopped by, I even knocked on the door, but no one answered, and I could’ve sworn I saw a light go on in one of the rooms for a brief second but I’m sure it was just me imagining things. It’s been a week now and I haven’t heard from you, which leads me to assume you never got it for one reason or another. I figure that’s possible because I left it out there on the front porch, and I didn’t really cover it or anything, and I didn’t know how long it would be until you were back home, so I mean it’s very possible someone else accidentally took it or maybe some animals got at it or maybe it got rained on or something. So did you get it? I mean if you didn’t it’s no problem, mistakes happen, and I can always make you another one, I don’t mind. If you did then I guess it’s alright you never got in touch with me; I just want to know if you liked it, and if you liked it, and maybe if you have some left over, I could come by and we could eat it together. But I mean no pressure. If you have none left over that’s fine, and I mean if you never got it I really don’t mind making you another one, I swear I don’t. It’s just I haven’t heard from you in a week, and after that night we spent together, where we just stayed up late and talked, I’ve sort of been wanting to see you again, but every time I’ve tried to talk to you something’s come up, so I figured I’d bake you this cake, and you’d get in touch with me when you could, and maybe we could see each other again. But if you never got the cake that can’t really happen, which is why I’m checking to make sure that everything worked out. Well anyway I hope this note wasn’t too weird or anything and it didn’t creep you out. Just get in touch with me if you can – I know the postal service isn’t the most reliable bunch of people, so I mean I don’t completely expect you to write back since it’s possible that this might be sent to the wrong address and you won’t ever get it… basically I’m not going to lose my head or anything if you don’t respond. But I hope you do, because I would like to see you again as long as you want to see me, too. So here’s hoping. Yours,
“There's this one dream I used to have all the time when I was carrying Davin.” She smiles, remembering. “I'm standing in line to use a slide. There are twenty-four other people on the line. I don't think I ever counted. I just sort of knew. All the people on line have no heads, and they're all naked, and they all have my body. Yeah, they're headless, naked versions of myself. They're covering themselves like the girl in the Venus de Milo. None of them – myself included – are pregnant. “I'm somewhere in the middle of the line. I'm clothed, by the way. In my favorite dress. Polka-dot, pink and yellow, it's kind of tacky but that's why I like it...” she glances at me and smirks. “But you don't care about that.” “I do.” “I mean, you don't care about fashion. Dressing up and stuff. You don't spend forty-five minutes getting ready to go out.” “I don't. But go on, I want to hear about everything.” “Ok. Well actually let me go back. I mean they're covering themselves like the way Venus de Milo did, one arm across the chest and the other over their privates, but something about the way they're standing is frightened. This is gonna sound morbid, but it reminded of the things you hear about in the Holocaust, where they'd strip down people and line them up to go into gas chambers.” She stopped. “You probably think I'm a nut.” I shake my head. She laughs. “I have two kids and I'm talking about images of the Holocaust!” She laughs again. Ponders something. Then she smiles at me. Tilts her head inquisitively. “You don't have any kids, do you?” I shake my head. “Well. Let me tell you. They really change your life. You know that going in. But they change your life in ways you would have never imagined. You have a kid, and there's no room for your infatuation with World War II. You know? You don't want to go around your house talking about Auschwitz when you have innocent, impressionable minds in hearing distance. This dream, for example. I've thought about the similarities to the Holocaust, but this is the first time I'm actually saying it out loud, to someone,” she starts laughing into her lifted cup of coffee, “and, let me tell you, it feels fucking weird.” Then the cup of coffee comes down quickly and her other hand shoots up as if in epiphany. “That's another thing! Cursing! These things are so liberating now!” I feel uncomfortable asking her to stay on topic. She recognizes it. “I'm sorry. Had to get that off my chest. But anyway. Twenty-four naked, headless mes – twenty-five including me – waiting on line for a slide like they're waiting to be gassed. I'm somewhere in the middle, in my favorite dress. The slide itself is a real simple basic deal. I watch the headless mes go up one by one and slide down. When they slide down they all seem to have a good time. Their hands go up and they land on the ground with a hop in their step, and they run off, to where I don't know. This goes on until it's my turn. But when I get up – I guess they don't notice because they don't have heads – I see the slide's in really bad shape. Like even before I take my first step up I get the impression the whole thing will collapse under my weight. I try to explain to the headless me behind me that I don't think I want to go on the slide, but she doesn't have a head, she doesn't understand, and the line starts to get restless. I see
headless mes peeking over the shoulders of other headless mes, checking to see what the hold up is. And for one reason another, I can't detach myself from the line. It's sort of do or die. They don't try to physically make me, but I still feel the pressure, I always get really nervous and hectic at this point, spew some diarrhea of the mouth to try and explain to them why I don't want to go on the slide, and, always, eventually I turn back around and start going up the slide, and it's always around this time I wake up.” She takes another sip of her coffee. “I mean I got the general idea of the meaning. I was twenty-five when I was pregnant with Davin. The slide was the shape of my belly. Those are the really obvious parts. The act of going down the slide I think had to do with actually giving birth. The defects had to do with the shape of my belly, and how it made me uncertain of how the pregnancy would go. You know what, recant that last one. I did not believe the pregnancy would go well. I spent those nine months trying to convince myself it would be fine, I was trying to be optimistic. Push comes to shove, though, I felt that it would be a miscarriage. Or Davin would be a defect. Or I would die. Something horrible. That also explains why all the headless mes seemed so scared, I think. “I actually searched about misshapen pregnancies online and found a forum of a handful of women back then. They were either expecting or had already borne. A lot of it was reassuring. Most of the mothers had no complications. Actually I don't think any mother mentioned any problems at all. I still wasn't convinced though. They all described different shapes. One had two humps. Like a camel. So how is it the same diagnosis if you have a different shape? They were all very kind and understanding. It was very civil. Far better than the chatrooms I used to go into as a kid.” She shrugs. “But, thank God, it worked fine. Davin was fine. Is fine. He's on the soccer team. He's doing well in school. Gonna be six this year. It's such a relief.” I asked her if she planned on having more children. She put her head in her hand, exasperated, and smiled. “That's a good question. I haven't even thought about the possibility after what I went through then. It's all been about raising him ever since. I imagine it's easy to have another kid if the first time goes off without any snags. But I'm scared shitless now.” She smiles to herself and looks down at her hands and repeats, “Shitless.”
“Well, of course I was nervous at first! I didn't know what to think! I didn't know how to react! What was the right approach? What would others think? I mean, we have neighbors! We're good friends with these people! Would we become some sort of freakshow?” We're seated in his office. Behind him the sun has already set but it's still light out. The lower half of the skyline captures whatever rays of sunlight are left. All his comments are made with a would-you-believe-it grin. He looks very healthy and tan for forty years old. His suit fits him very well. He sits back in his office chair with his arms crossed like a filament above his head. “Not to say I'm not still nervous. He still hasn't come out yet. Sure, we've seen the sonograms, we're getting a lot of reassurances from the doctors. Or the doctors are good at keeping a straight face. I won't be 100% O.K. until I see him, borne, in the flesh, crawling around in my hands.” He leaned forward and put his elbows on the desk. “And even then it's not a guarantee! Is he ok,” he says, pointing to his head, his gold watch showing itself, “up here? Are we gonna be putting him in special classes? Are we gonna have to teach Beth and Michael to treat him different from other people, cause he's special? No. It can't stop bothering me. It won't stop bothering me until he's out of medical school.” He chuckles. “But isn't that how it is with all kids? When do you get to announce that your son or daughter is officially not a fuck-up, you know? I don't know, I'm getting ahead of myself. “But this,” he declares, “this is why I know I made the right choice marrying her. Our fearless leader. She's the one making jokes about it. She's the one resting her dinner plates on top of her own belly, like a tv dinner stand. She's the one who comes up with the idea of drawing a television screen over her dress to amuse the kids. If it wasn't for her – I mean who she is – we'd all be miserable. I don't know. It's tough to imagine. But there she is, and thank God. I've asked her how she can be so calm, and she looks at me the same way she'll look at Beth or Mike when they ask a silly question. 'I've already had two of them,' she tells me. 'Trust me, alright?' And, you know, the doctors are at a loss, I'm at a loss – shit, everyone who sees her is at a loss! But she's like a rock. Like a rock. It's incredible. I love her for it. “Oh yeah, our friends have been really supportive. They treat it like it's their own kid in there. It's wonderful. I get the feeling they're so kind partially out of pity. I think I'd do that too.” He starts chortling. “I mean, I'll take it! I need it! I'm not my wife! “And the kids, they've been real understanding, too. Or they just haven't been weirded out by it. We were worried if they'd get made fun of in school. Turns out the other kids think it's cool. 'I wish my mom looked like that!' they say. Funny stuff. I forget that you don't start being a real bastard until something like eleven, I think. So that works out fine for us. But yeah...” He trails off. He's having difficulty wrapping it up. “Something you've been wanting to get off your chest, I bet,” I offer. He lowers his head for the first time since I've come in. Shakes it, smiles. “Yeah. It has. It's been tough. I won't lie. But she... she's something else. A real angel. And I'm not saying that just because she's my wife, you know? I am – in awe – of her. Really. And I'm happy to be doing this, just because it lets people know about what a great person she is. If everyone could be like her,” he turned serious, “I think a lot of the problems in the world would be fixed. And I say that as a cynical guy. I don't delude myself.” Now dusk is setting in behind him and the hustle and bustle of the rest of the building, I
can't hear it behind the door anymore. He looks up at me. “Would you like to see Beth and Mike?” I say sure, and he turns one of the pictures on his desk to me. A blonde-haired girl hugging a tinier brunette boy. They're both in swimsuits. “We went out to Disneyworld last Spring. In Florida. They loved it.” “They're beautiful.” “I know. They go back to school in a week. Mike's so excited to start second grade. Gets to be big man on campus, you know?” “Yeah.” “Yeah...” He turns the photo back to him and regards it for a moment before returning it to where it was before. He gives me a glance, with a sort of dazed grin. “Any other questions?” I tell him no. I stop my recorder and put it in my bag and lift my jacket up off my arm when I hear him speak up again. “So you've seen a lot of cases like this?” I look up. “A few,” I admit, “but not exactly the same.” “Have you met with anyone after they've given birth?” He's the first one to ask me, so I'm taken off guard. Suddenly I don't understand why no one else brought it up. “I haven't.” “Do you know if anyone you've met with is expecting real soon?” “Yeah.” “Do you plan on checking up with them?” “I'm gonna try.” “Well, if you are able to, you let me know what you find out.” By now I'm standing. I take a few steps closer to his desk and grab the card he's holding out to me. “I won't tell her. But I'd really like to know. For my sake.” “I will.” He stands up to shake my hand. Things suddenly turned somber. “I appreciate it.” “No problem.” We shake hands and I turn to leave with my knapsack over one shoulder. The lights have been turned off in the rest of the office. I wonder when he heads home. I decide I won't get in touch with him again unless it's good news.
The race started at four in the afternoon in the back parking lot of a Target in some town outside of Boston, Exit 22, and ended at the Pancho Villa’s in Huntington village over on the island. Each team was given a map to follow with no prior knowledge of directions. I sat next to A, blasting loud music and drinking vodka out of a fast food cup, calling the others up and asking where they were and telling them we were so far ahead of wherever they were and that they were fucking loo-sahs, and hanging up before they could get a word in. Then he lit a cigarette and I put on some Toadies and that’s when we both really get into it, all of it, squeezing the notes out the corners of our mouths like it was high school all over again. Day lulled into night, we passed by IKEAs and rest stops and large patches of trees, conversation subsided. I had to pee but held it in to make good time, started to play with the power windows but A told me to cut the shit out. We were about a half hour away when I started rambling about being little and thinking whenever I was in the car on the highway with my parents that we needed to get past all the other cars so we could win, but we never finished because we always got off the highway while the other cars were still on, still racing, and A laughed and said he used to think the same thing. Little kids are really fucking stupid. But now, I continued, now we actually know where it ends, and all these retards around us, they’re gonna keep driving like chumps, without knowing the race already ended and that we won it, and that there’s no point in trying anymore, because it’s over, all over, and we took the whole fucking thing by storm, and A agreed and said Fuck Yeah and I said Fuck Yeah even louder and turned up the tunes, and not two seconds later I got a call, and I saw that it was S, so I picked it up and put the phone up against the speakers until the song ended.
I hate to mention Vonnegut again so soon but he fits here. He won’t be a motif, though. I won’t allow it. I don’t know enough about the guy anyway. I’ve only read one book by him. It was called Bluebeard. I picked it up at a used book store for fifty cents, and it was an exciting time, that ride back home. After hearing so much about Vonnegut I was ready to love him and enjoy him with everyone else and make new friends who also loved him and maybe fuck some of them and so on and so forth. The problem was Bluebeard was a shitty book. A really shitty book. Since then I’ve heard it’s a bad first book choice of his to start with, Al told me this several times, vehemently, but how was I supposed to give a writer a second chance after reading something of his that was so, so bad? It made no sense. So after the whole ordeal I said to hell with Vonnegut – anyone who lets something so bad be published under their name doesn’t deserve a second chance. That was my justification, at least. But enough about my relationship with Vonnegut. Fuck him. The reason I bring him up, though, is because when I read Bluebeard, I got one useful quote out of it, and it changed my outlook on stuff, namely drinking and driving. I don’t remember the exact quote. I’m not gonna look it up or Google it, either. But basically it said that back in the day no one cared about drunk driving, but now all of a sudden everyone does. This struck me because prior to having read it there had been many a night where I’ve been drunk and knew I could drive in spite of all those depressing commercials and laws. I took that quote to heart. It made me realize that I am a good enough judge of my own character to figure out when I can drive and when I cannot, regardless of what toxins are in my system. That was the only thing Vonnegut ever did for me, and even though everything surrounding that one life lesson was horrible, horrible stuff, it inspired me to change the way I live. Which is why Jan and I took my car over to the liquor store to pick up some whiskey, followed by a Burger King run where we purchased two large sodas, and, after filling them three quarters full with cola, went into the bathroom and filled the other quarter with said whiskey for a nice mixed drink to slurp on while driving around. We could’ve spent the time drinking at Jan’s instead and had a good time just listening to music and eating more spaghetti, but the clouds were beginning to clear, and there was still time left in the day, and we thought a drive to the park would be more fun. “Put on some tunes,” said Jan as we pulled out of the Burger King parking lot. I put on a grindcore band. “Turn it up,” said Jan. I turned it up. “Lower the windows,” said Jan. I lowered the windows. “Perfect. Perfect.” “How’s your drink mixed?” I asked. “Great. I did a great job mixing. How’s yours?” I took a sip. It tasted too much like cola. “No good.” “Pass it here.” I handed the cup to Jan and Jan pulled out the bottle of Seagram’s, removed the caps from the bottle and my cup, and poured in some more Seagram’s. He did it all as close to his feet as
possible. It was extra tricky with the windows open. “Try it for me.” I heard Jan take a gulp from the still capless cup. “Yeah. It’s good now.” He handed it back to me, and it tasted a lot better, it was a vast improvement. The perfect balance. I took a drink. The park was on the other side of town, a fifteen-minute ride, and the spaghetti was still lumped up in our stomachs, so we didn’t start feeling any type of buzz until we got there. On the ride we passed by sushi restaurants and fast food chains and hardware stores, and faceless nameless office buildings next to windowless strip clubs next to supermarkets, and SUVs with television screens dangling from the ceilings and Audis and convertibles and Hummers and Toyotas. I made the music louder. “That’s right. Show these bastards who’s boss around here.” “I will.” Jan tried to make eye contact with the drivers we passed by. No one looked back. “They’re afraid of us,” he said. It sounded like he meant it. Our futile attempt at fighting back. He switched on the windshield wiper fluid, and when I turned that off he put on the hazards, and then I turned those off, too. We made a turn after our tiny box of a public library and pulled into the lot of our town’s public park. It was very busy. We drove by families with cute little blonde children, our music blaring and the windows down, and the parents looked at us with a combination of fear and contempt. I made apologetic faces to make it seem like the whole situation was out of my hands. There was a light punch on my arm. “Dicks upon dicks. I’m telling you.” I waved off his comment. “Relax. They love it. It reminds them of their youth.” “It reminds them that we’re dicks.” “Pish-posh.” Outside it smelled like charcoal and lighter fluid and over at the other side of the park where the playground and tables were was a plume of white misty smoke. You could hear classic rock from over there, too, it echoed out to where we were. The whole thing looked like fun. Some sort of community or family gathering picnic thing. There was no need to go over there though, since we were still full on spaghetti. All we wanted to do was sit on the field in front of us and watch all the kids and dogs play and throw balls while we drank our whiskey and cokes out of Burger King soda cups. There was a nice spot of grass near where we parked, and there were plenty of people out on the field. Two pre-teens were throwing a Frisbee. An eight-year-old boy was running pass patterns and his father threw him a football. Five kids were playing tag. A dog chased them around. It did not help that we were the oldest people there who weren’t parents, it didn’t help that Jan was in his flannel shirt and jeans on a warm summer afternoon, and it didn’t help that I had a beard, and that that beard was unkempt. But we did a good job of behaving ourselves. The park wasn’t our target anyway. It was a nice place for kids to go, and kids didn’t know any better. Jan looked out into the field. “God, man. The park.” He turned and looked at me.
“Remember the park?” “How could I forget it?” He looked back out. “My dad loved the park. He was always trying to push it on me. We went through the nature trails, passed the baseball… one time we started a fire at a fire pit and roasted hot dogs and marshmallows.” “Did you make s’mores?” “I’m sure we did. I don’t remember, actually, but we must’ve.” “It only makes sense.” “You think they host shows here?” I sat up. “Hey. Take it easy. The park is off limits.” “Yeah, I guess you’re right…” Every time the boy out on the field caught his father’s pass he exclaimed “Yeah!” and spiked the ball. Every time the boy out on the field didn’t catch his father’s pass he exclaimed “Aw!” and put his hands up in disbelief. I leaned back on my elbows. The alcohol began to disorientate things a little. Jan was sitting forward with his arms on his knees, his drink sitting beside him. “Jan, I wanna smoke.” “Me too, but we gotta wait.” “Jan, I gotta pee.” “Ok.” “I’m gonna go.” “Sure. Go ahead.” I stood up. I felt the alcohol in my legs. “Are you gonna be alright without me?” I asked. “Yeah, man.” Jan took another deep sip. It sounded raspy. He was almost finished. “We’ll hang out a little longer. When our drinks are finished we’ll roll.” The bathroom was at a public house over by the benches and the playground and the smoke. I was drunk. I prayed a ball wouldn’t roll into my personal space. I kept my eyes to the ground. I kept the soda cup up and under my chin as if it were a regular cup of soda I had at attention in case I needed a sip at any given moment, and I kept drinking it. I took deep long sips and pretended there was nothing wrong with it. The park was off limits. These kids still had hope. I began to feel guilty. Here I am, I thought. My drink was finished. I kept sipping at it; I’d wait a minute or two and try and grab up whatever ice had melted. The public house was this yellow box with a brown shingle roof. There were two doors in the front, and between them a water fountain. I got some water, it was warm and stale, then I pushed open the yellow painted steel door that had the word MEN written on it in stocky black letters. I threw out the cup, pee’d, and after, since no one else was there, I took a good look at myself in the mirror over the sink. I widened my eyes as wide as possible and let my mouth gape. I thought about how long Jan was expecting me to take. I tried to smile on cue (I can never smile on cue) and wondered if Evan was still upset. Maybe we should give him a call. I’ll mention it to Jan. Good old Evan. I turned on the water and washed my face. That sonofabitch gets more girls than he knows what to do with them. There were no paper towels, so I used my shirt. Why can’t I be tall like Evan? I rubbed my hand up and down my beard. It sounded like Velcro. I want to be
tall like Evan, I thought. I want to be tall and in good shape like Evan. Then I could get all the girls I wanted. Being cool doesn’t get you one-night stands. I took a step back from the mirror to get one final full assessment. I looked fine. Not drunk. My shirt was a little wrinkly, but that didn’t mean anything. Seeing myself was reassuring, the walk back’d be a lot easier. Before I turned to walk out I made a gun out of my hand and shot it at myself, as if I were saying, “Call me, babe.” I stepped back outside and before I even reached the field I could see Jan had reclined to the same position I was in before. The booze must’ve finally been kicking in. I waved from a distance. He waved back. I kept waving even after he stopped. I had a stupid grin on my face. People were probably looking but I didn’t look back because I had seen myself in the mirror, and I looked fine. Now I was standing in front of him. The sun was facing Jan, his eyes were squinted and his hand was positioned in a half shade half salute on his brow. “Hey there,” he said. “How was the bathroom?” “Fine.” “Good.” He pulled his arms up over his head and stretched. “Out here was nice, too.” “Did you finish your drink?” He grinned. “You mean my soda?” “Yeah. Your soda.” “I did. I threw it away. I care about the environment.” I stumbled. I was standing on a slope. “Let’s get out of here.” “Ok.” “Let’s go back to your place and take shots.” “Quiet down.” “Don’t worry, I don’t look drunk.” “That is nothing you should say too loud in a public park.” I put my hand over my mouth. I didn’t even notice what I had said when I said it. “Oh, shit. Oh, shit.” “Yeah.” “Jan I’m going to the car.” “We’re going back to my place?” “Yeah. We’ll take shots there and listen to music.” “Sounds good. Should I call Al and Joe?” “No. I don’t want to deal with them right now.” “You’re right.” Back on the road I didn’t pass anyone. I kept the windows up. I put on The Queers, and we sang along, but we refrained from singing along too loudly. I conveyed my energy by drumming my hands against the steering wheel and Jan conveyed his energy by drumming his hands against his thighs. In between songs Jan kept telling me that once we were back at the place and out of the car we’d be in the green. The sun was still out, but it was starting to set, which was turning the sky purple. It’d be different if it were dark and deep in the middle of the night, when no one else was out. I told Jan that. Because, see, we didn’t go out and get drunk and drive around in the middle of the day very often. This was a spontaneous, once-in-a-bluemoon event. This did not define us. What it did help define was The Invectives. And in
retrospect that was probably why we did it. We made it, we parked and got out and it was a huge relief, we caught our second wind. We went back to acting as if it was impossible for anyone to stumble upon anything we were doing. We cursed on our way into the building. I pushed Jan into the wall while we waited for the elevator. When we got in the elevator we pushed all the buttons, just because, and for every floor it stopped on and the doors opened, we tried to shove each other out and keep each other out until the doors closed. I successfully pushed Jan out of the elevator on the third floor. It was difficult to do, since every time Jan tried to jump back inside the doors automatically opened. I had to jump out of the elevator, throw him into one of the neighboring hallways, and get back to the elevator before the doors closed on me, as well. So for a while I was in the elevator alone, breathing heavily. When I got to the sixth floor I waited outside for Jan. He didn’t even use the stairs; he just waited for the elevator to come back down. When he came out he had the bottle of Seagram’s fit snugly in his armpit. “Hey.” “You didn’t take the stairs?” “I’m not taking the fucking stairs. No fucking way.” I had caught my breath but he was still panting. “Hey, maybe you should start working out.” “I’m fine.” “We never had that cigarette.” “We’ll smoke on the patio.” He let me in. “Before the cigarette,” I suggested, “a shot.” “Ok.” We took a shot and then before we left to go to the patio I suggested we take the whiskey with us so we could take another shot while smoking. Cigarettes always made me salivate. I spat over the landing without looking to see where it fell, and then “To the park.” “To the park.” we took another shot. Now everywhere outside had turned blue with nighttime descending. Inside we took another shot and put on The Pillows and sang along using made-up words. Then another shot. I remembered the spaghetti. I was standing over the stove eating spaghetti straight out of the pot it was cooked in. The bottle of Seagram’s was in my hand. I poured some in with the spaghetti. I took a swig. Jan asked me for some spaghetti and another shot. “Come to the kitchen.” He came in and together we stood over the spiked spaghetti sharing swigs of Seagram’s. The Pillows were still playing in the other room. “Jan, you should call Evan.” “You think so?” “Call him. Apologize for last night.” “Should I ask him to come over?” “He’s not going to.” “I’ll ask him anyway.”
“Give him a hard time when he says no.” “The working man.” “The goddammed working man.” He took out his phone while still eating spaghetti and dialed Evan’s number. He sounded really enthusiastic. Like a camp counselor. “Evan! Hey, man! What’s up!... Hey! Evan! I wanted to apologize for last night! No, I…No, I shouldn’t have said those things! It was rude!... What are you up to right now?... Watching a movie with Ava? You two should come over!... Me and Coop are here, hanging out! Wha… yeah, we started a little early tonight. So what do you think?... Oh, come on, man! We’re gonna listen to tunes and party! There’s spaghetti here!... Oh, Evan, don’t say that! Why would you say such permanently damaging things? Evan I love you! Coop loves you! We both love you! And Ava’s pretty cool, too!... Yeah…Uh-huh…” then he screamed into the receiver and hung up. “He’s not coming over.” “Let’s have a shot for him.” “To Evan.” “To Evan.” That was the last shot. Jan went back into the common room. “I know what we need to listen to,” he said. He put on “Make-Out Club” by Unrest. I came out from the kitchen and we danced together. At one point Jan was standing on top of the coffee table. We sang along to the best pop song ever. You were the first one, and I’d like to say… You will be the very last one, so please come back someday “Put it on repeat,” I said. Jan put it on repeat. Now I was lying on my back on the floor and Jan was lying on his back on the couch. We squirmed along to the music. “I listened to this,” I said, “so many times my Freshman year of college. I played it on repeat for days straight.” “It’s good.” “It’s the best.” I closed my eyes and I felt myself spinning. I sat up. “I played it for all my friends all the time. But none of them asked about the band. None of them wanted the album.” I tried closing my eyes again and still I had no luck. “I could’ve given them the album, too. Easy. One of my favorite albums of all time. You still haven’t heard it either, have you?” “No,” said Jan. “I have not.” “Oh, God, man, Jan. You have no idea. You have no idea what you’re missing out on. Do you have the album on your laptop?” “Just this song.” “Fuck. I’ll burn you a CD of it. It’s a masterpiece. And I know this song, it’s really simple, and the only reason it’s so good is because they play those guitars so fast, but, you know, no one else’s ever done it.” “We should write a song like this.” “We should cover this.” Jan snorted. “I don’t know about that—“ “Yeah you’re right I wasn’t thinking. But we should write a song like this. Fast layered
strumming guitars and fast drums. I could play guitar for that song. We don’t need a bass.” “Ok.” On came the soft part of the song that prefaced the fast part. I lay back down. Still spinning. I rolled onto my side and curled up into the fetal position. I kept squirming. The apartment was lit up, but Jan was asleep on the couch, I heard his snores. Everyone loves talking about the things they love when they’re drunk. They think that they can convince other people to love those things too if they talk about it long enough, and the shame of talking about how great you think something is is lost with the inclusion of alcohol. But Jan never did that, he never gushed about his favorite writers or songs or his dreams. He always kept that stuff to himself when he was drunk. It came out occasionally with the aid of other drugs, and when it did no one could make sense of it. He’d speak fluently and confidently but he was the only one who understood what he was saying. It was only after he acted out on what he had tried to explain to us that it made sense. Jan didn’t find pleasure in trying to share a love for something with someone else after a couple of drinks. That’s my guess as to why he always never said much, and that night it pissed me off, because I had tried to give him a part of myself, and he didn’t return the favor. I didn’t get up to turn off the music or the lights. I lay on my side on the floor until I fell asleep, and I hoped by putting the song on repeat Jan would wake up harboring as passionate a love for Unrest as I had, and he’d be grateful for turning him onto something. It kept blasting. Over and over. And then I was asleep.
Book 4 of 5. All stories by Thomas Simmons. For contact, email mypropernouns@gmail.com.
Dedicated to any and all shit-talk.