Do Something

Morning heat dry desert wind and the smell of the night still lingered in the air.
Palmer slouched, shoulder sloppy, into the room, holding down the doorway.
“That kid is back”, he informed the room seconds before the “kid” swung open the
front door and stepped lively, heel click, shoe polish into our midst. Palmer
returned to the kitchen.
“Morning, Fans.” He smiled and moved light quick; hand to pocket, pack to hand,
single smoke to lip, lighter to fire, smoke to room and smile, smile, smile.
He wasn’t popular as much as he was unconsidered. He appeared and he
vanished. When he was gone he wasn’t looked for, not like Sloan looked for love or
Arnie searched for a clean spoon.
“Goddamnit, isn’t there a single clean spoon in all this land?”
The kid was a nod and a who are you talking about?
“Guess where I’ve been, Fans,” The kid was female raised and all heart havoc. He
walked the room like a lounge act waiting for a spot light. No one answered, no
one cared. I looked out the window and saw myself in the back of a bus rolling
somewhere slow that wasn’t right here and it felt tingly. Maybe it was time to
head back, The kid’s voice smoothed to a tone at the end of the radio dial and I
walked some short self history.
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I could see myself, stepping from the guts of that metal beast, squaring my
shoulders and …
Do something Benjamin.
Martin Johnson’s johnson was the talk of the town. From April to June, the
Cavanaugh sisters. They would send their gossip about the length, girth and
sheer liquid fire power of the schlong to any and all who would listen. They even
claimed that many of the girls, who went on a regular basis to the Church of the
Shrieking Savior ice cream socials, had “member-ship” to Mr. Johnson.
Ice cream being the most social of foods. Melting and welcoming in nuts and
fruits, candies and syrups. And, occasionally, fingers, hair, skin flakes and
rheumatism pills. But this was only the times that Wendly Cromplink was
scooping at the socials. These times were referred to as the ice cream anti-socials
and few attended. Usually only the infirm, who were pushed there by zoftig, quasi
nazi nurses and … Belinda Relmonte. Ms. Relmonte, “Beli”, to her friends, which
were actually invisible or incarcerated, was said to carry a torch for Mr.
Cromplink. She did this torch carrying when he went into the woods to gather
carcasses for his feted carcass stew or when he would sneak up to the windows of
the ladies in town to watch them disrobe, bathe or play cards dressed as
effeminate men… Beli dreamed of the time when Wendly would peer into her
window. She knew that would never happen because she didn’t have a window…
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she resided in the liver of an abandoned yak on the edge of Trippling Creek. Also,
without her …who would carry the torch for him to see by?
“This is absolute crap. This is pure unadulterated shit. I could pull better
pages out of my dog’s blood-caked, shit stained ass.”
Oh, Martha, Martha, Martha, you sultry pile of frontier victuals. She
always had such a kind, motherly concerned way of giving me constructive
criticism. At times like this, I had to shift in my seat to hide my growing
erection …she was that impressive.
“You’re not digging the new pages, Martha?” I asked. She stalked the room,
kept her eyes on me while her hands did …other things. She pulled a cigarette
from a glass case on her desk, she put a tumbler of nine in the morning bourbon
to her gypsy painted lips, she hitched up her left boob and it nearly tumbled free
of her blouse. Some top of the line, cotton, linen … skin of children blend
that …well… it really looked good on her.
“I am wondering why we even attempt to publish you, Benjamin.”
I loved it when she used my full name. Kind of like the way I loved it when my
second wife dumped a pot of hot oil on my crotch in one of those fondue joints the
night she politely asked for a divorce. The oil dump was proceeded by a flurry of 8
by 10 black and white glossies of me out on the town with a very sexy
mannequin. She wasn’t so much upset that I was seeing another woman, albeit an
artificial woman, as she was that I had taken said mannequin to the theater.
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“You never took me to the theater.” The hiss of her voice melding with the hiss of
the steaming mini-cauldron. She then up ended this cauldron of hot, flavored oil
into my lap. Lucky for me my Superman underoos took most of the brunt of the
scalding liquid and, with the aid of skin grafts and Polaroid pictures, I was able to
return to my normal self. But unable to use public pools.
“Martha, if you dislike where the story is headed, say so… but do not
question my publishable traits. I make money, you make money… why must we
always go through this?” Fair question, I thought.
“Why must you always bring me these twisted, sick, sexually depraved
ideas and make me have a heart attack?” Part of me wished she would have a
heart attack and then I could give her CPR or Mouth to mouth, or mouth to boob,
or hand to crotch …or some other AMA approved manner of perversion and
rescue.
“It’s my process, Martha …you know this,” I said. And, she did know it. This
wasn’t the first time we had this conversation. This wasn’t the first time I had
been informed that her dog’s blood-caked, shit stained ass was a better writer
than me. I had secret worries about her dog because of this image. And, I was also
jealous of his writing prowess.
“Benjamin.” She exhaled my name with a cloud of camel light. “I
understand this is your process …but, can’t you spew this process on someone
else and just give me the good stuff?”
“Someone else, like whom?” I asked, curious and nervous that my time in
her presence was coming to a close.
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“I have no idea …a hooker …your ex-wife…your congressman?”
All viable selections except that; hookers would tell me it was good just to get
paid. My ex-wife only spoke to me through an Albanian mediator with no
interpreter and my Congressman had sent me a cease and desist order for my
birthday. At least he remembered …mom.
“I thought you wanted to nurture me. I thought you were interested in the
whole process, the way I work as a writer and an artist.” I whined slightly, like a
child or a manatee with a cocktail sword in its ass.
“No.” She said stubbing out her cigarette ‘I don’t give a rat’s puckered ass
about your process. When you started, sure, but, now that you’ve had 6 best
sellers, I know you can do it so… just fucking do it.”
“A rat’s puckered ass? When would that be an appropriate gift, Martha?” I
asked. “Is that like the 9th anniversary. Happy ninth anniversary, honey… I got
you this rat’s puckered ass.” She laughed. And, like most things about her, her
laugh was equal measures of horror and sex appeal. At least to me.
“Go, Benny.” She said, lifting me gently from my seat and guiding me like a
cross-dressing Sherpa to the door. “Go, sit in a bar, have some drinks, put pen to
paper and finish this next wonderful, remarkable, best selling book for me. Will
you do that now, dear?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know, Martha, I’m kind of feeling …”
“Good,” she said, then brushed my cheek with her lips and shoved me into
the main office. The heavy thuck of her door closing behind me left me to face the
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room full of assistants and secretaries, interns and random office meatheads. I
stared at them all for a moment… they stared back.
“Turns out, it wasn’t puss, it was mayonnaise,” I shouted and then danced
to the elevator.
“… And the ladies!” The Kid was saying when I returned. “Well, you know how the
ladies love me.” He laughed at himself, saving all of us the trouble.
Maybe it was time to return. Get on a plane this time. Avoid the long, thought-provoking
journey in the ass end of a greyhound. Just tell them all I had fun, did
what I needed to do and go. But, I feel trapped somehow. Infected by a dose of
Lewis’ “village virus”. I came with a reason. With a purpose and then …I slowly
lost who I was. I looked at the kid and admired him. Briefly. Admired that he
remained this sideshow, this trumped up version of what he thinks he should be
and he still remains. All the days I have been here, seen him. he remains. He
doesn’t waver but me …
I once had courage. I know I did. I was, in a minor way, courageous. Now…fruit
scares me. The day to day. The people pass. The news I read. It all sets me back.
Sends me screaming. And I wonder about it. How do I get that back? I set out,
every morning from my squalid digs and I walk. Sometimes, when I am walking
to the place I am going, who knows where that is, legs move and I follow or I ride
on top of them and move with them. I don’t even think anymore about where I
should go, what I should do. I just and they just and we are just. I have for some
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unknown reason filled my head with an astounding feeling of freedom. But, I am
not free. And I am not slaved. Perhaps I am just … not. I see a woman. I see her all
the time in my neighborhood. She is old, gray topped, pear-shaped heavily on the
bottom. I assume, in my non-medical capacity, that she suffers from some sort of
dementia. Some sort of mental disorder that causes her to act as she does. And
she does. Mouth agape most times, eyes rheumy and swollen. Her walk is a
stumble, a force. Not like mine, even in my age and ill shape, my walk is still
slightly light and easy. Her’s is an effort. A trial, a chore. One she undertakes on a
constant basis for I always see her walking to and from the bus. The bus stop. I
see her waiting at the stop, walking to other stops. Always with labor. Most
interesting or compelling about this soul is the right hand. It moves. The fingers
move in a fast flipping motion like she is juggling keys or coins or gum balls. The
fingers move at a pace the rest of her being could never achieve. At times, when I
see her, the right hand is hovering just off of her lower lip. Fingers moving in
their flicking fashion. The hand remains at the same distance the fingers never
stop moving and the eyes puddle down her cheeks. Other times, the hand is
resting down by the side. But it is a fitful rest. It is a bouncing, jumbling, small
child in the midst of a nightmare, yet to be awakened type of rest. Today, hand to
the side, she was walking in front of me. She was there on the sidewalk in front
of me passing her bus stop and walking somewhere. She walked dead center of
the sidewalk. Her pear frame taking up too much space. In the left hand, she
grasped, white-knuckled, the handle of her large and bulky purse. On the right
side, the dancing hand. And she did her normal walk stumble slow gate cow like
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perambulation. I could not pass on the left and I would not pass on the right. I
would not move to close to the hand. The moving hand. The arm’s end creature of
constant agitation. Like a woman with a wart chin kiss need, I shunned and tried
to imagine moving behind her, slowly all day. I had no desire to do this but I was
trapped. Until, on our left, salvation in form of a driveway. I sped up and passed her
swiftly on the left, never looking at her. Not wanting her to see my face. See the
man who was too frustrated to stroll gently behind her. Too freaked to march past
on the right, street side. So, I blew past her and never looked back. What do I
think would happen to me? Would that hand shoot out and grab me, touch me
with it’s flipping fingers. Perhaps she would reach to me for help with that hand,
moving, moving. What would I do? What could I do but keep the hand as far from
me as possible…
The kid slinks a thin arm around my shoulders and smiles into my ear; “You
know what I speak of?” He smells of perfume like he sips from a bottle of it in his
morning’s ablutions. I look him square in the eye.
“No,” I tell him, “I have no idea what you speak of.” He holds for a moment and
then he smiles, smiles wide, smile turns cold and then cracks into a laugh and he
slithers his arm off my shoulders and brushes my cheek with a press powdered
preened hand. It gives me chill.
Natty Grace, a man whose name describes him perfectly, swipes open the door and
plunks into the first chair available. Sloan brings coffee, water and hope to him
without even being asked. She hovers and watches as he creams his coffee, sips
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it’s tanned perfection and hands Sloan a sweet, soggy smile. She perks and
glistens back behind the counter and waits.
The kid gives Natty all his attention and begins to speak, “How are you this fine…”
Natty launches the way only Natty can…
“I am fat. That’s how I am. Or, I feel I am so. Good people often say to me: you’re
not fat. But, they lie and I know this. Then I consider, perhaps they are not good
people because they lie. Perhaps they are saying it for my own good. Usually, we
hear that phrase spoken, “this is for your own good”, when it is attached to
something unpleasant. A needle in the arm or ass. A scolding. A punishment. An
ending of a relationship you were sure would last until its end and when it did
end, you wouldn’t notice because you’d actually be dead. This is for your own
good. Perhaps these good folks say to me, you’re not fat, for my own good. I am
not a model seeking praise or some twisted late night eater, vomiter who fears
the proportions of his own flesh. I am aware. I am fat. I hate the thin people of this
world who say they are fat for attention. Oh, I am getting so fat they say, as I read
my newspaper in the light that is cast through their bone structure. I cannot eat
that I ate … and they list; a cracker, a plum, the inside of their mouth, the word
cheeseburger written on low cal, high protein, fiber filled parchment … and then
follow it up with, I am getting so fat. They cannot own that. As I cannot say I am
thin, I am fast, I am smart, I am … attractive. They cannot and do not have the
right to say … I am fat, getting fat, so fat. Because they are not. But, I,
undoubtedly, am. And I say this as an observation, not as a lament or an excuse.
Being fat, I am, of course, aware of my size, my shape. I know it is formidable to
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the thin, the slim, the tiny of the world. I don’t want to put people out or cause
them worry. When I walk, I walk to one side or the other on sidewalks and
hallways. Subway platforms and all areas where others, people, thin people,
small people, acceptable sized people, may want to pass me, move by me and get
ahead of me. I don’t mean socially or metaphysically. I don’t want people to get
ahead of me in life. I am no slouch or pushover. I have a solid competitive spirit
and it comes out just when I need and never stays too long. So, no worries there.
But in the non-competitive world of moments in life; walking down the street,
walking hallways, simply moving through life. Then, I have no problems with
people getting ahead of me. Or by me or past me. None.”
Sip, sweet smile lofted towards Sloan.
… Except if they have the dancing hand, I think to myself. Then, well, then I just
wonder and shudder. Retreat and flee. I let people get past me. why?
“You’re robust.” The kid offers and then looks around the room, clown fool smile
plastered to his face like street-level billboard shouting swimmin’ hole. Wishing
we all jumped in and splashed about in his hilarity. Natty’s cup paused mid-air,
between table and teeth. He reached back into his mind and tried to place who the
kid was exactly and why he was talking to him.
“You’re not fat, friend … you’re … robust.” The kid, alone in his hilarious
swimming hole, smiles at Natty. Natty Grace was so, incarnate, and he smiled,
unhooked the kid and tossed him back to live another day.
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Natty is a good man. Each of us, collectively and severally have said this about
him. Once upon a time, in a land far, far behind me, they said it about me as well.
Once …
“You’re a good man.” Sloan had said to me one night early on in my appearance in
their midst. I returned her blouse to it’s resting spot on her shoulders. Told her
she was lovely and worth so much more than a quick roll by the dumpster with
the sloshed gutted likes of me. Sent her home with a smile, a promise of
friendship and a fatherly kiss on the forehead. I was rewarded with the first fresh
cup of coffee day’s next appearance and a larger than normal slice of her rhubarb
pie. A soft smile and a mouthed thank you.
End of story. I was and will be until I show my true colors, a good man to her. But,
for some reason, that doesn’t give me rest. Doesn’t ease my troubled mind. It
makes me itch and stutter. Makes me wander nights and fear. I used to relish
it ..drink it in.
“Everyone just loved you tonight.” She said.
“Really?” I said. “And why not …what’s not to love?” she rolled her eyes and
kissed me.
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“Nothing, I’m sure,” she said. She got into bed. I watched. I loved the way the
sheets contour her body … she was mermaid of the bed.
“They loved me cause I was with you,” I said.
“I love you cause you’re with me ….they loved you because you’re funny,
interesting and …at times, really rather sweet.”
“Really? “I said. “At what times am I sweet?”
“At times like this when you get me a glass of water and lay next to me and tell me
stories.” She smiled. And I did. I loved telling her stories. just rambling fairy tales
and she would laugh and ask me serious questions about the characters and I
would give her answers.
“You know,” She said that night, mid-story. ”You’re going to make a great father.”
“Someday.” I said, slipping an arm around her.
“Yup…like someday in nine months.” She said. And I was struck dumb. She rolled
over and took my face in her hands. She smiled deep into me. Into my heart like
she could.
“They loved you. I love you. This child will love you. There isn’t a single thing not
to love, Ben.” She kissed me good night… Sank sweetly into that warm pre sleep
world and murmured, “You’re a good man.”
Now ,when people say good things about me, I shrink. I run. I deny the words, the
thoughts the ideas because I don’t know if I want to believe they are true. They
don’t feel true. They don’t feel real to me. Sometimes I think that maybe they are
real and true and I worry about where that person has gone. If he was ever me. If
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I was ever real. Where has he or me gone to; this good person. Most days I don’t
like myself. Strike that. All days I don’t like myself. Perhaps there are moments
when I do or say something that I find a little less repulsive, slightly less
sickening than the things I normally say or do. When this happens, for a moment,
a beat, I don’t hate myself as much. But then I breath or pass by a window and
catch a shot of my reflection, hear my own thoughts, feel myself within my skin
and in comes the notion; you couldn’t possibly have said or done that not so
repulsive thing, look at you. Then it passes and I return to hating myself. I worry
when people say; you’re nice, you’re kind, you’re smart. I worry that the person
they are speaking about, me or what was once me, the me this person has
obviously met, I worry that me is gone and I don’t remember him or how I got to
be him or how I lost the art of being him. I also worry that they will expect me to
be that me again. I can’t because I don’t remember who he was. I can remember
pages and pages of dialogue. I can remember the menu for dinners I have had
years ago. But I cannot remember who that guy I once was … is. That nice guy …
that smart guy. Where was he, where IS he?
I have no idea. The bus rumbles away in it’s pause before journey. I think about
jumping on it, shirt on my back, shoes on my feet, failure in my pockets. Take it to
the airport and go back. Just go back. Back to my apartment. Back to my type
writer. Back to Martha’s office … Back….
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Sloan comes by and nudges me with her hip, pours me a smile and a fresh cup of
joe. Her eyes still hold me in a frame of goodness. Still keep me frozen in amber. A
good man. I am, in her bright eyes, a good man.
“You’re not a bad guy.” Natty once told me, late night shot and a beer back. Again
please. Please. Please. I nodded my mute thanks. “I’m serious.” He pressed on and
leaned forward. “You’re not a bad guy. You just … vanish a lot. I’m in the same
room with you, same table even and then… wham … where’d he go?”
Shoot, sip …another please.
“Where do you go?” He actually asks the question.
“Where are you?” Her voice. In the dark. In the bed. Right beside me. She is
curled in a C, back to me, her ass touching my limp right hand. She is somewhere
between awake and asleep and she asks this question on two levels. Amazing the
way she can do that. The way she can be on two levels at once. I can see it, hear it,
know it.
“Where are you?”
Level one; Are you in bed, I need to know you’re here, physically next to me.
Touch me, please. not with limp, loveless hand but with strong fingers and
purposeful pulse. Run your hands over my curves and make me lean, like a cat,
into your touch. I am waking dream thought and want to be sure you’re here.
“I’m here.” I say.
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Level two: Where is your head. Where have you thought yourself to. Have you
imagined yourself into another bed, another life, another woman’s pussy. Where
are you when you’re stone silent. When the silence is a wall to me. Where are
you?
“I’m here.” I say.
And that continues, night turning morning, turning night, turning morning
until…
“Where are you?” My voice. In the dark. In the bed. Alone.
Night touching night, touching night, touching night. Repeat and fade.
“Where do you go, Ben?” Natty sits back and looks long at me. Waiting. I shake
my head slowly and work my lips, hoping that, if they move first, words will
actually come out and finally he and I will know where it is I go. Finally there will
be an answer and I can start sending post cards…”Hey all, I am in ____, wish you
were here.” But, nothing comes and my lips wiggle then stop in a shamed, shy
smirk. Shoulders do what they do best and shrug off the moment. Natty watches
then gives in with a tilt of his head. He raises his shot glass. “To … traveling.” I
nod and toast.
To traveling. Wish I was there. Wish it was beautiful. Wish that I …
… Twenty minutes later I stepped over the threshold of the Bar & Bowl, my
usual spot for following Martha’s advice and putting pen to page. The Bar & Bowl
appealed to me because every hour or so the uninitiated would wander in bearing
15
monogrammed bowling balls, shoes, towels, stand in the middle of the room and
ask, to no one particular: “Where are the lanes?” Then, Maxamillian Masters,
owner, proprietor and sole bartender would say:
“There are no lanes.”
“But,” They would persist, ‘The sign says Bar & Bowl.”
“Well, here’s the bar…” Max would say, doing his best Carol Merrill and sweeping
a hand down the bar, “..and there…” he would then direct their attention to the
back corner of the room where there stood a four and a half foot tall marble
plinth on top of which rested an enormous wooden bowl filled with multi colored
paper mache fruit and white chiclettes that looked like teeth. Or, perhaps it was
the other way around. I never conducted a close investigation.
I sat at the bar, Max poured me my usual bourbon and bourbon with a bourbon
back and a bourbon chaser and he asked his thesis question for the afternoon;
“You ever wonder how it all got stared, Ben?”
Well…” I sipped “ I always assumed that in the weakness of a drunken stupor my
mother gave in to my father’s cloying pleads of; please just let me put the tip in
and then, sha-fuckin’-zam, nine months later, the primordial vaginal goo
solidified and out spewed yours truly, thus …it began.” He stared at me, head
tilted like a dog’s in curious wonder.
“You worry me, Ben.”
“You and my publisher.” I said.
“Martha?” His eyes lit. “Did you tag that fine thing yet?”
“Tag her?” I asked. I was suddenly caught up in a delightful fantasy:
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Martha, naked but for leopard print gauntlets on her wrists, running through a
grassy plain. Me, with Hemingway hunter skill. firing a sedative oozing dart into
her firm, naked ass. Her running, wobbling, stumbling, sinking to the turf,
panting, flopping to the side unconscious and then me clamping a tracking color
around her long white neck. Probably gold or mother of pearl.
Tagged.
“No, Max. I have not tagged her yet, but, thinking about it, I do like the idea.” I
said.
“Me too.” he agreed.
I never got the chance to ask Max what he meant by; How it all began because at
that moment, two people wearing ski masks and matching electric blue T-shirts
with Winslow and Sons Moving and storage emblazoned across the front burst
into the room. They waved guns and demanded cash money and a VHS tape of
the first season of the TV show “Suddenly, Susan.”
I laughed.
“What’s so fucking funny?” The one on the left growled.
My left, your right.
“Suddenly Susan. “ I said. “That always makes me think of that instant pasta
salad product; suddenly salad. As if I am walking down the street and
suddenly …salad. Salad has never struck me as a very sudden happening.” The
masked men nodded their agreement.
“But, Suddenly, Susan is different.” Said the one on the right.
My right, your left.
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“How so?”Max asked.
“Well…” The masked man continued “It’s like… life is fine, but kinda dull and
you’re thinking why even bother and then … Suddenly … Susan!”
“True.” I said “She certainly did liven up the world a bit. I don’t imagine that,
before she showed up, any of those people had a laugh track.”
We all pondered this fact silently and then mumbled our agreement.
As Max handed over the cash money from the register we digressed into a
discussion of Brooke Shields’ acting career and debated the fact that she used a
pair of stunt boobs in The Blue Lagoon…
Sloan has filled Natty’s cup again. She moves back to the counter painting
matrimonial pictures and hanging them on her soul’s fridge. The door opens and
Travis walks in. Dirty jeans, cowboy boots and a soiled wife beater. It’s just a style
of T-shirt but, for Travis … it’s his occupational livery …
Bully: Antagonizer, brow beater, hector, harrier, intimidator, persecutor,
tormentor … Travis.
Look at any photograph of a school yard, black and white, color, sepia toned with
crinkled time burned edges and there, in the corner by the monkey bars, or over
here at the edge of the parking lot, skulking by the brick walls, smoking a
cigarette, there is Travis. He’s a classic. Like bottled beer and tail fins on cars.
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Like soiled pants and unwanted nick names. Look at the wanted cards with
artists renderings of what this man may look like now, 20 years after his first
crime. Flip a few pages, past the most wanted, down by the really wanted and into
the section of; if we get him, we get him but, seriously, he’s just a punk ass son of
a bitch and we don’t want his kind stinkin’ up our penal systems. There, in with
that lot, you’ll find …
“Give me a smoke, tighty whities.” Travis fires at the kid …
The gift of a good bully is the ability to pin point a fear, neurosis or foible and
explode it front page giant. Large and frightening. Each tiny pixel of the image a
country of it’s own. Splayed open for all to rummage through and comment on.
For all to step back from and count their blessings that it isn’t their bowels on
display, front page, School Yard News, Monday, date, time, anywhere USA.
Travis was an exceptional bully in his time. Now, he was just a punk. To some.
“Sure, Trav.” The kid slips a marlboro from the box and shaking fingers hold it out
toward the man, filter side leading. Travis, ever the showman, leans in, opens his
mouth, closes his lips around the the paper tube and the pulls back an inch or
so…
“Spare a light, sissy boy.” He smiles at the kid.
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“That a new frock, Travisimo?” Natty Grace, God bless him. A lifetime dealing
with bullies. Being beaten and caring about it. Being beaten and not caring about
it. Beating and relishing it. Beating and taking it in stride. Natty’s frame is soft
and easy but his mind, his weapon of choice, is quick, sharp and brutal. And, oh
yes, clever. He’ll cut you and heal you in the same breath. Later, sitting back, he
recounts his victories with a silent smile and a vest pocket self pleased chuckle.
Travis straightens and exhales in the Kid’s face. He slow turns, Niagara falls style
and looks at Natty, who sips his coffee and smiles a welcome to my house smile.
“I’m sorry?” Travis steps into the fight.
“We all are, Travio-ho, and probably none sorrier than you.” The kid laughs,
catches it in his hand and tries to jam it back into his mouth before anyone
connects it to him. But, too late. Travis whirls and pins him to the counter with a
look.
I can hear him sweat. Eight paces away, feet on the floor, ass on a stool, mind on a
bus and I can hear the sweat explode from his pores and run river free down his
spine, puddle in the back’s small and then tickle trickle down his ass crack. I can
hear it. Clear as day. Loud as morning crashing my curtains and slapping my
drunk night sleep need away. I can hear it and I wish I could pity the kid. Wish I
could muster the energy to put air to chords and bark something at Travis.
Sharp, shock yell of, Leave it or back off, Travis. But, I have not the desire. And
20
so, I listen to the sweat and wait for more. Maybe the sizzle of piss down his leg or
the moist thuck of shit. It’s coming. I know it’s coming.
“Did you say something … pretty boy?” Travis mixes smoke with breath and
sound, the question curls around the kid’s head and floats to the ceiling.
It’s kind of sad really. I am not sure who to pity more; The kid in the spot light of
hate or Travis, slow and trite now in his age, using clichés like ‘pretty boy’. He’s
become slightly derivative. A melted down digested and regurgitated bully. Who
deserves my morning portion of pity? I lean towards dropping it on the Kid’s
plate as he becomes a cartoon of shakes and jabbers. Stuttering like an ancient
Evenrude. His jaw bouncing like the dancing hand. Yes, he deserves my pity this
morning. I will feed it to him and he will sup upon it and be nourished by it and …
“Do you really think he’s pretty, Trav?” Natty lobs one in from the side and
suddenly the pity plate passes the kid and sets down squarely in front of Travis.
“I mean, do you like his looks? Would you like us to leave you two alone for a bit.
Say … an hour. Just enough time for you to explore his pretty mouth and his
pretty … ass, Travis?”
Natty speaks his name with a campy comment lisp … and sips. Travis, he …
“Where’d you go?” Asked a masked man.
21
“No where.” I said and sipped my bourbon while Max shuffled through the box of
VHS tapes he kept under the bar for just such emergencies. Calling out titles.
“Dick Van Dyke, season two?”
“Got it.”
MASH …season 6?”
“Burns or Winchester?”
“Winchester.”
“Nah.”
“Ishtar?”
“Do you want me to shoot you?”
On this went while the police, signaled by a panic button under the bar, amassed
out front.
The masked men finally settled on the pilot season of Rhoda and a tape of SNL,
the Garrett Morris years that Max had secretly taped over with episodes of the
Fox series; When Lawyers Go bad and Attack Animals.
Flush with success and a bag of money off the men went, saying thanks … that
was polite and stepping from the dim of the bar to the bight of the day only to die
in a hail of gun fired that lasted six and a half minutes. Some would say it was
excessive. The chief of police and the mayor would call it thorough and precise.
“So,” Max said, after the last bullet had hit its now liquid mark “Where did you
go?”
22
“Do something.” Is the voice outer or inner? Am I urging myself or am I being
urged by another? I open my eyes and see the fist pound me again and again.
Each time the voice saying; “Do something”. I turn my head, the reason for this
motion being two fold. One: to avoid having my nose driven into the soft dirt that
cradles my pounding pate and two: to see the origin of the voice. Fist slams my
left cheek and my brains rattle. Bits of thought shake loose and tumble before my
eyes; I have an essay due for Ms. Linquist. Slam. I need to finish up that
experiment in the science lab. Slam. I need to find a girl, fall in love, finally have
sex, start living a life. Slam. I need to learn to fight. Silence. There she is. There’s
the owner of the voice. But, her lips, soft and sweet, round and wistful, are not
moving. Around her I see mouths wagging, tongues flapping in comic move
mocking motion slow. I can hear laughs and jeers, hoots and mocks. But her…
Lips locked together tight. A line of defense. No words coming out. No sounds
splashing the air. But her eyes. That’s where it comes from. Her eyes pushing
forward, screaming silent pleas. Do something. Do something. Do something. Her
eyes lock mine and they speak to me; “Do something. Be someone. I am yours if
you just do something. Make a stand. You don’t even have to win, you just have to
try. Be someone, for me. Be something for me.” The eyes plead and push. They
stretch out and come into physical contact with my eyes and whisper once
more … “Do something”. I hold and think about the request for a second and then
turn my face full on to the oncoming fist and … disappear.
“Where do you go, Ben?”
23
Travis, he is turned full front to Natty and Sloan straightens with the tension.
Her hands grip white the counter top.
“What did you say you…” Travis starts.
“Fatty, fatty two by four? “ Natty finishes. And I laugh. I let it flip from my lips
and splash joyful on the floor. It puddles and pools, spreads to Travis’ feet and
seeps into his soles. Travis takes us all in slowly. He sucks deep on his cigarette
and then blows a thin and hopeless screen around himself. Natty chuckles and
sees right through it.
“What do you want, Travis?” Natty sets his cup down easy. Sloan moves to refill
but Natty stops her with a smile and soft, distant push of his fingers. “What is it
you want?”
“What?” Travis looks through his own screen. ”What?”
This has taken us all off our guard. Natty asking the beast a question. An actual,
go ahead and answer and we will listen, question. Not a jibe, not a threat. A real,
drink held chest high at a party, small talk wonder, slip into interest, say friend,
what do you do for a living, honest question. Like human to human. And Travis …
he just doesn’t know what to do with it.
“Fuck you, fatty.” Is his reply.
Natty looks down. He is obviously saddened. Not by the name calling, that
bounces off his skin, drops to it’s knees and begs forgiveness. He is saddened by
Travis’ answer or lack there of. Travis braces for it, the retort. He widens his
24
stance slightly, puts his cigarette between his lips and hikes his jeans. He drags,
exhales and … waits.
“Honey, I’m home.” I called out as I closed the door, dumped my keys and pocket
change into the empty skull of of Carl Jung that I had picked up at a swap meet in
one of the black markets of Dresden. No one heard at all…not even the chair.
Thanks Neil Diamond.
It was ritual. I always did it. Called out. Maybe part me of hoped that I had been
staggering a dream scape and that she would answer. That Abby, now two, would
rush out and jump into my arms;
“Daddy! Did you bring me anything”
“My undying love and affection.”
“Oh.” She would pout … “That’s good too.” she would recover me from the brink of
destruction. And then, she would enter, kiss me … we would talk about the day,
pages I churned out, people I had a problem with in the city …bus fumes, barbers,
cocktails with and the night would dissolve into us in a bed for two and doing
what adults do.
When adults are still mad in love and cannot seem to satisfy the thirst of hands
on skin, curve …
Well… anyway … I’m home.
“How’s your dick, you miserable excuse for a man?”
25
I wonder if I could somehow rig my answering machine to that TiVo thing and
receive only calls from people who aren’t so castigating as my second wife…
“This is Arlene.”
Really … I couldn’t tell …
“Just calling to remind you that you’re a half man pig fucker and to let you know
that I am in town. See if you wanted to catch a drink or something. Call me, ass
wipe.”
You have no more messages. Click.
And of course …I call her.
Natty plays with a wet coffee ring on the table in front of himself with a flexed
index finger. We all watch. Then, slowly, purposefully, Natty looks up.
The sadness is gone. It has vacated leaving only Grinch who Stole Christmas bare
walls. The only thing left, in the corner where Cindy Lu Who usually stands, is a
look of abject …
You know, it’s just a matter of being a disappointment. I worry about that. Being a
disappointment to people. All people. People I know. Strangers. I worry about
being a disappointment to waiters and waitresses. I fear that they will see me
seated at their tables and assess me as bad dresser, a slouch, a poor tipper. they
look at me as if I will order the wrong wine or need foods cooked in special ways
that will cause chefs to shout at them. They appear embarrassed for me and don’t
want to come to my table. I am a disappointment. I disappoint women. if they do
26
consent to go out with me. I am always afraid they will compare me with the men
they see other women out with. if I do have a date I take them to movies or dark
bars so they won;t risk being seen with me. I do it to protect them. I do it to
shield them from the ridicule I know they will face;
“who was that guy you were with last night?”
“I wasn’t with him. he happened to sit by me. he walked by me. I wasn’t with him.”
“Oh good. He looked like such a disappointment.”
I try and date as little as possible. I don’t actually have to try not to … not doing it
just seems to happen much more regularly than actually doing it. dating. maybe
women sense that I will be a disappointment and have the decency not to put me
through the embarrassment that’s kind. don’t you think? I spent a couple of
hours in a lawyers office. I was trying to hire him to help me divorce myself. after
my twenty minute pitch, he had me forcibly removed by large men in nice suits. I
went without a struggle. I think they were disappointed that they didn’t have to
rough me up. another disappointment. I believe my parents are disappointed
with me. we don’t speak very often, I attribute that to my fears of speaking to
them. I hate the tone in my mothers’ voice as she valiantly tries to assuage my
fears that my life isn’t amounting to nothing. she’s not a good actress. when I call
and my father answers the phone, he hands me to my mother. sometimes, while
my mother is talking to me, he will shout things to me from behind her. But he’ll
never take the phone and speak directly to me. There’s too much disappointment
for him to bear. I feel the same way about Arlene. But, I use her as penance. She is
27
confession and absolution in a dress. Or …she is confession, abuse and the hope of
absolution, leaning on a bar. But, it’s always disappointing.
“I’m disappointed, Travis.” Natty says, and he truly is. We can all see it, feel it
like fog rolling in. Natty is disappointed in Travis. Suddenly, that affects us. we all
inch forward, adjust our collars to the cold and wait to see what the next move is
from our local bully.
“You’re what?” Travis asks.
“I’m disappointed in you, Travis.” Natty says straight and clear. “I expected more
from you. I was hoping that your bi weekly forays into our presence were going to
amount to something more than the verbal battering of the kid, the lame
attempts at seducing Sloan and being the requisite asshole fixture in our lives. I
was hoping for more. Something deeper, grander. Something worth while. But…
you’ve disappointed me, Travis.”
Travis seems slapped, dazed. He musters strength and says…
“What?”
Natty shakes his slow, sad, end of the episode gotta take the seemingly good man
to jail head.
“And it continues.” He murmurs.
“What?” Travis is stuck in a loop.
“I said; and it continues. My disappointment in you continues, Travis. I asked
what you wanted and you had no answer and now, here, you once again show
ignorance and that continues to disappoint me.” Sip.
28
I clamor after thoughts and they become lost, out of reach, slipped around a
corner. Mostly due to the impressive amounts of alcohol I pour into my system.
But, sometimes I wonder if these thoughts move away from me on purpose. Even
if I were sober in a suit, they would still flee. Thoughts having the thought that
they have no desire to be my thoughts. These thoughts see themselves becoming
word, flying out of my mouth into breathable air and they shudder and cringe.
what will the other thoughts say. My thoughts being the nerd thoughts, the dork
thoughts, the uncool thoughts of thought land and so … they run. Their little
thought asses bouncing side to side. Their little thought chests heaving with
strain as they run from me, evade me. Ditch me at the bar. catching rides with
their cool thought friends and going to other brains, spawning better, wiser,
sleeker thoughts. Leaving me completely …
“Very thoughtless of you, Travis.” Natty puts his cup down precisely on the coffee
ring stain. “Come in here, day upon day. Filling us with your machismo. Never
giving a moments thought to what you want from us. Never giving a moments
thought to what we need or want to give you. Very thoughtless of you,
Travissimo.”
He’s lost all of us. Not just Travis, but all of us. we all look hard at Natty and
wonder where this one is going. None of us ever know. He’s like a mystery novel
that we page turn follow in his ramblings. We wait and wait and then, Like a chief
29
inspector on a train he wraps it up and makes sense before we pull into the
station and we laugh and laugh and …
Not this time. This time … he’s lost us.
I think.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Good lord, Travis speaks our collective
conscience and we all wait for a reply.
“Why do you keep seeing this woman?” Thane Bermwitz., asked me.
It was 10 months after the divorce from Arlene and the extensive skin grafts
were a painful reminder of the cost of …love?
Thane was a friend, a decent guy, we were sitting at the bar in a place called
Moldy Harriet’s. Thane’s favorite joint. We would sometimes meet here after he
got off work, drink and talk about life. The only trouble was; Thane was a clown.
Not in a euphemistic sense. He was an actual clown at Birthday Parties,
weddings, estate sales and he would meet me at the bar right after work. Always
in full costume. There is something a little surreal about sitting in a bar next to a
clown that is getting progressively more drunk and loud.
“I mean …she caused you a shit load of metal anguish, she pan friend your ball
sack and she calls you every month to tell you that you’re fucking scum.”
“Nice talk, clown.” Andrea, the bar tender.
“Fuck you in the mouth.” Thane’s classic retort.
“So, I’m guessing you’re the crying on the inside kind of clown.” She said while
replenishing his scotch.
30
“And I’m hoping you’re the dropping to your knees and sucking me off in the alley
kind of bar maid.”
“Watch it, clown.” She said, “I’m not a bar maid.”
“Kids must really love you.” I said.
“Hey, what can I say, wherever I am, children quit their hapless recreations and
consort with me. Go figure.”
“Must be the scent of scotch, rage and desperation that permeates your clown
suit.”
“Or my huge cock … we’ll never know.”
Thane returned to the subject.
“Why?”
“I feel guilty, Thane.”
“About what?”
About what? Good question. I felt guilty because I had married Arlene after a
whirlwind twenty two hour courtship. I was also going on 71 solid days of being
drunk. She assured me that I was her mate of soul and, with Martha as our
witness, we were married at the City and County building. The marriage was fine.
Until I sobered up. Then I went slightly insane.
Perhaps I felt guilty because I never told Arlene about the death of my wife and
soon to be child. Or, because I never called Arlene my wife … I called her
variations of “hey you”, “woman I know” and on my best nights:
“Glbalahglahammallla.” … Perhaps I felt guilty because I married her while I was
still grieving and I didn’t give her a real chance. Or, maybe I felt guilty because
31
Martha had the foresight to concoct a solid pre nup with her then lawyer
boyfriend and I left Arlene with nothing.
All of these could be contributing factors.
“I don’t know.” I said “I just feel badly about the way I handled the whole thing.”
“Well, someday, buddy, you gotta stop allowing this guilt to rule your life.”
“I guess .” I said.
A lovely young woman stepped up to the bar and spoke to Thane.
“Hi. I’m having lunch with my son over there and … well, he’s not feeling too
cheery and I was wondering …could come by, make a balloon animal …do a trick
for him?”
“Look, lady.” Thane drolled, ‘Tricks are for hookers and, even though I am
painted up like one, I’m not. Also, I’m off the clock.”
“Please.” she said, her entire body hoping for a positive outcome,”He’s just a little
boy and he’s really having a hard day … I don’t what to do.”
“Well … you should have thought of that before you threw your ankles over your
head and put an enter here sign on your snatch. Tough luck for you that the
football team could read, right?.” He downed his drink, slapped me on the back
and said: “Gotta go.”
And he was gone.
The poor woman stared at me…
“He is a horrible, horrible man.” She finally said through tears.
“That’s true.” I had to agree “But, he’s one fucking awesome clown.”
32
I don’t trust my bowels. I’ve discovered that on my journey of self discovery. I
believe they are mounting an attack. One that will leave me crippled, devastated
and perhaps even dead. I fear that they will release at any given moment without
warning. Sometimes, while I ride the train and I see a pretty girl, I will insinuate
myself mentally into her life. if she is talking on her cell phone, I will pretend I am
on the other end and she is saying hello, I miss you, I love you … to me.
sometimes I pretend I am the guy she is sitting across from and my knee is the
one her hand reaches for casually to touch and assure that, yes, she is there and
yes, I am hers. I will look, eye’s corner at this woman and live a full and
wonderful life with her in my mind. then, my bowels give way. so I fear. I have
been thinking of this lately. what would I do if suddenly, mid mental life bliss with
woman stranger, my bowels rebelled while I was riding the train. I can see me
having only two choices;
1) as my pants fill and I begin to stink like hot death I would have to start
convulsing with shaking spasms and start spouting scripture at the tops of my
lungs. Or, 2) I would have to jab a pen knife directly into my heart. I have taken to
carrying a pen knife and a bible when I travel. I don’t trust my bowels.
“What the hell am I talking about, Travis. “ Natty says. “What indeed.”
Sip.
“That’s what I’d like to know…” Travis says with jutted, take me serious now, jaw.
“… lard ass.”
33
“Lard ass.” Natty swirls this around his mouth like a wine taster but he doesn’t
spit. He drinks it down, chases it with coffee, plunks his cup on the table and
stands. Natty rises from his chair with a quick grace that is the signature
attachment to his name. Travis tenses. Natty steps to the center of the room,
takes out his hanky, blows his nose, checks it, we all do that and returns it to it’s
pocket, left side, hip. Travis tenses even more.
Here’s something that happened…
A big something.
One of those somethings that cannot be disregarded as a nothing.
One of those somethings that will replay in the theater of your head day in and ay
out for the rest of time. Your time. No one else will share this time with you. You
will be alone in it and it will be all yours.
This, you could say, is THE something …
It was about 2 in the morning and we were walking home from the party. You
know …a paaaaaaarty.
She was this golden Goddess who had stepped down on to terra firma to be with
me. Can you believe that shit? To be with me … And, contrary to all belief, I was
humbled, thankful and peaceful. She had this way of looking from the corner of
her right eye at me that would cause me to crumble like a baby, weep silent in my
own shoes and know that whatever the rest of the mooks and meat hooks
thought … I was fine and dandy.
If that’s not love then bring the next course cause I’m not done yet.
34
So these two shadows of flesh step from a corner of hell and call for all we have.
Seems reasonable, I guess, but, truth is … she was all I had. More than money or
plastic, or parking validation … and swift like eagles, smooth as rain, slow like
life… one of them put a knife into her belly ..into her, my child to be one day and
there it was … end of days … she dropped so fast… I couldn’t even muster my
hands to action, pockets deep,. fingers twitch …and breath, light, blind stop …she
was gone …
But, the worst part …I was still here …still present on terra what the fuck is
happening …and she was gone…
Isn’t that the story that needs to be told?
Because … That is something …
“Why don’t you do something, Ben?”
“Lard ass. “ Natty whispers the phrase thoughtfully. “You know, Trav, I’m really
not insulted by the names. No. They don’t trouble me. Sticks and stones, you
know. It’s not your name calling that gives me pause, Travis. It’s you. All of you.
All that is you. That’s what I don’t like.” He slips his hands into hips pockets and
plants himself, Attiucs in court. We all look to Travis.
“What?” Travis says. “So, you’re saying you don’t like me?”
“Marvelous, Travis.” Natty verbally applauds. “Well deduced.”
Travis’ tension explodes and he starts to pace like the animal he is …
35
“Do you really think I care? Do you really think I give a shit what a fat fuck like
you thinks? Do you think I am going to lay down and die because you don’t like
me?” He sings out the last sentence like a carnival barker and then stops dead,
full of pride and looks at Natty.
“Yes, Travis.” Natty says, matter of fact. “I do.”
I had been sitting at the bar in Moldy Harriet’s for twenty minutes, sipping my B,
B and B when Thane slid onto the stool beside me. He was not a clown. Today. I
stared at him.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing, it’s …I’m trying to recall that last time I saw you out of costume.”
“Uniform.’ He said and waved for the tender of the bar.
“Uniform?”
“Yes,” He ordered scotch. “Technically, any clothing that you put on specifically
to do your job … can be called a uniform.”
“But, it can’t be called a clown suit?”
“I find the term clown suit degrading.” He said, completely without irony.
“But, the actual clown part itself … that’s ok?” I asked.
“Guys got to make a living.” He said, pounded his drink and waved for another.
“So, what’s so urgent?”
“I’m leaving the city for a while.” I told him
“Trouble with the law?”
36
“No.” I said “I am going on a journey of self discovery.” I tried not to pay attention
to how ridiculous this sounded finally springing from my mouth.
“Jesus Christ on a crispy cracker … that sounds awful.” He bellowed. “Why would
you fucking do that to yourself? Why don’t you just stay home, buy a heap of
whack magazines and jerk off for a month?”
“Well,” I said, mulling his suggestion. “I can masturbate in hotel rooms across
America while watching soft core cable porn, feel twice as guilty and three times
as dirty.”
“Well … you have a point.” He conceded. “But … a journey of self discovery? Fuck
me … why not strap on some red pumps and watch Oprah … you’re like a biscuit
away from being gay with that kind of talk.”
“Do you ever worry that we might offend gay people?” I asked.
“I don’t know any gay people.” He said. The man beside Thane leaned close and
said:
“I’m gay.”
We both looked at him. Amazed and stunned silent. I had no idea what to say.
Thane saved the day.
“Well, good for you, Mary, but, I don’t know you so …I don’t give a shit.”
End of discussion.
“I gotta hit the head.” Thane announced “Details when I return, please” He
walked off toward the men’s room. The gay man finished his drink quickly and
looked at me.
“You know, you’re friend is abusive, cruel and offensive.”
37
“I agree.” I said “But … he’s one fucking awesome clown.”
“I don’t understand.” He said
“Well, stew on it, Gladys … it might enlighten you.” He stepped close to me … I
anticipated a punch or …maybe a tender, life changing kiss.
“Good luck on your journey of self discovery.” He said. “Why not stop by
Auschwitz … the house that your type built.” He stayed in proximity. I had no
reply. It was a little dramatic and his breath was like that of a carcass eating
bird, but, he did strike a chord with me.
“Good point.’ I said. He loosened a bit.
“You know.” He said “Self discovery starts right …here.” He placed a long pale
finger on my chest, over my heart.
“Wow …” I said .removing his finger from my chest. “You really are gay.”
“Fuck you.” He said, turned on his heel and was out the door when Thane
returned.
“All right, Ben, what do you need?”
“I want you to stay at my place while I’m gone.” I told him.
“But, gee I have a swell place all my own.” He said, sounding like he escaped from
the pages of Main Street.
“Thane, you live in a studio in Hell’s Kitchen with three other guys.” I said.
“Good point. I’ll do it.” He said.
“Thank you.” I said. “Just you know…don’t destroy the place …no ..wild clown
parties.” He looked at me sideways and called for another drink.
38
“Let me ask you something.” He said “What do you image a wild clown party to
be?”
“Um …I don’t know …clowns doing …things?” I was slightly embarrassed for some
reason.
“Ben?” He leaned into me “Do you often picture me having wild clown sex?” My
stomach lurched. I shook my head to get the image out as quickly as possible.
“Here are the keys.” I said. “I will check in, tell you where to forward my mail. Be
good. Have fun.”
“Those two rarely go hand in hand but …I’ll try.” He smiled. I finished my drink
and started out. He stopped with his had on my shoulder.
“Seriously, are you ok? Are you sure this is what you want to do?”
I was often taken aback when Thane showed this side. This actual caring, I’m
your friend side.
“No and …no. But, I don’t really see any other options.” I told him
“Well …be careful and take care of yourself.” He shook my hand.
“Is that it? “I asked. “You’re not going to pull a pie out of your clown suit or a
seltzer bottle and douse me are you?”
“First of all … uniform.” He said “And secondly … do I look like a clown to you?”
He didn’t so …I left.
“Ain’t gonna happen, tubby.” Travis is standing his ground. I don’t like this
anymore. I have seen the days wander, the skies bright to dark. I have walked
unfamiliar streets. I set out on a journey of self discovery and all I have
39
discovered is, that I don’t like myself too much. And I have found that the
miserable, insulting, difficult people back home, are just prototypes or replicas of
all the miserable, insulting people in the world. Travis proves this to me day in
and day out. Of course there are glimmers of hope …Natty is one such glimmer.
But for the most part …
“Not going to lay down and die just cause you can’t handle me, Tubo.” And then,
Natty changes … his eyes, his stance … he stares keenly at Travis, alone in the
middle of the room.
“Handle you …Travis?’ He echoes …
I agree to meet Arlene for dinner. Since The Waffle House still hasn’t gotten it’s
liquor license, we decided to meet at Sal’s Smorgasbord. Mostly because she loved
the word and she told me once, in our romantic hours that…”All you can eat,
makes me feel like a queen.” I had murmured; “Listening to Judy Garland and
sipping on Cosmos makes me feel like a queen.” She didn’t get it, I didn’t care, 16
hours in and I already had solid grounds for divorce.
She was sitting at the bar when I came in. Arlene is not unattractive and, she
becomes exponentially more attractive with the amount of hard liquor you
consume. But, even sober, she has an easy appeal to her. She has soft lines and
gentle curves. Her eyes have a certain sparkle that draw you in and make you
want to spend time watching them change with the terrain.
“Yes,” I was thinking to myself “She is an attractive woman. Maybe if I could
just …”
40
“Hey, meat stain … how’s your shriveled package?” She shouted across the room.
I could hear the whoosh of heads turning and the drip of sweat into my ass crack.
“ … Maybe not.” I joined her at the bar.
She looked me over and I could tell she was about to make some snappy
assessment of me, assuring me that I looked like I had been eaten by a wolf and
shit off a cliff but then … her eyes darkened and she just … gave me a hug.
“Good to see you, Ben.” She whispered in my ear. “Thanks for meeting me.”
So shines a good deed in a weary world.
“What brings you town, Arlene?” I asked and order a bourbon, bourbon and
bourbon.
“You.” She said. There was something there. It wasn’t about vengeance and … it
certainly wasn’t about romance.
“What about me?”
“I read one of your books.” She said.
“And …”
“And …I liked it …” She paused and looked into her glass. “You’re really great at it,
Ben. I mean, you know that, you sell them and stuff but … you’re really great at
it.”
“So, you came all this way just to tell me you liked on of my books?”
“Sure.’ She said. “Why not?”
I didn’t buy it, of course. But, I was so enjoying the easiness of our exchange. I
suddenly felt that I didn’t have to be on guard. Maybe she was what I needed.
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Maybe she would help me. I have no idea what I need to be helped with but, right
now …this seemed like it was helping. Until she spoke again.
“I’m getting married.” She said.
And, I felt queazy. Go figure, right?
“Well … congratulations.” I said. Half hearted. “Who’s the lucky man?”
“Don’t be an ass, Ben.”
“How am I being an ass?’ One of those questions that you ask that is not
rhetorical …I really needed to know?
“Lucky man?’ She sneered at me. “Why would he be lucky?”
“Well …because he’s marrying you and …because you are in love and …”
“I’m pregnant.” She stopped me short with that one.
“Ok and …”
“ …And he wants to…” she made finger quotes with this; “Do the right thing.”
“What about you?” I asked.
“Me. I don’t know. I want the baby and I want to stop having one nighters. I want
something under my feet. Someone who I can trust and believe. Does that makes
sense?” She asked.
“Yes,” I said. “it certainly does.”
We sat in a strange silence. Not our usual, I hate this person, I would rather slip a
lung out of my chest with a can opener than say anything to them, silence. It was
a full and frightened silence. For some reason I felt the need to say something to
her…but, I didn’t know what.
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“Do something, Ben.”
“Listen.” She broke the silence. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” I asked.
“For … The pain I caused you. Mental and … You know.” She smiled shy and sweet
and, I swear, if I were at all human, I would have fallen in love with her right
there and then. But what good would that have done either of us.
“Thank you.” I said and I meant it. And suddenly … Something fell away.
Something fell from me, my body, my back and I felt increments lighter.
We were silent again for a while. Less uncomfortable. Less hate. She slipped her
right hand into my left and gave it a slow squeeze. “I have to go.” She finally said.
“I am meeting the parents tonight.”
“Sounds great.” I said. She laughed and finished her drink.
“What about you, Ben, what are you going to do?” She asked.
“Me?” I said “I am about to embark on a journey of self discovery.”
“That sounds like hell.” She said.
“Doesn’t it.” I agreed. We stood, hugged and I watched her walk out the door,
hopefully into something better than what she left.
“That’s right, you fat fuck … You can’t handle me.” Travis tossed his cigarette to
the floor and slowly ground it into the tile with a certain dancer like grace.
“Well… On some levels, Travesty, you’re right, I cannot handle you.” Natty walked
to his table and picked up his cup then walked slowly to the counter where Sloan
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stood watching his every move. “I certainly cannot handle your banal attempts at
terror. I cannot handle your dim witted attempts at humor. I cannot handle your
face, your smell, you entire being. So, yes, Trav … I cannot handle you. Much the
way I cannot handle a day old all you can eat shrimp feast after a night of
drunken debauchery. Makes my gorge rise … Much like you do.”
“You callin’ me a shrimp?’ Travis asked, sadly, in earnest.
Natty nodded to Sloan and she refilled his coffee cup, his back to Travis. He
spilled in cream and swirled a spoon around creating the perfect tone and then
he sipped. Travis, dancing place behind him.
“What do you think, Travis?” Natty said.
“I think you’re calling me …” Travis started to reply but Natty turned and cut him
off.
“No, I am asking you what you think. When you wake up in the morning, when
you crawl from bed, when you look yourself in the mirror … What is it that you
think?” Natty sipped and waited. Travis looked around the room, caught,
caged …perhaps even scared. He was silent.
“All right, perhaps I was giving you a little too much credit. Let me rephrase,
down grade for you, Travis.” Natty sipped. “Do you think, Travis?”
“Yeah, I think.” Travis said. “I think you’re an asshole and .. I think …”
“Yes?’ Natty asked.
“I think I may fuckin’ kill you someday. That’s what I think.” Travis stepped
toward Natty. “What do you think of that Fucko?”
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“Do something, Ben.”
“Benjamin.” Martha gasped when I walked into her office,
“Alan” The man behind her, eyes closed in concentration, corrected her.
“Am I interrupting something?” he opened his eyes and looked at me with only
mild shock. He did not, however cease his action.
“Alan … could you please…” Martha tried to stand and straighten herself. “Don’t
you knock? Didn’t … what’s her name tell you I was busy?”
“What’s her name?” Martha had had the same assistant in her employ for over
seven years. “You seriously don’t know her name?’ I asked.
“Benjamin, right now …I don’t know much.” Alan had slinked into the corner,
zipping up. Martha straightened her skirt and sat. “Well?”
“I’m leaving town. I’m not writing. I’m going away.” I said, flat and serious.
“What do you mean?’ She asked.
“I mean … I am leaving town. I am not writing. I am going away.”
“Yes …I heard all that but, what do you mean?”
I find it amazing that you can do that. Speak the truth, the clear, simple truth and
yet, no one seems to get it. Like telling someone you’re a serial killer and they
laugh. Only to find out later, just before your execution by lethal injection that…
“Hey, that guy wasn’t kidding, he really is a serial killer.”
Too late.
“Benjamin…” Martha flipped a cigarette in her fingers. “Calm down and tell me
what you’re talking about.”
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I resented being told to calm down by this woman, at this moment. I was perfectly
calm.
“I am leaving town. I am not writing. I am going to go on a journey of self
discovery.” I spoke slowly, deliberately. Calmly.
“What do you mean you’re not writing? I just read 12 glorious pages the other
day.’ She said.
“Martha, you told me your dog’s shit caked, blood stained ass held better writing
than the pages you read.”
“I was exaggerating.” She said and dismissed the remark with a wave of her
cigarette. “The pages …had merit.”
“Your dogs ass has writing in it?’ Alan asked from the corner. Martha’s body
drooped.
“You’re not here to talk dear.” She mothered him. In a sick way.
“Ok …so maybe they weren’t the best things I’ve ever read but …you’re still
writing. You can still write.” She said.
“I know I can write, Martha. I just am not going to. For … a while.” I told her.
“Why …why would you do that?’ She was panicked. She rose and came to
me …she put an arm around my shoulders, a hand on my chest. “This is what you
do, Benjamin. You are a writer. You must …you need to write. All the time. I know
you. If you don’t write …you’re sad and distant. Despondent and angry.”
It was true. But, it was also true that I was all those things when I WAS writing.
In fact …I was all those things all the time. When I was walking, eating, reading,
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shitting …I was always sad, distant, despondent and angry. This was why I
needed to go away. This was what I should have said to her.
I should have confessed that her death was around my neck everywhere I went in
this city. That I was sick of me in this city. That I was tired of the routine and that
all I wanted was to run away, far and fast. If I could just explain it to her ….put it
all in words to her…she would understand and maybe … just maybe … she would
have an answer. And then, I wouldn’t have to leave.
“I know.’ I said quietly. “That’s why I have to go.”
She looked at me and then sighed.
“I’m sorry.” She said.
“Because I caught you with another man?” I asked and I believe I actually meant
it.
“What? Oh, God, no …please …you probably enjoyed seeing that in some small
fashion. I’m sorry you’re not going to write. I’ll miss reading your words.”
“Will you miss me?” I asked.
“Should I …” The boy in the corner spoke.
“What?” Martha said to him and quickly turned back to me … what Benjamin?”
“Nothing.” I said. “I’ll call you when I’m back.”
“So…” She rose and walked with me to the door. “You will be back then?”
“I will?” I asked.
“You just said …” She stopped and looked at me for a long moment and then she
pulled me into a hug. “Oh, Benjamin … Do what you must. Stop writing. Walk
around the world but … Please …come back.”
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“Better than I am.” I attempted to make a joke.
“No … Just as you are is fine with me.”
“Someday?” Natty played the word. “You might ‘fuckin kill me someday’?”
“Why do I need to identify the body?” I asked the cop. “I was standing next to her
when she was killed.”
“Did you do anything?’ He asked, face to a clip board.
“That’s right … Someday, I must just fuckin’ kill you.” Travis was getting fired up.
I didn’t like this.
“Do we … Um … Are there …do we put them in separate caskets?” I asked.
“That’s up to you, sir.” He said. His face that solid, I share your grief and take
your money, sort of expression. “ We can arrange them in the same casket if you
wish.”
“Like flowers or …deli meats.” I said.
His expression didn’t change.
“Is that the same someday where you pile your hopes That Sloan will sleep with
you and save you from yourself?” Natty taunted.
Why?
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“She was a lovely girl, Benjamin.” Martha said on the way to the cemetery.
“Yes,” I said. “I am sure if she had been butt ugly, this would all be so much
easier.”
“Is that the same someday when you’ll do something, make something of yourself
and we’ll all see what you’re really made of, Travis?” Natty pushed.
Please, stop.
“You all right, Ben?” Max lifted my head and tried to look into my eyes.
“Sure.” I said. “Someone just jammed a knife into the belly of my pregnant wife
killing her and my child at the same time while I just stood there. I’m great.”
“I know it’s hard, Ben.” He comforted.
“No, Max, actually, you don’t.”
He let it slide.
“Is that the same someday when you’ll finally step up, throw open the closer door
and tell us that, the real reason that you’re always picking on the kid is because
you’re in love with him? That you want to fuck him. And that you want everyone
to know.” Natty.
Oh, no ….please…
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I left Martha’s office … Got a hot dog from a street vendor and then I climbed into
a Greyhound bus heading west. It was a blur of days and bars. Nights and bars.
Small towns. Bent cities. Faces, voices … And then, one day…
“What do you think, Ben?” Natty asked.
“I’m here.” I said. And here I was.
“Good to see you, Ben.” Natty smiled at me. “I was just asking Travis here when
he thought someday might be.”
“Someday?” I asked.
“You know what, fatty…” Travis said. “Someday is right now.”
He pulled a knife from his back pocket, opened it and took a stance. Slightly
ridiculous, street fighter stance. Natty sipped his coffee.
“Do something, Ben.” I looked at Sloan.
“What did you say?” I asked.
“I didn’t say anything.’ She said, her eyes the size of dinner plates, filled to edges
with fear.
“Benjamin, my love… Do something.” My wife said. So, I held her. I knelt next to
her and cradled her in my arms and she bled and bled … And … She looked me in
the eyes… And she died. Simple. Like that. No fuss. She just … Died.
“Do something, Ben.” My Wife said.
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I looked around the room and all eyes were on Travis and Natty. The kid was
literally crouched in a corner, shielding his face with his fingers like a teenage girl
nit he second row of a horror flick. Sloan we silently pleading with Natty to stop,
back off, leave Travis alone. And Travis, well, he was bowed up, knife out,
humiliation sending him into fits of hate.
“Do something, Ben.” Here eyes pleaded to me. I turned and took the punch.
Natty placed his cup gently on the counter and took a step toward Travis.
“Do something, Ben.”
I held my wife. I walked past the shaking hand. I controlled my bowels. I forgave
Arlene. I drank myself stupid. I got on a bus. I vanished.
“Do something, Ben.”
I stopped writing.
“Do something, Ben.”
I ran away from the circus and joined a home town.
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“Do something, Ben.”
I moved like light. I hit Travis with all my might, a right cross that sent him
sprawling across the room. He crashed against a table sending dishes and
glasses, beverages and food everywhere. I kept going. I grabbed him by the collar
and pulled him from the floor. I tossed him against a wall and punched him, hard
in the gut. In the face. He turned and rolled against the wall trying to get away
and I punched him in the kidney, the back of his head, his shoulders. I kept
punching, wildly, as hard as I possibly could. Then, when he fell to the floor, I
started kicking him. In the side, kicking his legs, his chest. I kept beating him and
beating him until I was so exhausted, so spent, I had no strength to even lift a
hand or a leg anymore.
“Benjamin.” Martha said, reaching for a cigarette from the crystal jar on her
desk. “Did you actually, physically assault a man?”
“Easy now, Ben.” Natty was at my shoulder, guiding me into a chair.
“Drink this.” Sloan handed me a glass of water. I drank it down in one long gulp
suddenly feeling thirsty, hungry, scared … Free.
“No.” Martha said, lighting her cigarette. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”
She smiled her smile at me.
“Will you write about us?” Sloan asked as we waited for the bus to arrive.
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“Maybe.” I said. “You would all certainly make a good story.”
“Wouldn’t that be just fine?” She asked Natty who smiled his age and pulled the
girl closer.
“Yes, my dear,” He said “That would be just fine.”
“So.” Martha said “Is this it or …can I expect more?”
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