Vultures

Tommy Breuer was a scumbag.  He was a total prick, the type of alpha male bully who teenage girls lost their tongues over.  Years ago he was the captain of the football team, the star wide receiver who caught a sixty-two yard pass in the end zone to lead the Macarthur High Wildcats to its first state final’s victory.  Yes, the crowd went wild and yes, he went on to be crowned prom king, homecoming king and about a million other bullshit titles.

Tommy Breuer was such a douche it was sickening.  While most of the seniors were driving mom’s minivan to school, he’d skid into the teacher’s parking lot in a freshly-waxed Mercedes.  He rocked a fresh tan year-round and not one hair on his head was ever out of place.  He wore clothes emblazoned with logos from designers that rappers rhymed about. .Locust Hills was a blue-collar town, and the Breuers were in a class by themselves; a family that everyone wished they were born into.

There wasn’t a person alive who could’ve gotten away with as much bullshit as Tommy.  He was untouchable and everyone knew it.  Even the principal of the school would stop mid conversation to praise him in the hallway about some spectacular play he made on the field.

Now Natalia DeMarko was no outcast, believe me.  Yes, she struggled to keep up with the kids in her honors’ classes, but she was still sharper than most.  She was a trendsetter, and could turn thrift store rags into dresses you’d see in high-end storefronts.  She wasn’t a cheerleader (in MacArthur High the cheerleaders were all anorexics with bad skin), but she was the only natural blonde in Locust Hills whose rep wasn’t damaged by rumors of stoned one nighters under the bleachers.

Regardless, Tommy Breuer was still out of her league.  Every girl in her junior class was floored the first day they sat together at lunch.  When she started climbing out of his Benz before homeroom every day it made headlines.  Yes, Natalia was incredibly beautiful and was offered several modeling jobs for popular teen magazines, but she was Natalia DeMarko and he was Tommy Breuer.  To the gossip-hungry teens at Macarthur High, those two together just didn’t make sense.

Now, it had been four years since Tommy caught that game-winning pass, but he still wouldn’t shut up about it.  It’d been four years since he last flipped over a freshman’s lunch tray, but he was still cracking up over the memory of some loser he covered in chocolate milk and strawberry Jell-O.  It’d also been four years since he and two of his boys sodomized Giovanni Sorenzito in the equipment room, but he still jerked off thinking about it.

Graduation was a lifetime ago, but it was still common to catch him parked a block past MacArthur High, tossing PBR cans out of the window, waiting for some sophomore with a low-rider jeans and zero self esteem to pass by.  He was a vulture.  No, a vulture is a scavenger.  Tommy Breuer was something much worse.

Natalia knew this all going in.  It was no secret.  Every one of his sins was public knowledge.  She knew that he yelled the “N” word whenever Torii Webster, the only black girl in school, passed him in the hall.  She knew that he bragged about deflowering more than two dozen freshmen.  She even knew that he spread lies about the few girls who actually had the guts to turn him down.

Natalia knew it all, but when Tommy Breuer told her she had the perfect ass, she melted the way any other girl would’ve.  She blushed and thanked him.  If she could travel back in time she would’ve slapped him, or tossed her iced chai in his face.  But she didn’t.  He was Tommy Breuer and she felt lucky to be noticed by him.

Tommy could’ve had any girl he wanted, and he’d chosen her.  Yes, he cheated on her with the girl who sat in front of her in History. Yes, she caught him with his hand buried underneath Susie Gatz’s skirt at her birthday party.  But none of those infractions were enough to make her leave him.  No matter how abusive he treated her, Natalia wasn’t going to be the first girl ever to dump Tommy Breuer.

Natalia could’ve filled a spiral with reasons to break up.  But in the end it was Tommy who pulled the plug.  One week after graduation, Natalia was two months late and had seen the dreaded pink plus sign.

She had planned to go off to college that September, but she was blinded by naïve excitement over starting her new family.  She circled baby outfits and cribs in catalogs.  She never imagined herself as the motherly type, but in her eyes, getting knocked up was a sign from above.  It meant that her and Tommy were destined to be.

Tommy of course, disagreed.

“Take care of it,” he warned.  He squeezed her shoulders, crushing her frail bones with his meaty hands.  Whenever he was angry, he’d spit when he shouted.  His pupils would shrink to little pin-heads and his breath would stink of spoiled Chinese food.  “I’m not going to be a fucking dad.  Get that shit taken care of or I’ll shove you down the fucking stairs again.”

Natalia convinced herself that he was right; that they weren’t ready to have a baby yet.  There’d be plenty of time for that anyway.  They had a whole lifetime together and when the time was right, then they’d be able to start their family.

She pawned some of her mother’s jewelry to cover the abortion.  She begged Tommy to take her to the clinic, but he was busy, and she had to take the bus.  She sat by herself for the entire fifty-five minute ride pretending to read the latest issue of Cosmo.

After it was over, she’d never felt so alone.  But deep down, she knew wasn’t alone.  She had Tommy.  She couldn’t wait to be back in his arms; to lay naked on his back porch underneath the stars.  Walking home from the bus stop, she could already taste his sweat on her lips.

That night Tommy dumped her.

“Why would I want to stay with a whore like you?” he spit. “You’re damaged goods. You just had an abortion for fucks sake.”

Tommy Breuer was a scumbag.  In a perfect world, bad things happen to bad people and all good dogs go to heaven.  But this was reality.  There was no such thing as miracles, divine intervention, karma, or any of that other bullshit.  Evil people got away with evil on a daily basis.  Tommy Breuer was no exception.

He was blessed with a perpetual “Get out of jail free” card and had everything including a full scholarship to any school he wanted.  Not that he needed a handout or anything.  His father had died when he was in diapers and left him a bottomless bank account to waste.  His mother was the patron saint of the single parent.  You’d be amazed how someone filled with misogyny could’ve had such a loving relationship with his mother.

Mrs. Breuer of course despised Natalia and wasn’t shy about showing her true feelings.  She couldn’t bear the thought of Tommy dating someone from Natalia’s side of town.  As pretty as she was, Natalia couldn’t hide the fact that she’d always be trash from the docks.

When Mrs. Breuer died choking on a chunk of filet mignon, Tommy was devastated.  After a lifetime of causing harm and distress to everyone around him, finally something bad had happened.  Natalia was overjoyed.

She reread the obituary over and over.  She even highlighted the line, “Marissa Breuer is survived by her son Tommy, a MacArthur high school graduate and former Hillman trophy winner.

Natalia pictured Tommy sitting in the front row at the wake, trying to act hard.  His eyes would tear and his voice would crack, but he’d never let anyone see him cry.  But when he was alone in his empty house, the waterworks would start.  He’d down a fifth of scotch and turn into a blubbering mess.  That’s how close they were. Natalia would’ve done anything to witness that.

“You’re sick,” Giovanni told her.  Natalia was normally the quiet one who sat in the back of the classroom, staring blankly out the window. But now, she was pacing circles in Barry Goldstein’s basement, chain-smoking and ashing into the empty beer bottles lined up on the washing machine.  For the first time in her life, she was on fire.

“Maybe,” Natalie agreed.   “But that fuck deserves it.”

“He’s an asshole, but what you’re suggesting is illegal,” Giovanni said.

“Not to mention immoral, obscene, and downright disgusting,” Torii added.

Torii looked like a dwarf lounging in an over-sized leather chair.  Her hair was puffed out in a Foxy Brown style afro.  She wasn’t overweight, but often wore clothes two sizes too small, making her look thicker than she was.  She reapplied a layer of lip-gloss and smacked her lips together.

“Yeah Natalia,” Barry said.  “Tommy was a dildo, but you have to let it go.  Even if we wanted to do what you’re suggesting, there’s no way we’d be able to pull it off.”

“Why not?  I have the whole thing planned out.”

“Walk us through it then.  How the hell are we going to get her out of there?”

“I’m not breaking into a funeral home and jacking a dead body,” Torii said.  “No fucking way.”

“You don’t have to,” Natalia said.  She pulled out a fresh stick and lit it off of Barry’s.  He blushed.  Girls that looked like Natalia never gave him the time of day.  “You’re the driver,” she continued.  “All I need you to do is keep the car running while we take care of business.”

“You are not putting some dead bitch in my mom’s Pathfinder.  I can’t have that.  My mom catches one whiff of corpse and I’m a dead mother fucker.”

“First off, it won’t smell.  They already embalmed her and filled her with all kinds of flowery shit.  And second, we need you.  I don’t have a car, Barry’s is in the shop, and Giovanni drives a rice-box.”

“Count me out,” Torii said.  “I don’t care if that bitch stinks like roses.  Not gonna happen.”

“Even if we had the transportation, it’s not like we can walk in to Johnson’s Funeral Home and carry her out,” Giovanni said, fidgeting in her chair.  Her hands were tiny and covered in cigarette burns.  She tugged on her white stockings and wiped her hands on her plaid miniskirt.  If she were alone she would’ve tore off her clothes and curled up into a tiny ball.  She was completely on edge being in a room with more than two people.

“I’ve already scoped the place out,” Natalia said.  “Around back, there’s a window in the director’s office.  All we need to do is give it a little tap with a hammer, crawl in, find the room she’s in and we’re gold.  There’s no alarm, so we can totally take our time.”

“Why would there be?” Barry laughed.  “It’s not like Maywood Heights has a corpse-theft problem.”

“Alarm or no alarm,” Giovanni scowled, scratching at the back of her neck.  Her chalk-white skin was covered in red tracks from her fingernails.  Out of the three girls in the basement, Giovanni would’ve been the prettiest if only she would stop picking at her skin.  Her face was potholed with pock marks and acne scars.  “I say we get in and out.  I don’t want to spend any more time than I have to in there.”

“I don’t know why you’re all still discussing this.  You’re going to have a long ass walk from the funeral home to Oak Street.”

“Tommy lives on Pine,” Natalia corrected.

“Pine, Oak, who gives a fuck?” Torii sprung from her chair and waved her finger in Natalia’s face.  Her nails were obnoxiously long and painted antacid pink.  “We’re not putting any dead bitches in my mom’s ride.”

Barry opened another beer.  He swallowed and the first gulp got stuck in his throat.  Foam spilled from his lips onto the floor.  His eyes darted around the room, hoping that no one noticed.

“It would be a messed up thing to do,” Barry slurred.  “And Tommy really does deserve to be fucked with.”

“I want to hurt Tommy as badly as you.  But stealing his mother’s corpse and propping her up on his front lawn, that’s stepping way the fuck over the line.”

“With Tommy Breuer there is no line,” Natalia said, not even considering backing down.

“Natalia, you two broke up years ago.  I think it’s time you got over it.”

“Get over it,” she charged.  “Get over it.  The cocksucker ruined my life.  He ruined all of our lives.”

“High school was forever ago.  I don’t even think about any of that anymore,” Barry said, a layer of foam mustached across his upper lip.

“He called you a dirty, kike, Jew cocksucker every day for seven years,” Natalia charged.  “And you,” she pointed at Torii, “What was it Tommy called you?  Please don’t make me remind you?”

Torii sat back down and draped her legs over the side of the leather chair.  She steamed on the inside, but couldn’t find the right words to scream.  Besides, she knew Natalia was right.  Tommy Breuer deserved to be crippled.  If they couldn’t do it physically, emotionally was the next best thing.

“What if we wrap her up in a drop-cloth?” Giovanni asked, inching closer to the circle.  She had dreamed about revenge for years.  Natalia’s plan wasn’t what she fantasized but it was way more plausible then stapling his scrotum to an oak tree.  “We could wrap her up air tight and then she wouldn’t smell at all.”

“That would work,” Barry added.  He’d also imagined countless ways to hurt Tommy, but never had the guts to do anything.  Even after Tommy held him down and spray-painted a swastika on his chest all he was able to do is run home crying.   It took him forty minutes of scrubbing to remove it.  Forty minutes of cursing under his breath.  Forty minutes of standing in the cold shower, piss dripping down the inside of his leg.   He rubbed the imaginary spot on his chest and shivered.

“I don’t know,” Torii said, coming around.  Tommy’s degrading nick-name for her was just the tip of the iceberg.  Nobody but her, Tommy and David Collette knew about the time she’d stayed after school to work on a photography project and the two groped her in the dark room.  When she resisted they held her face in a tray full of developer until she let them do whatever they wanted.  “Say you’re able to break in and jack the body.  And just say we shove the bitch in the back of the car.  We bring her to Tommy’s house and then what?  We hold her up in front of his bedroom window and make her dance?”

“Something like that,” Natalia said.

“Picture the look on that smug bastard’s face,” Barry added.  “He’s home, all safe in bed.  All of a sudden there’s a tap at the window.  He thinks it’s one of his boys.  He gets up to check it out and BOOM!  He’s face to face with his dead mother.  He’ll wet himself.  Hell he might even have a heart attack.  That would be so perfect.”

“And we wouldn’t be murderers or anything,” Giovanni said, trying to convince herself.  “It wouldn’t be our fault if he dropped dead of fright.”

“Because Tommy’s going to drop dead at the sight of a corpse,” Torii hissed.

“A girl can dream can’t she,” Giovanni mumbled.

“So it’s settled,” Natalia said, taking charge.  “Everyone change into something tight and black.  We’ll meet in front of the Packshaw Diner at midnight.”

—–

Giovanni and Barry were beyond nervous.  Their fingernails littered the backseat of Torii’s mother’s SUV.  If Torii glanced in her rear view she would’ve had a meltdown.  Lucky for them she was lost in a tunnel; her eyes pinned and focused on the road before her.  The others were in the dream with her, staring blankly out their windows.  The four of them didn’t even have a chance to buckle their seatbelts before Barry pulled out a bag.  While they had often blacked out together, this time Natalia felt strange indulging.  She wanted to keep her senses sharp in case anything went sideways.  But she could tell her group was on edge and in order to comfort them, she huffed a dime-size bump on her wrist.

Torii killed the headlights and lowered the stereo.  Barry’s stomach gurgled loudly.  Natalia bounced in her seat.  While everyone in the car was trying to find a way to back out, she was surgeon-ready.  When they pulled in front of the funeral home, she opened her door before the car came to a complete stop.

“So what’s the plan?”

“Wait by the door.  I’ll go around back and let you in.  Torii, keep this thing running.  If you see any law, give us three quick honks.”

“If I see any law, I’m ghost.”

“Whatever.  Come on guys. Time to party.”

The three barreled out of the car.  Torii counted to thirty and then piled another bump on her dashboard.  The only reason she even hung out with Natalia was that her and her friends were a never-ending source of free drugs.  Now here she was, an accessory.  With a possession charge already on the books, a B&E would’ve meant jail time.

“Screw it,” she said as a fresh bump disappeared up her nose.  She closed her eyes and fell into the backseat.

——-

“Torii, let’s go.”

Natalia’s face was inches from Torii’s, her menthol breath burning her sensitive nostrils.  She waved her away weakly.  Natalia grabbed her shoulders and shook her.

“Drive, damn it.”

Torii shook her head and turned the key in the ignition.  The car was still running and buzzed loudly.  Confused, she shrugged and threw the car in gear.

“That was intense,” Barry stuttered.

“Make a left at the light.”

“I can’t believe we did that.  Damn, that was so intense.”

“No, a left.  A fucking left.”

“We were so cool.  So god damn cool.”

“Torii, open your eyes.  Pull over. I’m driving.”

“I got this.  Damn Natalia, who flipped your bitch switch.”

“Just pay attention.  Crash us into a telephone pole and it’s going to be difficult explaining the body in the trunk to five-o.”

“I’m not gonna crash.  Besides this ride’s a tank.  I’ll plow through any telephone pole.”

“I wish we had that on video.  I’ve never been so on edge before.  So intense.”

“Make a right here.  Then a left on 3^rd.”

“Can you believe we didn’t get caught?  That was so easy.  I can’t believe how easy that was.”

“Pull in here,” Natalia directed.  Tommy’s house was the second from a dead end which made it perfect for a covert assault.  The Pathfinder stopped abruptly, bumping the metal frame of the dead end sign and bending it back.

“I didn’t think I had it in me.  I thought I’d skirt out for sure.”

“Barry, will you shut up for a second,” Natalia barked.  In the backseat, Giovanni was catatonic, but Barry was much worse.  He hadn’t stopped shaking since he climbed back in the car.  If Natalia had better options, she never would’ve chosen such amateurs.  But she didn’t.  More importantly she needed bodies, people who’d bow to her will.  Giovanni and Barry might’ve been rejects, but they were rejects she could control.

Torii on the other hand, was a different story.  She tapped out another bump on the dash and hovered over it.

“Good idea,” Barry said.  “Pass that bag back here.”
“Are you mad?  Do any of you have any idea about the severity of the situation we’re involved in?  We broke into a funeral home and stole a corpse.  We’re about to drag a five-foot mass of rotting flesh over to Tommy Breuer’s house, where we’re going to use it to inflict serious mental damage.  Torii can’t keep her eyes open she’s so garbaged and you want to join her?”

“I just thought-”

“After.  We disappear after.”

“Fine.”  Barry crossed his arms in front of his chest.  He was enraged and Natalia knew it.  But she couldn’t worry about that now.  Experience dictated that he would keep his mouth shut.  “So what’s the plan?” he whimpered into his sweat-shirt.

“Tommy’s window is around back.  It’s the first one you’ll come to.  You and Giovanni are going to carry Mrs. Breuer back there.”

“Wait, why are we the ones doing all the work?”

“Shut up and let me finish.”  Natalia’s patience was running thin.  She made a mental note to dull her tone before she continued.  She could tell the line between her and the group was a stressed wire that could snap at any moment.  “You two are going to bring her around back.  While you’re setting up, I’m going to sneak in through the front door and make sure he’s in his room.  No sense going through all this if he’s not even home.”

“Why can’t I be the one to sneak in while you’re setting up?”
“Because I know the layout of the house.  I also know where they hide the spare key.”

Giovanni dug her fingernails into her cheek.  She scratched at a row of fresh scabs.  They fell to the floor, leaving tiny white moons on her face.  Natalia worried that she wasn’t going to be able to get her out of the car, let alone to go through with the plan.  She continued anyway, speaking in slow forceful syllables.

“When I see that everything’s straight, I’ll text you.  Once I do, Giovanni, tap on his window and wake the son of a bitch up.  Then Barry you get the old bitch on her feet.  Make sure he can get a good look at her face.  And I don’t need to tell the two of you to stay invisible.  It’s dark back there, so he shouldn’t see you, but if he does-”

“Trust me, we got this.”

“Perfect.  Ok.  Game time..”

Barry and Giovanni stayed frozen until Natalia was halfway up the walkway.  She turned and shot them an icy stare.  In tandem, the two opened the trunk and robotically carried the body into the backyard.  The yard was dark like Natalia said and Barry stumbled over the garden hose.  Mrs. Breuer fell from his grip and hit the grass with a soft thud.

Giovanni held back tears as they picked her back up.  The back of her eyeballs burned, but she’d have to wait till later to cry.   When she was safe under her blankets she’d sniff another bump and all the fear would go away.  Giovanni swallowed and tasted sulfur.

Natalia removed a loose brick from the walkway and found the key exactly where it’d been hidden since the Breuer’s moved in.  She was so petrified her team would abandon the plan and leave her behind she dry heaved onto the front step.  She wiped the bile from her lips and turned the key in the door.

Tommy’s house was decorated in the same New Mexican style she remembered.  The bright orange and yellow walls mocked her.  She remembered standing in the very same living room and being ripped apart by Mrs. Breuer years ago.  Mrs. Breuer’s words replayed in her mind.  “Trash like you doesn’t belong with my son.  Get out of my house before you stain my carpets.”  Even more blows struck her when she remembered Tommy cowering timidly behind her, not coming to her defense.

Natalia sat on the oak-colored couch and sank into the leather cushions.  The first time she made out with Tommy was on that couch.  Natalia remembered his mouth tasting like steak sauce and even though she was three days into shark week, his right hand forcefully pushed into her jeans, snapping open her button-fly.  In the background David Letterman read a monologue off of a teleprompter as Tommy dry-humped her to climax.

Natalia exhaled and hugged a throw pillow to her chest.  She smiled and felt Tommy’s hands roughly squeezing her breasts.  She slid her hand up the front of her shirt and felt her heart thumping against her ribcage.

When the night started, Natalia was a soldier, a hundred-pound chunk of solid steel, but being back in Tommy’s living room, with memories swarming around her, she was as helpless as when he used to pin her down.  She needed something to carry her through the next few steps.  She emptied a capsule on the pillow and shaped it into a tiny hill.  She leaned forward, smelling fresh rain scented fabric cleaner as she inhaled.

The couch vibrated underneath her.  For a second Natalia thought she was still in the passenger seat of the Pathfinder, swerving down a bumpy road.  Outside, headlights darted in front of the bay window, filling the room with yellow and slapping her back into reality.  Natalia gained her bearings and reached for her cell.  The display flashed that she had two new text messages, both from Barry; both wondering where she was.

Natalia was dizzy, but she pulled enough composure to creep down the hallway to Tommy’s room.  Careful to stay stealth, she opened the door and saw him sleeping soundly.  The air conditioner filled the quiet with a soft hum.  Years ago, Tommy would order her to keep her mouth shut when they were screwing.  Mrs. Breuer slept two doors down and even though the whole block could hear him throwing her around the room, Natalia wasn’t allowed to so much as whisper, for fear of waking her.

Natalia’s phone vibrated again.  She wanted to treasure her memories a little longer, and floated in the past for a few moments before checking it.  The newest message was from Barry, saying they were bailing.

Natalia bit her lip and raced outside to catch them but she was too late.  She cursed under her breath as the Pathfinder’s taillights sped away.

Natalia found Mrs. Breuer’s body sprawled out on the back deck, her arms draped over the metal legs of a barbecue grill.  Natalia struggled to lift her, but the dead weight was too much.  She huffed and accidentally knocked over a flowerpot, the ceramic smashing into four pieces.

Emptiness smothered her insides.  Yes, Tommy would be shattered tomorrow when the gardener told him in Spanglish that there was a dead woman on the patio.   But that wasn’t enough.  A) She wouldn’t be there to see the horror on his face and B) He needed to be the one to find the body.

Blood simmered beneath her flesh.  The rage building in her chest combined with the painkillers in her bloodstream made her lose control.

“Fuck it,” she muttered.

Acting on impulse, Natalia summoned enough adrenaline to carry the body into the house all the way to Tommy’s bedroom door.  She pushed it open and pulled the body into the room.  She inhaled and filled her lungs with as much oxygen as they’d allow.

“Tommy,” she screamed, “Wake up you son of a bitch.”

His body lay perfectly still.  Most nights, Tommy collapsed into an alcohol-induced coma, a state of dreamless sleep that took more than a buzzing alarm clock to arouse him.  The empty bottles stacked on his dresser confirmed tonight was no different.

“Tommy, wake up.”
Natalia lifted her leg as high as she could and kicked at his shoulder.  Standing on one tired leg, she lost her balance and collapsed, her arm knocking a row of bottles onto the floor.  Mrs. Breuer’s body fell to the side into a pile of dirty clothes.

Glass shattered and Tommy sprung to his feet.  His eyes, unadjusted to the dark, only saw the shape of someone trying to stand.  He instinctively grabbed her by the neck and thrashed her around the room.

“Wait, Tommy,” she gasped.

Tommy stumbled over his mother’s body and tossed Natalia to the side.  Her skull slammed into the sharp corner of the dresser, a jagged piece of bone puncturing her brain.  Her world went black almost instantly.  Her body slithered limp onto the carpet.
Tommy blindly reached for the lamp on his dresser, knocking the remaining bottles to the floor.  They bounced off Natalia’s body and rolled to the wall.  Tommy flicked the switch and sat back onto the bed.  It squeaked underneath him.  He rolled over Natalia with his foot.  Her blank eyes stared up at the ceiling, the same way she did when he was on top of her.  Her body spasmed the same way it did when he shoved himself inside her.  Still, it took him several minutes before he remembered her name.

we are wolves

“Hey,” Nora said, her voice scratchy from a weekend of too much screaming. It’d been fifty-six days since she stormed out the front door. Thirty of those I spent crying rivers and wishing her back; the other twenty-six; punching walls and wishing her dead.  After almost two months, I’d finally reached the point where I’d accepted the fact that she was never coming home and that any illusion I had of us spending the rest of our lives in some sort fantasy state of bliss was just that.  A fantasy.

“You know what,” she snarled, biting down on her lower lip, trying to draw blood. She tucked her fists into the front pockets of her hooded sweatshirt. When she was full of rage she often trembled, but this time she was perfectly still.  “You’re right, I never cared.  Not about you or any of your bullshit problems.  I’ve been using you this whole time.  All these years. You’re just another sucker. Except I never had to fuck you to get what I want. At least if I let you get it wet, your dog-like devotion would make sense. But I never did, did I?  You’re so god damn pathetic.”

“Get out,” I yelled, the bile rising from my stomach searing the back of my throat. “Go be with Jack, or John or whatever the fuck his name was. Enjoy your life. Seriously, I hope he drains his fucking bank account to please you and you end up back on the streets. That’s all you want anyway. Fuck, Nora, I would’ve done anything for you.”

“You boys are so damn easy. Do you have any idea how many times I’ve heard one of you spit that same tired cliché?  ‘I would’ve treated you like a princess.  I would’ve done anything to make you happy.’  Blah blah fucking blah.  If that were true, then why the fuck didn’t you?”

“I tried. You know I did. You never gave me a chance.”

“Yeah?” she said, pausing for a moment to find the perfect kiss off. She must’ve never found it, because instead, she slammed the door in my face.

That was fifty-six days ago.  Thirty days of wishing her back; twenty-six days of wishing her dead.

Then she did the unthinkable. She came home.

“Um…. Hello?”

“Hey,” I responded, my eyes focused on the pink socks poking through the holes in her Converse.

Nora’s face was worn and tired, her eyes the color of running water on top of dark circles that looked almost painted.  She brushed the hair out of her face and applied a layer of fresh lip gloss across her frostbite-purple lips.  When she smacked them together, the room smelled like honeysuckle.

“What are you watching?” Nora sat on the couch beside me, the springs beneath her creaking ominously. “Looks boring.”

“I don’t know. Wasn’t paying attention.”

“Nicole around?  She called me a few weeks ago, but she was on fire and I was so out of it. I have zero idea what she was rambling about.”

“She’s in the hospital. Or was. They wouldn’t let me see her, so I’m not sure if she’s still there.”

“For her eating disorder?”

“For her suicide attempt.”

“I could’ve called that,” Nora said, picking at a piece of loose skin on her lower lip. ”She’ll be back.”

“You weren’t here. She’s not coming back”

“Good for her then.  She’s better off.  This was no place for her a girl like her anyway.”

“Are you serious? You were the one who brought her here.”

“You needed to get laid. She needed attention. Yeah, I tried to hook you two up. So what? Doesn’t mean I’m shocked that she tried to off herself.  Did you at least? Get laid?

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Your loss if you didn’t. Too late now I guess. Don’t worry we’ll find you another.”

“How can you be such a cunt all the time?” I shouted. I stood for a second, then realized if I stood any longer I’d run away.  “Do you have any idea what it was like? Watching her? I was here. While you were off playing house or doing whatever the fuck you’ve been doing with your boy toy, I was fucking here. Picking up the pieces of the mess you left behind.”

“And doing a great job apparently since she landed in the hospital.”

“Fuck you.” I stood again. I wasn’t sure if I was leaving or if I was going to drag her out the front door. “You know why she did it, right?”
“She scuffed her Manolos?”

“Because she loved you. Just like I loved you. And you did what you do every single time. You take and you take and then when there’s nothing left, you set fire to everything.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Nora paused for a second, hoping the dead air would make it easier to change the subject. “Wow, did you paint this?”  Nora motioned towards the four by six canvas I had finished early this morning.

“Yes,” I said, wishing I had destroyed it before she had the chance to see.  “It’s what the floor of a slaughterhouse would look like after a day’s work.”

“I can see that.”  Nora smacked her lips again and the sound brought me to the verge of tears.  “Looks amazing.  We should hang it in the bedroom.”

“The bedroom?”
“Yeah.  We’ll have to take something down.  I wonder how it would look on the ceiling.  That would be wild to stare at.”

“I take it you’re staying?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?  This is my home.”

“I just figured-“

“I mean, I know chances are we’re going to be evicted if we don’t start paying our rent on time, but that gives us at least a six month to a year stay of execution while the courts drag their feet.”

“I guess.”

“You seem on edge.  You straight?”
“Thirteen days.”

“Me too,” she slurred, signaling that once again she was full of shit.  It didn’t matter though. There was no way that Nora was ever going to be clean. We both knew it. But if it made her feel better to lie, I wasn’t going to stop her. “That’s crazy how we both kicked on the same day.”

“Totally.”

“Sure you’re ok?  You don’t seem thrilled to see me.”

“Haven’t been sleeping much lately.  I’m exhausted, I guess.”

“You’ve been seeing Daniela again, huh?”

Nora was the only one I’d ever told about Daniela. Partly because I thought spilling my secrets would bring us closer together; partly because she’d seen her share of horrors as well.

“Every night.  Give or take.”

“Damn.  Still no idea what she wants, right?”

“Nope.  Whatever it is, there’s not a damnthing I can do.  It’s too late.”

“Perhaps.  Sometimes ghosts are just a part of your past that you can’t let go of.  It’ll work out.  I was thinking we should save some cash and then move some place far away.  Do the whole fresh start thing and all that.  We’ll change our names, get whole new identities. It’ll be an adventure.”

“Because that’ll fix everything. That shit doesn’t even work out in the movies.”

“Still, I say we fucking go for it. Not like you’re happy here anyway.”

“What’d be the point?  We’d still be the same monsters.  Location won’t make a difference.  We’re still going to carry the same pain in our hearts, the same thunderstorm raging when we close our eyes”

“Stop with the poetic bullshit.  Who you are on the inside is just your perception.  It’s like in the movies.  You can be whoever you want.  The psycho ax murderer, the hapless victim, the porn star with the ten inch cock.  All you have to do is pick a part and play it.  If you play it long enough, the part becomes you.”

“That’s called living a lie.”

“What’s the difference?  When all is said and done, tell me, what is the motherfucking difference?”

“I don’t-“

“Living is fucking living.  Who cares if it’s bullshit or truth?  As soon as you realize the entire world exists only to cause you pain and suffering and that there is no silver lining; that the hero doesn’t save the damsel in distress; as soon as you realize that, what’s left besides illusions?”

Nora grabbed my hand and tried to drag me closer. Her index finger traced smooth circles on the inside of my palm.  Rain pattered against the air conditioner in uneven bursts.  The wind shrieked, trying to force its way through the closed vents.  Inside we were safe and if this moment were to last forever, everything would be ok.  But it wasn’t going to.  Nothing was ever going to be ok.

“We are wolves, you and I,” Nora whispered heavily.

“We’re not wolves. We’re disasters.”

“So be it then.”

Nora laid her head on my chest, her hair stinking like American Spirits and peppermint shampoo.  It tickled the side of my face and I let it.  She hummed a song under her breath that I hadn’t heard since we were kids, back when she was all we had in the whole world, when she was my strength and I was hers.  We closed our eyes and embraced like lovers.  We weren’t though.  Not even close, but at that moment, the illusion was all that mattered.

soft like genocide

 

Distance was a sadist. Distance was a five foot, hundred and three pound, black-haired, silver-eyed, menace to society. Distance was a confrontation whore who gauged her night based on how dead skin was trapped under her fingernails. For her, passing out with an intact manicure was equivalent to going to church.

Distance was the cunt who sat in behind you at the movies, kicking your chair and shouting obscenities at the screen. Whether it was Texas Chainsaw Massacre or The Lion King, if you were within fifty yards of her, you’d be wishing you’d stayed home once the lights dimmed.

Distance was a home wrecker; a heartbreaker; the fatal attraction you never should’ve smiled at on the subway.  On Thursday night she’d tickle underneath your palm and stroke your ego with a dozen compliments about how funny, sweet and charming you were.  But Friday night, after she grew bored of the sound of your voice, she’d leave you handcuffed to the motel bed, minus your cash, watch and self-respect.  To give you some perspective, before our apartment was robbed last summer, Distance had two jewelry boxes that were overflowing with white gold and platinum wedding rings.

Distance was soft like genocide was victimless.

“Tears are nature’s biggest aphrodisiac,” she confessed, grimacing after swallowing a piss warm shot of Makers.  Distance jerked a pair of latex gloves from her between her tits and wiped the drool from her lips, smearing lime green lipstick across her right cheek.  She grinned and slapped the gloves on the bar with a thwack.  Hearing the cue, the bartender rushed over to fill our glasses, remembering all the times Distance angrily leapt over the bar to serve herself.  “Thanks, dude,” she snarled through her teeth.

“Say for a second that’s truth,” I said, prepping my stomach for another shot.  Distance rolled her eyes and pretended to listen, trying to hide the fact that she was sizing up the business man seated ten feet to her right.  Distance’s tongue dabbed saliva on her lower lip, meaning I had about five minutes before she was on his lap.  “Then why do you hurt people knowing they’re going to hurt you back?”

“Because,” she said, her eyes darting between mine and her reflection in the dusty mirror behind the bar.  Distance blinked rapidly, a sign she was in game-plan mode, her sharp brain searching for the right script to use on her new prey.  The pre-planning was pointless though.  I’d seen her in action enough times to know that she could’ve recited the Declaration of Independence and the poor bastard would’ve been leashed. Regardless, for Distance, the ritual was foreplay.

“Save my seat,” Distance ordered, slamming another empty shot glass on the bar.

—————————————————————————-

“That was an easy kill,” Distance sang, wiping her palms on her thighs.  She hopped down the steps one by one.  Above her head, red neon lights buzzed, the second letter “S” in the South Street Motel sign flickering off and on like a palpitating heart.  “Midgy, sweetness, give your big sis a pound.”

Distance clenched her fist and pointed it at her sister.  Midge did the same and tapped her knuckles to Distance’s without hesitation.

“That’s my girl,” Distance said, jerking playfully on Midge’s pigtails.  Midge had only been living with us for two weeks and already she’d transformed from a mousy, pouty-faced nine-year-old, to a street-smart reflection of her older sister.  We hadn’t had the chance to fit her in a new wardrobe yet, so Midge was still wearing the eyesore-bright dresses covered in cartoon animals that we found her in.  But lucky for her, Distance had given her a crash course in accessorizing.  Now, every grinning monkey on her front was hidden behind a black X, and words like “Hate” and “Death” were sloppily painted with nail polish on the back.

Although I’d been hearing about her for months, I wasn’t sure what to expect when I finally met Midge.  To be honest, I always thought the creased photo Distance flashed around was something she jacked from someone’s wallet.  Don’t get me wrong.  I believed that it was possible that her younger sister existed, but Distance wasn’t someone who held onto the past, especially when it came to family.

“Families are like herpes,” she’d often say.  “Only at least herpes only fucks with you once a month.”

Even when Midge stepped through the front door, I figured she was some random kid Distance bribed to mess with me.  It wasn’t until the street lights settled on her sharp cheekbones and crooked nose, and her freckles popped out in oval clusters below her eyes, that I finally believed it to be true.

—————————————————————————————————

Midge shook her head decisively and scrunched her face into a ball of crumpled paper.  A week ago, she was practically a mute, but now she enthusiastically played along with her sister.  Distance twisted her head to the side and crossed her eyes.  Midge giggled and brought her glass of soda to her lips with both hands.

“Ok, let’s see,” Distance said, scanning the families filling the tables at Ray’s Pizza.  She was still wearing last nights outfit; a sweaty, oversized polo over a pair of black tights that were so worn out they were practically see through.  Distance didn’t give a shit.  She’d walk the streets in her underwear if it weren’t for her outstanding warrants.  “How about him?” she asked, pointing to the ten-year-old sitting to our right.

Midge laughed and shook her head.  She was old enough to crush on movie stars and father figures, but too young to find boys her own age to be anything but slimy and dirty.  “No,” she said, stretching the word so it had two syllables.

“Why not?  He’s cute,” Distance said, raising her voice so that the whole room could here.  She dangled her arm in the air, her finger still pointing straight, so that boy and his mother knew they were her target.

“No,” Midge said again, her lips stretching wide across her puffed out cheeks.  She closed her eyes, hoping that when she opened them, the boy would no longer be staring at her.

“Don’t be shy.  Look, he likes you.”

The boy’s mom smiled nervously at me.  Her face wore the telling mark of single mother, the lifeless, colorless mask of defeat.   I smiled back and shrugged.

“Come on, Distance,” I said.  “Leave them alone.”

“Midgy, Midge.  Wanna go talk to him?  Want me to introduce you?”
Midge slapped playfully at Distance’s wrists.  She was still giggling, oblivious to the game Distance was playing.  Pretending he wasn’t listening, the boy squirmed in his seat and chewed on a pepperoni slice, leaving a smear of tomato sauce on his chin.  He took a sip of his soda and dribbled brown dots on his t shirt.

“It’s because he’s a Jew isn’t it?” Distance announced, her voice loud enough for the boy and his mother to overhear.  “Good girl.  Jews are filthy and disgusting.  I’m so proud of you.  You are mommy’s little Hitler, aren’t you?”

“Distance, please,” I pleaded.

The mother cringed and grabbed her son’s wrist.  She jerked him out of his chair, knocking over the half-full two liter on the table.  The soda bubbled out in a thick stream onto the floor.  The boy swallowed abruptly, wedging a half-chewed pizza chunk in his throat.  Instantly, his eyes filled with water.  He panicked, and shot soda snot out of his nostrils.

His mother, oblivious to her choking son, marched over to us.  As she chose her words, Distance picked a mushroom off her slice and tossed it at the woman’s cheek.

“Look Midgy, Mommy has something to say.  What is it Mommy?  You gonna tell me what for?”

The woman trembled, a blend of anger and fear sizzling through her bloodstream.  Behind her, her son gagged, his face turning the color of bread mold.  Midge pointed towards him and hopped in her seat, hoping to get someone’s attention.

“I see him,” Distance mocked, her eyes remaining fixed on the scarred lioness standing above her.  “I see the little Jew boy about to die.”

The mother turned and shrieked as a man threw his arms around her son and squeezed.  She swung her pocketbook at the man’s face, oblivious to what he was trying to do.

“Lady, knock it off,” he yelled, ducking a second too late.  As it smashed into his nose, the bag opened on impact, sending an address book, lipstick, car keys and about a dozen other objects scattering through the air. Ignoring the assault, the man squeezed again with enough force to crack a rib cage.  The boy coughed and sent a chunk of masticated food onto our table.  Distance picked it up in her napkin and held it up for everyone to see.

“My hero,” she said mockingly.  Midge’s eyes started to tear up.  Except for the time her mother overdosed on cold medicine, she’d never seen someone come so close to death before.  “It’s ok,” Distance comforted, dancing her fingertips along Midge’s shoulders.  “See, he’s going to be just fine.”  Distance picked another mushroom off her slice and flicked it at the ceiling.  It rose about twenty feet than landed on the table without a sound.  Midge was in the stage between crying and not crying, a delicate place where the slightest nudge in the wrong direction could send her over the edge.

“I seriously can’t believe you sometimes,” I muttered.

“What?” Distance asked, truly believing she’d done nothing wrong. “What’s your fucking problem?”

“There’s a line, Distance. A fucking line.”

“Yes, there’s a line. And I stomped all over the motherfucker. What are you going to do about it?” Distance paused, taking a bite of her pizza slice. With that, Midge started to cry, her tiny body convulsing trying to hold back the waterfall.

“Midge, you know I was just teasing them right?  There’s no shame in being a Jew. You shouldn’t hate anyone because of their religion. That’s wrong. John’s a Jew and we still love him.”

“Thanks, I think,” I answered, draping a napkin over my uneaten food.

“Oh don’t be so sensitive. You know I don’t give a shit what fucking race anyone is.  I just love to push people’s buttons.  I love to push, push, push them and now I’m going to push yours.”

Distance tickled underneath Midge’s armpit.  She tried to squirm away, but Distance persisted until the two of them were in hysterics.  I also began to laugh.  I have no idea why, but I did and I didn’t stop until we were all outside.

 

 

——————————————————————————————-

“You should dye your hair blonde,” Distance yawned, slapping at Midge’s right pigtail.   “People like blondes better.  It’s a fact.”

Midge squinted through her index and forefinger.  The three of us hadn’t been outside in days and the afternoon sun was a blazing shock to our optic nerves.  Pain throbbed against the back of my pupils in drawn out bursts, blinding me with a multi-colored haze blanket.  Even focusing on my shoes, the glare bouncing off the sidewalk was enough to split my brain in half.

Except for the glow from the television, and the occasional sun poking through the chipped black paint covering the windows, none of us had seen as much as a blink of light since last Friday when Distance decided to dismantle her dresser and nail the drawers over our front door.  She was a perpetual paranoid wreck, but even for a head-case like her, last week’s meltdown was beyond schizo.

On the television, a cartoon fox was trying to steal a plate of syrupy pancakes from a family of bears.  Midge sat on the couch beside me, her legs hovering over the coffee table.  There were volcanoes on her thigh highs and rainbows on the band-aid peeling off her kneecap.  Her lips puckered around a thick pink straw, her cheeks caving in to slurp the last few drops of apple juice in the cup.

In ten minutes, a blurry Distance would be charging through the front door and screaming at us to hide in the bathtub, forcing us to kneel with our backs bent until the next sunrise.  Although I’d survived enough of Distance’s manic outbursts to know that there was no one coming to get us, and that we weren’t minutes away from the apocalypse, I knew that if I didn’t play along, I wouldn’t be able to stay close enough to keep her safe.

 

Although Midge was rumored to have spent most of her life running away from violent stepdads A, B and C, the confusion stamped across her face showed otherwise.  Her eyes were horrified, questioning circles, filled with tears she couldn’t control.  When Distance was in earshot, I had to soothe Midge with comforting looks.  It wasn’t until the third night, when Distance was spray-painting the windows black that I was able to drag my sleeping bag next to Midge’s and whisper that everything was going to be ok.

That was three days ago, and this morning when we woke up to Distance leaning out the window, throwing stale bagels at a barking dog, Midge squeezed my hand to thank me for sticking around.

“Maybe we’ll throw in some purple streaks,” Distance shouted for no reason.  We had no destination, at least not one that I was aware of, but she was in a hurry.  All I knew was that when she announced, “If I don’t get the fuck out of here this second, I’m going to burn this place down,” I barely had time to tie my shoes before we were out the door.

“Whoa,” Distance yelled, stopping short in front of the Pablo Theatre.  She pointed up at the marquee, causing the row of multi-colored stretchy bracelets to slide down to her bony elbow.  Behind us, a horn blared.  Startled, Midge reflexively grabbed onto my forearm and jumped onto my shoes.  “Fantasia’s playing.  I haven’t seen that since my tits were in a trainer. Let’s go.”

I nodded ok and checked my pockets for money.  I had just enough, thirty in crumpled singles.  Distance snatched it from my hand and slid it through the hole in the plexi-glass.  The woman behind the counter handed her the tickets without glancing up from her manicure.

As we stepped inside, spilled soda from the night before stuck our shoes to the grass-colored carpet.  It was early, and the lobby was empty except for a handful of disheveled employees.  Oblivious to our presence, they lumbered across the floor sweeping trash into plastic buckets.  The air conditioning above clicked and sputtered, showering our heads with bursts of butter flavored air.

“Would you like some popcorn?” Distance kneeled down so she and Midge were eyelevel.  The straps of Midge’s strawberry-covered tank top sat perfectly between her shoulders and neck, but still Distance felt the need to adjust them.  “Sit still,” she snarled through her bottom row of teeth.  “There, that’s better.  How about some gummy bears too?”
Midge nodded her head yes.  I couldn’t even look at her, knowing what was coming next.  I felt again in my pockets, wishing to find a dollar or two that I missed.

“Well, we have no money, so I guess this isn’t your lucky day.”  Distance straightened up fast, so that she towered over her sister.  “Poor Midge, can’t afford any junk food,” she sang.

“Distance, do you have to?” I huffed, keeping my eyes trained on my Converse.

“Have to what?” she mocked.  “Midge, you shouldn’t be so greedy.  It’s such a turn off.”

To my right, a vacuum cleaner roared to life, blocking out the pathetic whimpers stuck in Midge’s throat.

“Let’s just go get our seats,” I said.

“Midge, do you need to use the toilet?”

“No,” she muttered as defiantly as her soft voice would allow.

“It’s a long movie, so go now.  Once it starts they’re locking the doors and then you’ll have no choice but to piss yourself.  Do you want to piss your pants?  Are you a baby?”
“No,” she mouthed, fear and depression stealing her voice.

“Then go,” Distance pointed.  “Maybe I can convince that man over there to let you have some of the leftover popcorn.  Go.”

Midge’s feet dragged along the carpet as she sulked away.  I faked a smile in an attempt to ease her feelings, but it was useless.  I only caught her eyes for a heart-breaking second before she passed.  She wasn’t crying yet, which only pierced my heart more.  The second she passed under the neon “Women” sign, Distance grabbed my wrist and jerked me to the side.

“Let’s get out of here,” she whispered.

“What?”

“Come on, let’s go.”  Distance dragged me towards the door.  If I wasn’t in shock I would’ve stood my ground, but instead I lost my balance and tripped behind her.

“Go where?” I told the back of her head.  “We’re can’t just leave her.”

“I’m pretty certain that I can do whatever the fuck I want.”

Distance turned, her face masked by the same disgust she wore when she was fucking.  Her eyes, narrowing into heartless bullets, targeted mine.  Deep down, I’d known all along that this was coming.  I’d hoped that Midge would’ve sparked something warm inside her, like when a puppy licks its owner’s face for the first time. But that was a fantasy. Distance hated puppies just like she hated all living things. The vacuum roared louder as it inched closer.

“So are you coming?  Trust me, playing big brother is going to get real old, real fast.  If you think I’m going to be around when you decide you’ve had enough, then you’re as empty as this fucking theater.”

“But what about Midge?  What happens when she comes out and we’re gone?  Where’s she gonna go?”

“I didn’t push her through my vag, so that’s not my problem.  Maybe her mommy will get out of rehab and then she’ll come rescue her and they’ll live happily ever after.  Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“You can’t be this heartless.  She’s your sister.”

“She is, and I am.  Last chance.  Once the sun hits my face, if you’re not in my shadow then I’ll forget you ever existed.”

Distance turned to the exit and shoved open the door with her foot.  It swung open fast, giving her just enough time to march through before it slammed shut.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Black Eye Prize

 

When it came to first impressions, Katee was spot on the disheveled mess I expected.  Within thirty seconds of her rusty Buick fishtailing into the parking lot, she was already on her face, tripping over a pair of thigh-highs as she stumbled out of her car.  She gained her balance and stood in a cloud of exhaust smoke, sucking the life from an American Spirit.  The mammoth car rattled behind her as it sputtered ungracefully into a coma.

Katee might’ve been a train-wreck, but she was a cute train-wreck, which thankfully kept this from becoming another disastrous blind date.  She stepped out of the shadows and waved an exaggerated semi-circle; her arm getting lost in the oversized sleeve of her trench coat.  A shredded tie was wrapped around her waist, holding the desert-tan coat tight to her body.  If she was naked underneath it, I wouldn’t be surprised.

“Do you know how many laundry spots are around here,” she shouted.  Her voice carried a metallic timber, a smoky, robotic rasp that was an octave lower than the one she used on the phone.  “I counted four on this block alone.”

I shrugged and reached for something clever to say.  All I could come up with was, “Three, actually.  Wang’s Wash closed down four months ago.”

“Bummer,” she muttered as she stomped in a puddle, splashing water onto her bare knees.

The Seven Suds Laundr-O-Mat wasn’t the ideal place for a first date, but Katee wasn’t a dinner-and-a-movie type of girl.  She was an insomniac like me, and when she called, I was already twenty minutes into a spin cycle.  I’d been biting my nails about meeting her for weeks, but tonight she didn’t ask if I wanted company.  She asked if I’d give her directions.

Katee was the type of girl (and my type exactly) who was ready for war and wanted the world to know.  Everything about her opposed what fashion magazines and primetime sitcoms told us about what a girl “should” look like.  Her hair was shaved crew-cut close, but with diagonal scars scattered throughout her scalp. Dark red circles were painted like full moons around her silver eyes.  She puckered her lime green sparkled lips and ran her tongue under a crooked top row of teeth.

                        Until now we’d only spoke on the phone and through texts, which was my comfort zone.  Face to face was a completely different monster for me.   Not for Katee.  She glided over with the confidence of a dragon, flicking her cigarette butt into the darkness behind her.  She straightened out her coat with a violent tug and sat on the plastic chair beside me.  Our chairs were touching and she was practically on top of me; her mouth inches from mine as she spoke.

“There’s one in my building,” she said, exhaling strawberry breath.  “I don’t use it any more.  There’s this creepy guy who’s a fixture down there.  Once I caught him nose-deep in a pair of boxer-briefs, I added it to my list of places to avoid.”

 “You’ll catch all types of degenerates at this hour,” I stuttered.  Her eyes darted between the glaring streetlamps on each side of the parking lot.  It was difficult to gauge whether she was listening to me or some phantom voice inside her head.  “You see that guy?”  I pointed inside the Seven Suds.  “That’s Charlie.  Sometimes he comes in here wearing a dress.”

“What’s shocking about that?”
            “Nothing really.  Except that in the summer he rocks some real hooker-short ones too.  And when he does, his junk hangs out all over the place.  The chairs we’re on are safe, but I wouldn’t sit on any in there.”

“Is he hung?  Drags always have the biggest packages.  How’s that for irony?  All that damage and they only want to use it on each other.  I wish I had a cannon like that between my legs.”

“A cannon?”

“Yeah,” she laughed.  “A cannon.  What about that crack-whore looking chick leaning against that machine in the back?  What’s her story?”

 “She’s a crack-whore.  A real bargain too, I figure.  I’ve seen guys pay her in quarters.”

“She’s Halle Berry compared to the trash that hang outside my building.  Now I see why you come here.”

Katee crossed her legs and a ragged sneaker dangled from her left foot.  Pink and navy hand-drawn swirls trailed along the canvas.  She rolled up her sleeves and scratched at the insides of her wrists.  Her skin was covered in swollen mosquito bumps.  She pressed X’s into them with her fingernails.  “What about that guy?  He looks like Samuel L. Jackson.”

“That’s Dark Magic.”

“Dark Magic?  Why’d you name him that?”
            “I didn’t.  That’s how he introduces himself.”

“Sounds like a Norwegian metal band,” she said, scratching the remnants of violet nail polish from her thumb.

“He’s a real head-case.  It looks like he’s having an important call on a Blue-Tooth, but he’s actually talking to himself.  He asks questions in one voice and then answers in another.  He has a thing for feet too.  One time I saw him pull out socks from a bunch of different machines.  He laid down on the ground and piled them on top of his chest.  He stayed like that for like an hour until the cleaning guy came to mop up.”

“I once knew a dude who’d pay me to rest my foot on his cheek.  Twenty bucks for twenty minutes.  He’d sprawl out on the floor and I’d sit in a chair and step one of my feet on his face.  I used to wear four pairs of socks before we’d meet up so my feet would be extra sweaty.  His request, not mine.”

“Easy money.”

“Tell me about it.  He’s serving a one to three for insurance fraud right now.  But when he gets out, I’ll still have an electric bill that needs paying.  Hope he didn’t lose my number.” 

The neon sign above us flickered a pink glow on the side of her face.  A shadow covered the other side, masking a jagged scar that ran from her cheekbone to her chin.  She pulled a jar of lotion out of her pocket and rubbed into her palms.  It smelled like cotton candy.

“So what’s your perversion?”

“Excuse me?” I stuttered.

“Your fetish.  Everyone has one.  Are you a foot-freak too?  Mine aren’t sweaty now, but I can jog around the corner if you’d like.”

“Thanks, but I’ll pass.”

“You sure?  I’ll give you a discount.”

“Sorry, not my scene.”

“Your loss.”

Katee talked so hard it was impossible to tell if she was serious or not.  She was either incredibly sarcastic, or incredibly cruel.

  “Be honest,” she said, making eye contact for the first time since she sat down.  “Do you always try to pick up girls who call you at the suicide hotline?  Is that your fetish?  Helpless bambis crying out for someone to save them?”
            “No,” I stammered.  “I mean, yes, I have in the past.”  I couldn’t lie to her.  She exhaled sodium pentothal into my lungs and my guts spilled all over the dim parking lot.  “Yes, I’ve met girls before who called in, but it’s not a habit of mine.  I’m not like that.”

“Yes you are,” she teased. “It doesn’t trouble me, so don’t worry.  We all have our own personal Salo.  Besides, you earned serious points for not trying to cover me with some rehearsed, ‘I’ve never done this before’ confession.  Dishonesty is a major deal breaker.”

Katee traced her fingernails along the initials carved into the back of her seat.  The door to the Seven Suds opened and a hunchbacked man lumbered through.  The mildew stink of dirty water trailed behind him as he passed us.  He mumbled something incoherent and soared down the street.

“One more question,” Katee said, her eyes following the hunchback until he turned the corner.  “How long does it usually take to get us on our backs?  And by us, I mean other callers, not drop-dead gorgeous Aquarians.”

“I didn’t realize I needed a trial lawyer in order to hang with you.”

“I’m not cross-examining you. Just curious.  Your answer isn’t going to affect the outcome as long as you’re honest.  So tell me, did you think you’d get it wet tonight?  Or did you think I’d be the type to drag things out and tease you for months before finally throwing up the white flag and surrendering my circus tent?”

“I honestly didn’t have a timeline.”

“Come on.  You must’ve crafted a game-plan.  It’s not like you suggested we hang out because you think I’m interesting and want to get to know me better.”

“Actually it was you who suggested we hang out, not me.”

“Really?”
            “If you replace the word suggested with demanded, than yes.”

“I was that forceful?” she smiled.  “I should mark this down on my calendar.  My shrink’ll be so proud.  He’s always hammering me to be more assertive.  I have to remember to tell him.”

Katee uncrossed her legs and shoved her knees together.  Her chair squeaked as she rocked back and forth.  She pulled out a tube of chap-stick and smeared it over her lips.  She smacked them together and blew the air a mocking kiss.

“For the record,” I said, trying to sound as cool as possible, “while the thought of sleeping with you has crossed my mind several times, I do think you’re interesting and I do want to get to know you better.”

“Honest?” she asked, her eye lids blinking rapidly.

“Honest.”

Katee bowed her head and buried her face in her coat.  She shivered even though there hadn’t been a breeze since she arrived.  Her eyes met mine and quickly shot away.   

“What’s yours?”

“My perversion?” she asked, pausing to mental down the list in order to judge which skeleton to reveal.  Her pupils dilated to the size of dimes.  She turned her head and the neon glared pink on the other side of her face.  The scar on her cheek was fresh and still raw.  It looked itchy and sore.  “Darkness.”

“Darkness?”

“Yeah, darkness,” she said, gaining her confidence back with a deep breath.  “Not that store-bought, music video gloom and doom, but true, pure flesh and blood darkness.  I don’t get turned on by black nail polish, but black souls, that’s my poison.”

“You’re attracted to evil?”

“Not evil, no.”  Katee’s eyes blinked rapidly as she browsed her internal thesaurus for the right words.  “It’s hard to explain.  I guess you could say I fall for people who embrace the black cloud that hangs above them.”

“Isn’t that a touch pretentious?”

“Maybe, but only if I gave a fuck.”

Inside the Seven Suds someone screamed.  Katee popped up excited, hoping to catch a murder or a sex crime.  She let out a defeated huff and sat back down.  “It’s only Dark Magic,” she groaned.

“He does that sometimes.  Really pisses off the sleeping homeless. In the winter they usually only grunt but now that it’s warmer outside they’re more apt to cause trouble.”

 “Think we’ll get lucky and see some tonight?”
            “You never know.”

“I hope so.  Not that I’m not having a blast sitting and talking with you.”  She put her hands on my knees and squeezed.  “But, it’d be score to catch a prizefight.”

She kept her palm on my knee and I stayed a statue, afraid to scare her hand away with a sudden movement.  Inside the Seven Suds, Dark Magic tapped on the glass window separating him from us.  He puckered his lips and pressed them to the glass, leaving behind a filthy, foggy imprint.

                        “I have to go switch to the dryer.  Want to wait out here?”

“And miss all the fun?  No way.  I’ll come with.”

Compared with the parking lot, the lights inside were blinding and I had to focus on the ground until my eyes adjusted.  Dirt footprints paced throughout the tiled floor in haphazard diagonals.  The whir of the machines mixed with the clunking of clothes as they tossed from side to side.  Tin drums clapped from someone’s headphones.  The air was a blend of bum-sweat and bleach. 

 I swung a cart in front of one of the machines and tossed my wet clothes into it.  Katee leapt into an empty cart and wheeled across the floor, slamming into a busted Galaga machine.  She sprung out of the cart unfazed and charged across the linoleum towards me.

Her cart skidded and crashed into mine, spilling my clothes throughout the floor.

“Sorry,” she said, turning my flipped cart back over.  She picked up one of my shirts and a roach scattered out from underneath it.  It disappeared behind the row of machines behind us.  “I have an idea.  Let’s play chicken?”
            “I don’t have a car.”

“Not with cars, silly.  With these.  I’ll start down there.  You start here.  We run halfway at each other, then hop in.  First one to bail out loses.”

“What does the winner get?”

“Bragging rights.”  She spun one of the wheels around with her fingertips.  It squeaked and rattled to a stop against her palm.  “And a kiss.  Winner gets a kiss.”

“What if neither of us chickens out?”

“Then we both win black eyes.  Come on, no one lives forever.  Let’s go.”

Katee raced to the other side of the Seven Suds and spun around.  “Ready?”

“This is insane.”

“On three.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“One…”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“Two…”

            “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

“Three.”

Katee took off down the open lane towards me.   She had a jump-start but I was faster and matched her speed easily.  She hopped into her cart and at the same time, so did I.  My cart slid across the floor on a direct path with hers.  I gripped the sides, trying to hold steady and keep from flipping over.   She stared rabid into my eyes and flashed her incisors.  In seconds, our carts collided, the force throwing us both onto the floor.

“Are you ok?” she asked.  She hovered blurry above me, the bright lights miraging a halo above her.  I pried my legs out of the cart and tucked them to my chest.  I must’ve bit my tongue upon impact because I tasted blood.

“I guess this means no kiss,” she giggled.  “You should’ve bailed.”

“I know.  I blew it.”

“Well, rules are made to be decimated.”

Katee leaned forward to kiss me.  To my right another roach scurried across the floor.  I jerked my head back and shoved my hand between us.  “Wait, I’m bleeding.”

“Lucky,” she said.  Katee grabbed my wrist and pinned it to the floor.  Her chap-stick smeared sticky on my face as she pried my lips apart with hers. I kept my eyes closed, but I could feel hers still open wide, examining my face for scars and imperfections. 

The ground shook as the dryer above us jerked to a stop.   Its finishing buzz echoed throughout the room.  Behind us, someone was having a coughing fit.  It sounded like a death rattle.  

Harlequin

 

When the phone rang, Kela was one straw away from throwing her cell through her bedroom window.  It’d been five days since she last heard the obnoxious salsa ring tone she assigned to Samuel.  Five days of cursing, screaming, and scratching her nails down her hideous pastel-blue walls.  Five days of telling everyone who’d listen that Samuel was the biggest scumbag, cock-sucking prick who ever exhaled carbon dioxide.

Of course, she never confessed the reason Samuel was the biggest scumbag, cock-sucking prick who ever exhaled carbon dioxide, but the message was crystal fucking clear.  Samuel was a horrendous human being and Kela would never, and I stress the word never, give that filth as much as directions as long as her pulse was still thumping.

Kela let the call go to voicemail and continued pacing the track worn down the center of her bedroom.  She grabbed a picture frame off the dresser and shattered it against the wall.  Tiny shards of glass settled across her smiling face.  Kela kicked the mess into the pile of trash bags resting in the corner.

Everything had to go.  Every present, every stupid stuffed animal, every Hallmark card, every handwritten declaration of his love.  All trash.  All stuffed into black vinyl bags and ready for the local landfill.

Kela’s entire core shook as the phone vibrated again on the mattress. 

Samuel.  If he had called yesterday or the day before, Kela would’ve told him to swallow battery acid.  She would’ve called him every name; every insult her brain could think of.  She would’ve screamed until her throat could no longer produce sound.  But Samuel didn’t call yesterday or the day before.  He was calling right now.

“Hello,” Kela grunted.  The phone connection crackled as if there were miles separating him from her.  On the other end a man cleared his throat and spoke softly.

“Kela,” it said, “It’s Samuel.”

“I know.  Caller I.D., remember?”
          “Right,” the voice paused.  “We need to talk.”

“I have nothing left to say to you.  We’re finished.”

“Please,” Samuel pleaded.  His voice was a combination of sincerity and desperation; a shaky, choked up tone, with no rhythm whatsoever.  “I can explain.”

“There’s nothing to explain.  You’re a pimp.  And I’m no whore.”

“Kela, it’s not like that.  I’m not-” Samuel paused again, letting the next few words roll uncomfortably off his tongue.  “I’m not a pimp.”

Kela and Samuel had been exclusive for six months, one week and three days.  They’d gone to the carnival, held hands on a roller coaster, had a picnic in Riverside Park, dined over candlelight and gone on about thirty other various dates.  She had gazed into his golden eyes and whispered, “I love you,” to which Samuel teased back, “Not as much as I love you.”

Samuel had even met Kela’s parents.  Of course, they were skeptical at first about her dating someone so much older, but once he stepped his freshly-polished Italian shoes into the Panetti’s living room, he had them slurping out of his palm.

“You have a lovely home, Ms. Panetti.  My mom also collects West Indian sculpture.  I’ve always found it fascinating.”

It didn’t matter that he was a foot shorter than what she considered her “type” or that his shaggy hair drooled grease on the neckline of his t-shirts.  Kela was sucker-punched in the heart the second their eyes connected.  She’d never met someone so confident before.  Yes, he often flashed a bankroll whenever they went out, but even if he were homeless and they ate fast food out of garbage bins, she was so toe up in love that she would’ve swallowed a half-eaten cheeseburger with a smile.

Now in Samuel’s defense, he never lied to her.  Whenever she asked about his career he always changed the subject or gave some kind of vague answer like “he worked with people.”  Kela wasn’t stupid.  She knew deep in her guts that whatever Samuel was up to was immoral and possibly illegal.  But in her mind, anyone who treated her as platinum as Samuel did couldn’t possibly be involved in anything that horrendous.

Fast forward to Wednesday, June 15^th.

Kela was chewing the first bite of a pepperoni slice when some under-nourished teenager leapt over their table and wrapped her hands around Samuel’s throat.  Her pale legs swung wildly behind her as she kicked the napkin dispenser across the table.

“You asshole,” she spit.  “I’ll fucking kill you.”

The girl couldn’t have weighed more than eighty pounds, but it took two guys to pull her off Samuel.  Her shredded clothes practically fell off as she struggled, her tiny left breast popping out of her tank top.  She opened her mouth wide, exposing a crooked row of gray teeth.

“I trusted you,” she screeched.  “I fucking trusted you.” 

Kela sat frozen, her sweaty hands folded neatly in her lap.  A plastic cup of root beer, knocked over in the chaos, spilled off the table onto her shoes.

Samuel adjusted his shirt unaffected, as if every day, psychopathic girls were trying to assassinate him.  Raw lines from fresh fingernail scratches tic-tac-toed across his cheek.  A vertical slash swelled in the center of his upper lip.

“Sorry about that.”  Samuel wiped the puddle of soda on the table with a handful of napkins.  He crumpled them into a ball and tossed them effortlessly into the garbage can by the exit.

“You motherfucking toad.”

Outside, the fanatical girl pounded her fists against the window pane.  The glass vibrated with every impact.  “If I ever see you again, so help me Christ, I’ll cut your motherfucking throat.”

Behind her, two hands grabbed her shoulders and dragged her into the darkness. 

“Who was that?”

“That was,” Samuel answered, choosing his words cautiously, “someone I tried to help once upon a time.”

If Samuel were a drug dealer, Kela would’ve looked the other way.  If he were a thief or a pyramid schemer, she would’ve swallowed her tongue and gone back to his apartment where she’d spend another night laying on his perfect chest and dreaming of their future together.  But no, Samuel wasn’t a thief and he wasn’t a pyramid schemer.  He was something much worse.

“How could you lie to me,” Kela unleashed her rage into the phone.  “I really thought I loved you.”

“Well, I know I love you.  That’s not a lie.”

“Bullshit.  How do I know that when you think of me, you’re not thinking I’m another one of your whores?  If you gave me a STD I swear-”

“I’ve been nothing but faithful to you,” he interrupted, shivering at the thought.  “And I’m not a pimp.  I recruit girls.  That’s it.  I don’t hook up.  I don’t spend any time with them.  All I do is guide them from point A to point B.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”
          “I meet a girl and then I introduce her to someone.  I don’t try out the merchandise and I don’t score with them.  It’s only business.  I bring them to my guy and that’s the last I ever see them.”

“If that’s true then why did that slut try to gouge your eyes out at Ray’s Pizza last week?”

“Hell if I know.  These girls are all unstable.  Why else would they want to become prostitutes?  Ninety percent of them are junkies and the other ten percent belong in mental institutions.”

“How am I supposed to believe you?  I mean, this is out of control crazy.  I have to go.”

“Wait,” Samuel begged.  “Hear me out.”

“You have sixty seconds.  Go.”

“Kela, I love you.  I love you so much.  You’re everything to me.  If I ever lost you I wouldn’t be able to breathe.”

“Then why’d it take you five days to call me?”
       

   “Honestly, I was afraid.  Afraid of you telling me that it was over.”

Kela switched the phone to her other ear.  Speechless, she stared at the garbage bags of mementos in the corner of her room.  On top, a white teddy bear stared its glassy eyes into hers.  She wanted to reach inside and tear out its stuffing. 

“You have to believe me.  I love you with all my heart.”

“That doesn’t matter.  You’re- what you do is sick.”

“You’re right.  I don’t expect you to understand.”

Silence settled between them.  Samuel fidgeted his tongue over the back of his teeth.  He was ready to give up and apologize for the last time when she spoke.

“Where do you find these girls?”
          “Around.  Usually in the parks.”

“And then what?”

“Well, if I see someone who looks the type, I’ll approach them and spark a conversation.”

“What’s the type?”

“You know, someone whose eyes dart around too much, or someone who wanders like a lost puppy.  You can spot desperation a mile away.”

“And what do you talk about?”

“Trivial stuff mostly.  If I get a vibe, I ask them if they want to make some money.  If they say yes, I introduce them to a guy I know.”

“And you get paid for this?”
          “Very well, yes.”

“You get paid for each girl?”

“It varies how much, but yes.”

“What if a girl changes her mind?  Do you have to give the money back?”
          “That hasn’t ever happened, but if it did, I guess I’d have to.”

“These girls, they’re all willing?”
          “For the most part.”

“For the most part?”

“Some aren’t totally down from jump, but that’s between them and my guy.  I don’t know what happens once I introduce them.  At that point, it’s no longer my problem.”

“That’s a cold attitude to have,” Kela scorned.  She bent down and picked the tiny shards of glass off the floor.  She winced as a splinter stuck into her thumbprint. 

“Would you rather I cared?  I thought you’d prefer that I’m not involved with any of these girls after the fact.  Forget it.  I knew you’d never understand.”
          “Make me understand.”  Kela pulled out the splinter with a pair of tweezers.  Tiny blood circles grew from the wound.  “I’m trying, Samuel.  I really am.  Tell me, these girls you find, it can’t be that easy.”

“Unfortunately it is.  I know you think that everyone out there is wholesome and pure, but the world isn’t like that.  People out there are starving and they’ll do anything to fill their stomachs, even sell themselves.”

“Still it seems rather shady.”

“Shady?  Well, it is.  But we live in shady times.”

“That’s no excuse.”

“At the end of the day, I provide a solution to a problem.  The girls I find are looking for a way out which I show them.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way.”

“Well I do.  You’re despicable.  I can’t believe I ever fell for you.”

“It hurts to hear you say that.  You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Prove it.”

“How?”
          “I don’t know.  That’s your job.  You can start by telling me I’m not just some whore to you.”

“Kela, you’re not some whore to me.  You are everything to me.  Deep down you know that.  You’re the girl I want to spend eternity with.”

“Sure.”

“I mean it.  All I want in this god damn world is you.  You, Kela.  You, you, you, you, you.”

“I saw this news special on television a few weeks ago.  It was about this guy who tricked all these girls.  He talked them all smooth and tricked them.  He told them blah blah blah and they believed him.  Then he had them kidnapped and hooked them on junk and made them all prostitutes.”

“That’s human trafficking.  That’s completely different.  I promise you I’ve never done anything like that.  People like that are pure evil.  I’d never be a part of something so sinister.”

“How do I know that?  Shit like that happens every day.  How do I know that if I trust you that I’m not going to end up some statistic.  As some helpless victim that some old T.V. anchor reports about?”

“You’re not going to become a statistic.  First of all, if I tried to kidnap you, you’d probably kick my ass.”

“I’d smash your teeth in.”

“Believe me, I know.  I’m shocked you didn’t catch me with a right hook last week at Ray’s.”

“Me too.  I probably should’ve.”

“Meet me tonight for coffee.  I need to talk to you about something important.  After I’ve said what I need to say, you can hit me, kick me, whatever you want.”

“Fine.  But it has to be some place public.”

“Understood.  Montell’s?  At seven?”

“Whatever.  I’ll see you then.”

The second her finger hit the red phone symbol on her cell, Kela was so overwhelmed by dizziness that she had to grab onto her dresser to keep from tipping over.  Images and emotions from the first time they met flushed inside her.      

She was freezing, trying to hail a cab after running out on a date gone wrong.  The guy she left behind in the restaurant was a hundred pounds heavier than his online photo and couldn’t keep his squinty eyes off her tits.  He didn’t even bother to wipe the drool of his chin after gulping down four gin and tonics before the waitress took their appetizer order.

Samuel was ashing a cigarette out his driver’s side window, double-parked on the crowded street.  She never learned what he was waiting for.  When she told the story to her girlfriends it was fate’s generous hands throwing them both together and not some random coincidence.  After an onslaught of taxis sped by without glancing in her direction, Samuel motioned for her to come over.  Her broken-heeled shoes sloshed with every step.  Rain drizzled from her hair down the front of her face.  It didn’t take much convincing for her to accept a ride home. 

Kela was used to guys expecting something in return for kindness.  She spent the entire ride preparing a speech for when he tried to hustle sex.  But he didn’t.  Samuel was a perfect gentleman.  He didn’t even ask for her number.  Instead, Kela asked for his.

They met for drinks a week later and even though Kela would’ve gone all the way after his lips told her she looked stunning, it took two months for his hands to wander past second base.  The waiting made Kela uncomfortable.  She’d never been with a guy who wanted to get to know her before shoving his hands down her jeans.  But when they did finally screw it was magic, the type of passionate, sweaty sex scripted in daytime soap operas.

That was four months, one week and five days ago.  Everything was different now.  They were meeting for coffee and that was it.  There would be no sneaking off to the restroom for a quick blowjob.  No going back to his apartment and making out while Johnny Cash played on the stereo and shadows from candle-flames pulsated on the walls.  This wasn’t a romantic date.  This was goodbye. 

It took Kela two hours to choose something to wear.  She twirled in front of her bathroom mirror wearing a lime green blouse and a long, black pencil skirt that she remembered Samuel said she looked good in.  A dozen plastic bracelets dangled on each wrist, each one a different color so that when she moved her arms fast your eyes would see a rainbow.   She had no time left for hair and makeup, so she threw it up with a few clips and smeared glitter around her eyes.  On her way out the door she painted pineapple-flavored gloss on her lips.

When she arrived at Montell’s, he was already there, hunched over a round table in the center of the restaurant.  He was wearing a beige sweater with a cornflower blue collar sticking out of the neck.  His hair was messier than usual and a coarse layer of stubble carpeted his face.  He took a sip of ice water and smiled.    

“I was starting to fear you weren’t going to show.”

“Sorry,” Kela said, sitting down.  “You know I’m always fifteen minutes late.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Not really.”

Samuel tapped his fingers on the tip of his fork.  He was nervous, something he’d never been in front of Kela.  A solemn mask covered his face; his eyes speckled with red from crying.

  “I know I’ve done some terrible things, but if you’ll give me another chance I’ll do whatever I can to fix what’s damaged between us.”

“I don’t think that’s possible,” she said.  Neither of them were able to make eye contact for more than an instant.  Her eyes were fixed on the table; his eyes on his knuckles.

“I have to leave town.  Tonight.  And I want you to come with me.”

“Are you insane?  Even if I wanted to I can’t just pick up and leave.”

“It wouldn’t be forever.  Only until things calm down.  I told the guy I work for that I’m done; that I wanted out, but it’s not that simple.  The people in my world, they don’t let you just quit.”

“What do you mean?  Are you in danger?”

“I think so.  I don’t know.  I might be paranoid.  But I can’t take any chances.  I have a cousin.  He lives in Virginia.  He owns a company installing home theaters.  He said he has plenty of work for me and that we could stay with him until we sort things out.”

“What would I do?  I have a lease.  I couldn’t back out of it even if I wanted to.”

“I understand, but I can’t do this without you.  Please come with me.  You can figure everything out later.  It’s what we always talked about.  Moving away and starting a life together.  I’ll buy you a plane ticket back.  Come with me and it’s yours to use anytime you want.”

Kela wanted to grab his glass of water and shatter it in his face, but he was right.  They’d spent many nights, naked underneath cotton sheets, staring at the cracks in the ceiling and wishing they could move somewhere together.  The grime of the city had always made her anxious, but lately it was making her violently ill.  Sometimes she refused to leave her apartment, afraid of having another panic attack dealing with the shoving crowds, or the relentless blaring of car horns.

Their eyes finally met, but neither refused to look away.  A tear dripped down the side of Samuel’s cheek.  “I love you,” he said, his voice quivering and about to collapse.  “Please give me another chance.”

“I’ll come with you,” she insisted.  “But I’m not staying past this weekend.”

His sweaty hands grabbed hers and squeezed.  He still looked like he was about to cry, but at least he was smiling.  Kela forced a smile back and returned the squeeze.

“You won’t regret this,” he said.

Half of her closet was already scattered on the bed from earlier, so it didn’t take her long to shove everything into a suitcase.  They were on the road in under an hour.  Traffic backed up for miles on the bridge out of the city, as if everyone in Manhattan were exodusing.  In the car next to them, a child traced cartoon animals on his window with dirty fingerprints.

It was late, so they stopped in a motel a few miles from Samuel’s cousin’s house.  The plan was to rest and then drive over first thing in the morning for breakfast.  They took turns showering, and after a few awkward minutes, they settled into bed.  The bed-sheets were scratchy and stiff, but they were both too emotionally exhausted to complain.

Samuel tried to kiss her on the cheek goodnight but Kela couldn’t resist.  She turned her head so their lips met.  Samuel melted as their fingertips touched.

The whole drive Kela had tried to convince herself that she wasn’t going to sleep with Samuel, no matter how hard he persisted.  But it was Kela who slid her hand down the front of his boxer shorts and breathed heavy in his ear.  Samuel resisted at first but Kela was persistent and after a long kiss, she guided him smoothly inside her. 

Samuel moved his hips forceful but slow; the teasing tempo that always drove her insane, holding back until Kela had exploded her guts onto the sheets.  They fell asleep with their legs intertwined and her hair settled softly on Samuel’s face.

The sun rose outside their window, the warm light filling the room with an orange glow.  Kela covered her head with a pillow.  “Can’t we stay in bed forever,” she whispered. 

“We have our whole lives together.”  Samuel pressed his wet lips to her forehead.  “Are you thirsty?  I can get some juice from the vending machine outside.”

“That would be amazing?”

“Anything for you,” he said, pulling his jeans up to his hips.  “Be right back.”

The door clicked shut behind him.  Kela clutched her pillow to her chest, the soft feathers crushing against her body.  She sighed and rolled onto her back.  A starfish shaped water stain pulsated around the ceiling fan.  She pulled the blankets up to her collarbone and sighed.  Outside she heard the boring drone of talk radio blasting on someone’s stereo.

The doorknob turned and Kela sat up fast, letting the blankets fall to her lap.  She wanted Samuel to enter the room and see her wearing nothing but a smile. 

“Hurry up and get back into this bed,” she called.

The door opened and a Hispanic man stormed inside.  Practically every inch of his skin was covered in tattoos, including a crow on the left side of his face.  He rushed at the bed and grabbed both of Kela’s wrists.

“Stop,” she cried.  “Samuel, help.”

She opened her mouth to scream more, and the man slammed his fist into her jaw.  He grabbed a handful of her hair and dragged her onto the ground.  He stomped his boots into her ribs.  Kela spit blood onto the carpet. 

The man slipped a pillowcase over her head.  Kela gagged on the sour stink of her own breath.  A black line of bile drooled down her chin.  Her body convulsed as she dropped in and out of consciousness.  She felt another fist pound into her spine and she fell to her knees.

“Get up,” the man ordered.  But she couldn’t.  She couldn’t even feel her legs anymore.  Tears poured uncontrollably from her eyes.  She started hyperventilating.  The man pulled the pillow off her head, and the sunlight blinded her.  Her bare feet scraped across the parking lot concrete, tiny pebbles getting caught under her toenails. 

The man wrapped his arms around her chest and swung her into the back of a van.  Kela’s ankles slammed against the rear bumper and everything went black.  The door shut behind her, the sound of metal slamming against metal echoed in her ears as she drifted away.    

   

The Proper Way to Eat a Poison Apple

 

If Alex was right, and for once he probably was, you’d have about an hour and fifteen minutes before you ran out of air.   Now that’s the in-a-perfect-world scenario.  If you freaked out at all, and your heart raced even the slightest, you’d be skying up much sooner.  In the box, keeping your knots tied was tricky.  All it took was a minor tug on your adrenaline and the whole damn sweater would unravel.  I don’t have to tell you what happens next.

This was my eleventh time.  From the moment the first shovelfuls pattered against the other side of the lid, I was steel.  Breathing softly through my nose.  Exhaling steady streams of carbon dioxide through my pursed lips.  My heartbeat a light tremor against my ribcage.

None of this was exact science.  There probably was a mathematical formula for how long it’d take a person to asphyxiate, like if you multiplied the cubic inches of the coffin by x and then divided the cubic inches of oxygen a human needs to breathe by temperature and bodyweight.  But we weren’t mathematicians.  An hour and fifteen minutes was a guesstimate based on nothing more than it sounded legit when Alex said it.

Alex was far from Einstein, but he was incredibly convincing.  He spoke so matter-of-fact that if he told you that A.I.D.S was created by space aliens in order to combat global warming you’d be sold.  He’d flip the lock of hair that always fell in front of his face to the side, squint his crooked eyes, then spit some far-out idea and you’d feel ashamed that you didn’t already know.  So, even though nine out of ten he was full of shit, when he told us an hour and fifteen, it became text book.

We all agreed that wearing a watch was cheating.  You had to rely on your internal clock, which was your own worst enemy.  Trapped in a dark, claustrophobic space, an hour and fifteen minutes was a lifetime.  But that was the point.  Knowing exactly how much time elapsed faded some of the fear; the fear that maybe this time no one was going to dig you up.

None of us went the whole hour and fifteen until around the fourth try.  As a precaution, the first night we buried Eric we dug him up after a half hour; thirty minutes he described as “better than sex.”  Eric’s scrunched up face was usually scarred with a permanent scowl, but on that night, I’d never seen a wider smile.

When Eric insisted on going first, we were floored and didn’t protest.  He was the least fearless of our group.  He’d always fabricate a million reasons why we shouldn’t play whatever life-threatening game we invented.  With this he was different.  After all, it was his idea.

Using wood from the shed behind his house we constructed the box in under two hours.  If it wasn’t for Eric’s relentless barking, we might never have finished.  While we were screwing around, throwing nails at each other, he was hammering.  Usually Eric was the laziest, but this time he was cocks down the most determined.

He was also the tallest so when he lied down in the narrow box he had to turn his ankles inwards to fit.  I couldn’t imagine having to deal with that, but he wasn’t concerned with comfort.  He was scared shitless.

Except for shadows, Eric’s face was two shades away from being translucent.  His red hair even lost some of its color, as if terror had sucked all the vibrancy out of it.  We gave him one last chance to back out.  He cleared his throat and stuttered, “Not a whore’s chance in hell.”

The last time I went under, life started slipping away around the hour mark.  The box stunk of my warm breath, bile mixed with the chicken salad I had for lunch.  A blanket of death smothered my face.  I slipped into a tunnel and dreamt of floating on a raft in a lazy river.  My skin tingled and from the waist down I was numb.  When I opened my eyes, I was cowering in a bathtub with Gloria pressing a warm washcloth to my back.

This time I was going under for the full hour and fifteen.  Normally that meant that in a little under an hour, the three of them would start digging.  But not this time.  Right now, the boys would be wandering into the woods and Gloria would be stomping an American Spirit into the dirt above me.

Gloria. She frightened me the most.  I knew when she slept with me that she was only trying to lash out at Alex.  Not that I hadn’t thought of that first.  Out of all the ways I could think of to make Alex hate me enough to consider murder, sex with Gloria was the most appealing.

Gloria wasn’t pretty, but she carried a danger that made her desirable.  When we first met, she was just another bookish misfi with oversized glasses and stringy hair.  She spoke in poetry and doodled fairies on her wrists with colored markers.  Dirt stained her hands and she smelled like paint thinner. She wore chalk-dust instead of makeup and painted her lips with dollar store cherry chap-stick.  When Alex brought her into our circle I could never have imagined the wickedness that boiled under the surface.

Tonight she was wearing the same tattered, eye-sore yellow dress she always did.  It hung sloppily off her shoulders and was covered in cigarette burns and coffee stains.  A wad of tissues stuck out from both front pockets.  The left was for new, the right was for used.  We were in the middle of nowhere and she was adamant against littering.

Despite all this, Gloria brought a fever to the bedroom that no girl could match.  She’d shout out the wrong name and then paralyze your limbs with a psychotic stare.  Gloria had a bear-trap between her legs and knew the right moment to snap it shut.  The two of us fought a relentless battle for control and it was always a massacre.  Afterwards, while I’d struggle to catch my breath, she’d exhale smoke in my face.  I was thankful it wasn’t fire.

“Your books lied to you,” she’d whisper, seconds before piercing my ear lobe with her incisors, “The devil is a teenage girl.”

After balling me failed to shove Alex off the ledge, Gloria moved on to Eric.  I heard second hand that the three of them were on the subway coming home from a party when it happened.  Alex was telling another one of his exaggerated stories and before he could give up the climax, Gloria unbuttoned Eric’s jeans and went to work on his piece.  Alex dragged Eric into the next car and slammed his face into a row of seats.

Eric fell hard for Gloria.  By the time I warned him he was already in her web with her fangs deep in his jugular.  She’d show up places on his arm, knowing that Alex and I would already be there.  After a week she went back to me, then to Eric, then back to Alex, completing the slut circle and giving everyone’s rage a focus.  She became the villain.  I have to admit, it was fucking brilliant.

Of course Gloria sleeping with Eric infuriated Alex.  Alex and Eric had been inseparable since the fourth grade.  I was always on the outside with them so Eric’s betrayal stung more than mine ever could.  This meant I had to up the ante.  Sleeping with Gloria wasn’t enough.  I needed Alex to catch us in the act.

One day Gloria and I snuck into his apartment while he was working.  When his car pulled into the driveway we immediately engaged in the most hardcore of acts on his bed.  He entered and there we were, violating his sanctuary.  He screamed and threw everything he could wrap his hands around.  Gloria and I continued unfazed until an ashtray slammed into the back of my head.

If my turn were next, this would’ve been perfect.  But it wasn’t.  It was Gloria’s and she needed Alex to be angrier at her than me.  She needed his rage focused solely on her.  If I was the enemy and he chose to leave me buried too long, then the game was over.  The three of them would have to find a new game and this one was too much fun.

The way we had it timed, it’d take all three of the players above ground to dig up the buried before it was too late.  If one person refused to help, you were out of luck.  So far I’d had several arguments with both Alex and Eric in order to persuade them to help me unearth Gloria.  It was only a matter of time before I stopped wasting my breath.

We all had different ways of playing the game; our own set of personal rules that we followed.  Alex meditated.  He said he transcended the human form and became a spirit, but to me, his method was cheating.  It wasn’t real unless you were experiencing death.  You had to truly believe you were going to die.  That was the rush.  The fear that this was it; that your clock was ticking to zero.  You couldn’t hit the snooze button and have ten more minutes.  When the buzzer sounded, it was time to go.

If you knew deep down that you were going to be saved, then this was child’s play.  To play correctly you had to be hangman sure that you were buried alive and your friends would never dig you up in time.  Your mom was going to clean out your room and find your porn-stash, and not just the tame stuff, she was going to find it all, the real disturbing shit that everyone has but no one will admit to.

If you were one of those glass-half-full types you could comfort yourself by believing that your friends were honest and that even if you cashed in, they would notify the police about what happened.  Then you’d get a proper burial and a funeral director would throw a suit on you and cake some powder on your face.  Your relatives would cry and people would make speeches about how wonderful you were.

But your friends weren’t honest.  Your friends were sociopaths who could feed children poison candy and still sleep like babies.  If you were already dead when they dug you up, your friends were the types that’d throw you back in the hole and forget all about your pathetic existence.  Nine out of ten you were going to be worm food and no one would ever know.

For me that was the pull and it hooked me hardcore.  I was a fear junkie.  Most type A’s jump out of planes or dive in shark cages to feel alive. That macho masturbation was too safe for me.  I craved real danger.  I couldn’t have metal bars between me and a Great White’s jaws or a licensed instructor tandemed to my back making sure I pulled the ripcord.

Every day people get off on the illusion of near-death experience.  They brag to their coworkers and bartenders about how they lived on the edge.  Those people were full of shit.  They didn’t know the first thing about death.  They spent their days safe in cubicles and fortified SUVs, reading the warning labels on medications and looking both ways before they crossed the street.

True danger was cutting holes in the safety net and still jumping.  Real death was lying in the box under two yards of dirt and placing your life in the hands of your enemies.  That was the reason I vandalized Alex’s shiny new sports car.  That was why I made that anonymous phone call to the police about the drugs I planted in Eric’s kitchen.  That was why I fed Gloria’s schnauzer rat poison.  (Unfortunately she was more grateful than annoyed since she that thing never stopped yipping.)  If bungee jumping was enough to race my pulse than I never would’ve tied Alex to a chair and pliered out four of his teeth

Some people’s idea of living on the edge was driving without a seat belt.  For Alex it was attacking my sister with a crowbar and leaving her crippled from the waist down.  For Eric it was harassing my landlord and having me evicted.  Gloria, of course, used her talents to ball my stepfather which drove my mom to swallow a blister-pack of valiums.  The four of us spent sleepless night after sleepless night plotting the worst possible revenge against each other, and every Thursday we took our turn in the box.

Eric’s mother was still in a coma after someone shoved her down a flight of stairs.  Both Alex and I took credit for that, even though I was the one who crouched in her hallway for an hour, waiting for the old bitch to investigate the noises I was making.  I had taken all the risk, but he beat me to the punch, confessing before the ambulance dumped her off at the hospital.

But even if he believed Alex over me, I still had racked up enough bad karma to make him want to leave me buried.  I was, after all, the one who set fire to his studio apartment.  Right now, Eric would be mentally going over the list of reasons not to dig.  But right now Gloria would also be using her seduction to convince him otherwise.  She was always one step ahead.  If I was weaker I would’ve threw down my shovel the last time she went underground.  But I wasn’t going to let her win.  I needed to play one more round.

The last time I went under I was so close.  I was dizzy and the box spun like a merry-go-round.  It was pitch black but colors danced before my eyes.  I vomited all over myself and panicked.  Death wasn’t gentle and cathartic like I thought it’d be.  It was violent and agonizing.  My fingers were still raw from clawing at the lid.  Only two of my nails had begun to grow back since then.

A thick splinter dug into my back.  I writhed on top of it, the pain the only thing reminding me that I was still alive.  Gloria hovered over me like a dust cloud.  The scent of basement dust rose off her clothes.  I held on to her bony hips and clutched handfuls of her thrift store dress.  She threw her head back and cackled.  Then I heard the swishing sounds of digging.  Then the thud of metal against the coffin lid.

Tonight, it was going to be different.  They wouldn’t dare save me.  Not after all the damage done.  Gloria was sick, demented, but even someone as twisted as her couldn’t possibly forgive my sins.  Her scars were never going to heal.  She was going to spend the rest of her life explaining to the world how some lunatic took a blowtorch to the right side of her face.

Even if she craved one more round, she had nothing left to bargain with.  There wasn’t anything she could offer Alex or Eric, no depraved sexual act, no promise of ever-lasting love that they weren’t already bored with.  The last words I heard where Eric mumbling “Fuck him,” under his breath.  He was definitely finished playing.

Right now Gloria would be rubbing ointment on her cheek.  She’d be gazing into her plastic pink mirror at the hideous monster I created as ooze dripped from her blisters.  Eric would be staring at his cell phone, anxiously waiting for news on his mother’s condition.  Alex would be pressing his tongue to his sore gums and tasting blood.  His hands would be curling into tiny, pathetic fists.

I waited patiently for the panic to sink in and repeated to myself that this was it, that the game was over.  My body was going to rot inside the box that I helped build and there was nothing I could do to prevent it.
Right now Gloria would be wrapping her chapped lips around a fresh American Spirit.  She’d be exhale humming that same song that drove every one of us mental.  Last night it took every ounce of restraint not to smother her as she snored next to me.  Her sweat silhouette still fresh on my pillow; tiny beads of sulfur on the tip of my tongue.  Bed-sheets soaked with her cancer in a crumpled mess on the floor.  Gloria.  My breath swirled hot and stale over my lips.  It tasted like sour milk.

 

 

 

 

 

 

the tremor in the tunnel

Lately it was easy to lose track of time.

It was dark outside; but it was winter, so it could’ve been anywhere between four PM and six in the morning.  Since the power went out last September we hadn’t reset any of the clocks, so the displays still annoyingly flashed 12:00 in red.  Nora swore she never changed them back because she wanted our apartment to be separate from the outside world, a place where you could disappear and forget about man-made conventions like time

I was Indian-style on the living room carpet, touching up the Dakota building.  Nora could care less if the Dakota came out perfect, but still I was careful with every detail.  It was my personal mission to design the building as close to the real thing as a plastic model could be.  I replayed in my head the moment John Lennon was shot out front and wondered if painting a puddle of blood on the sidewalk and leaving a toy body face down on the concrete would be bad taste

The Pixies were on the stereo and Nora sang softly to herself.  I wanted to sing with her, but I was too focused on holding the building without smearing any of the freshly painted windows.  I needed total concentration or I’d ruin everything.  Then I’d have to coat the building again in white and start from scratch.

Although Nora was in no rush to finish this art project, the sooner we were done creating Manhattan, the sooner we could set it up outside for phase 2; covering the city in lighter fluid and watching it burn.

A checkered tie hung loosely around her neck.  Every few minutes she’d tighten it.  She got off on the feeling of being choked, she told me, but only when she was in control.  Every now and then a client would wrap his hands around her throat without permission.  Ten out of ten, he’d end up stumbling out of the motel room with fresh scratches on his face and a bruised set of balls.  I’ve never been married, but I doubt that’s the easiest thing to explain to the wife and kids.

Water dripped from a leak into a plastic garbage pail.  It also dripped into a set of saucepots that semi-circled around us.  Our landlord was one of those, “I’ll get to it tomorrow” type of guys so instead of hiring a roofer, the once white ceiling was now littered with growing beige spots.  It was only a matter time before the entire roof collapsed.  But according to Nora it wasn’t worth stressing about since, “It was only a matter of time before the whole world collapsed.”

“I had this wild dream last night,” she said, snapping the straps of her tank top.  She was wearing a short vinyl skirt and her knees bore red rings from the coarse carpet.  “We were ice skating on this lake, only we weren’t wearing skates.  We were sliding around in our socks.”

Nora was also wearing one orange sock and one that was striped yellow and powder blue.  If you didn’t know her, you’d think this fashion statement was out of laziness, but the truth is, she methodically chose every detail of her appearance.  She’d lay every sock on the bed and match the different singles into the most creative pairs.  The same went for earrings and bracelets.  Shoes were different though.  It was hard enough finding a pair that she liked let alone trying to make them creative.

“We were holding hands and circling as fast as we could, passing families and couples and laughing at the kids who’d wiped out.  Then, all of a sudden, something fell from the sky and smashed through the center.  Like a giant asteroid or a meteorite.”

Nora paused and rubbed lip gloss on her lips. From five feet away I could smell the warm scent of vanilla sugar.

“Hey.  What’s the difference between an asteroid and a meteor?”

I shrugged and raised my eyebrows.  Nora pushed her hair up into a pyramid.  She scrunched her nose and it fell in front of her face.  She blew it out of the way with a forceful breath.  Two random hairs stuck to the cigarette burn scars under her right eye.  Sometimes she said they were from her father.  Sometimes it was a client.  Between you and I, it wouldn’t surprise me if she’d done them herself.

The wounds were old, but since she was always picking at them they never properly healed.  Every now and then yellowish pus would ooze out one of the craters.  On anyone else this flaw would be a deal-breaker, but not with her.  Nora wore imperfections like accessories.

Casually, she plucked off the hairs and flicked them away with one motion.

“The ice gave way and everyone started sliding into the water.  The lake was black, almost like oil and you could see the cold hovering over it.  It was like spirits rising out of hell.  Thin white wisps of cold death.

“It was chaos.  The people kept falling; men, women, children, lovers holding hands, mothers clutching their newborns, all of their arms flailing into the darkness.

“You and I sat on a snow bank.  You put your arm around me and it felt slick and slimy like a squid’s tentacles.  I didn’t care though.  It was comforting in a way.  Isn’t it strange how in a dream you’re never really cold?  You feel pain and emotions, but you never feel temperature.”

Nora jerked out another hair and winded it around her index finger.  It was so brittle it snapped in half.  Today her hair was black with random silver streaks.  She had made so many drastic changes to her it over the years that it was always on the verge of falling out.  That’s what she told herself anyway.  It couldn’t possibly be a side effect from all the bird flu she plowed up her nose.

“This woman, she had to be pushing sixty, grabbed onto a large ice chunk.  She had already gone underwater, so her hair was drenched.  I could hear her teeth chattering over all the screams and splashes.  Even if she somehow clawed herself out of the water, she was sure as fuck going to die from hypothermia, but still she hung on.  Her survival instinct was stronger than her reality instinct, I guess.

“Anyway, this crazy bitch tried desperately to pull herself up, but her hands kept sliding on the slippery surface.  Her eyes met mine and I felt her hopelessness.  It’s priceless that look people get in their eyes when they realize for the first time that they’re going to die.  There’s no way to describe it.  It’s something you never forget.”

“What was I doing while this was happening?”

“You were humming something.  It was a song I knew, but couldn’t place.  The woman didn’t even notice you though.  She just kept staring right into my soul.  Then, it finally happened.  She gave up and flashed me a nervous smile. I smiled back and her blank face disappeared into the dark waters. It was so fucking beautiful.  I think I came.”

“Only you would think that’s beautiful.”
“Think it means anything?”

“In high school I had to read ‘The Complete Works of Sigmund Freud.’  I learned all about the id, the superego and all that dream interpretation shit, but I never read anything about a mass drowning.  It was mostly cigars and cocks.”

“How about a giant earthquake that swallows the entire city of Manhattan?  I have that dream all the time.”

“Sorry.  Freud never wrote about that either.  Like I said, cigars and cocks.”

“What about them?”

“That if you’re smoking a cigar in a dream, it’s symbolic of your subconscious urge to smoke on a penis.”

“Well, duh.”  Nora said, extending the “duh” so it ran obnoxiously long.  “Do you think he came up with that before or after opiates turned his brain into chicken salad?”

“He was on something when he came up with most of his bullshit.”

“And people say drugs are evil.”  Nora dipped her brush in the ashtray and swirled it between a circle of black and a circle of white, creating the color of a thunderstorm.  The whites of her eyes penetrated the distance as she filled in the top floors of a skyscraper.  “Wouldn’t it be wild if it never stopped raining?  How long do you think it would be before the entire earth flooded?”

A thin waterfall poured from the windowsill into the garbage pail, pattering in time with the bass line of “Here Comes Your Man.”

“Seven days.”

“Really?”

“No.”

Nora frowned and placed a building onto a crowded block and smiled.

“The street out front is totally fucked.  Water was up to my ankles before.”

“Maybe this is the biblical flood we’ve prayed for.”

“Hopefully.”

“We’re on the ground floor so we’re definitely doomed.”

“Que sera.”

Nora smiled softly.  Her pupils were tiny zeroes.  Secretly, I craved these moments; when she was lost in the tunnel.  Even when I wasn’t faded with her.  Just seeing her happy was enough to lessen the emptiness in the pit of my stomach.  Sometimes, I wished she never came down.

Nora squinted, trying to make the tunnel larger.  “I’m getting sick of waiting for the apocalypse,” she said, squinting harder, and flashing a gutter-wide grin.  “I’m starting to think that we’re going to have to start the damn thing ourselves.”

“As long as we’re together when it happens.”

“That’s the sweetest, most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”  Nora looked down shyly, her smile pushing her cheekbones higher.  “Tell me again why we’re not dating.”

“Cause you don’t believe in dating boys for free.”

“Oh yeah, that.  For a second I forgot.”

“Really?”

“No.  You know I’m reminded of my sins with every breath that passes through my tainted, I mean, painted lips.”

“You’re not a sinner, you’re a survivor.”

“What’s the difference?”

Nora studied the building in her hands, waiting for an answer I didn’t have to give.  She dabbed specks of black on its side, creating cracks in the concrete.  She scratched the blunt end of the paintbrush on the side of her head, loosening some of her hair from the rubber band holding it back.

“Seriously though.  Maybe I’m wrong.  Maybe we should date. It’d be a hell of a lot easier.”
“Yeah, maybe.”

I swirled my brush on my palette till all the colors mixed into the dark grey color of rot.

Nora sighed and watched the water splashing into the saucepan to my right.  Every now and then the drops would splash hard and spill over the lid onto the carpet. New stains on top of old stains.

“It’s a dumb idea anyway,” she said, still focused on the dripping water.  “Besides, I’m convinced my next relationship will most likely end up a murder suicide.”

“Whatever.” The color on my palette matched the feeling in my stomach; A swirling rage and despair, a scream building in my blood, an emotional pipe bomb waiting for a lit match.  Nora retied her hair behind her.  I saw the rain drops reflected in her eyes.

“What about Nicole?” she asked.

“What about Nicole?”

“Why don’t you date her?  She’s clearly into you.”

“Not a chance.”

“Why not?  She’s a knockout.  Ninety-nine percent perfect on the outside.”

“But on the inside?”

“She needs some maintenance, sure.  But I can work on her.  Just needs a little touchup under the hood.  I’ll gladly mechanic that shit for you.”

“Nicole needs more than an oil change.  She’s one step away from Girl Interrupted.”

“Stop exaggerating. We’ve had many late night heart-to-hearts and she’s an easy fix. She has some baggage, yeah, but what fish doesn’t?  Besides, the thing about baggage is you can always set it down. ”

“It’s that easy?”

“All I have to do is lay Nicole on my therapist’s couch, spit a rousing motivational speech and convince her to nuke her emotional bullshit.  Then, you two will date and have that Hollywood ending that would normally make me gag, but because I love you more than anything I’ll hold down my English muffin and be happy for you.  Sound good?”

“Thanks, but no thanks.”

“Why?  You’re not still stuck on Cristal?  Please tell me that’s not it.  That girl’s a poison apple you should’ve never bitten into.”

“Of course not.  Cristal’s a virus.  That was a mistake. She’s not my type anyway.”

“Well, Nicole is everyone’s type.  And she’s already into you, so half the battle’s already fought.  She told me so.”

“During one of your heart-to-hearts?”

“Yes, actually,” she said in a surgical tone.  Nora always ignored my sarcasm and it drove me mental.  If you wanted to get under her skin you needed a samurai sword.

“And when you had these heart-to-hearts, how high were the two of you?”

“Why should that matter?  Drugs are the ultimate truth serum.”

“You’re the expert.”

“So why won’t you go for her?” Nora asked, once again ignoring my sarcasm.  “Convince me.”

“Because Nicole also  doesn’t believe in dating boys for free.”

“She said that?”
“Not in those words, no.”

“Well, for starters, she’s minor league at best.  Nicole’s filled with too much hope.  The past few weeks aside, she’s lived like Cinderella.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“She’s he’s a good investment.  You’ll see.  Don’t be thrown by the character she’s been trying to play.  It’s not who she is.  Let me talk to her and lay the groundwork.”

“Don’t waste your time playing love connection.  It’ll never work.”

“Come on.  Besides her current occupation, which she’s quitting by the way, give me one solid reason why not.”

“Because she tries too hard to be you.”

“Nicole looks up to me.  What’s wrong with that?  You can’t tell me you won’t date her because she admires me.  That’s the lamest excuse I’ve ever heard.”

“Ok. It’s not that.”

“Then why?”

“Because she isn’t you.”

Nora dipped her fingers into the mess of color on my palette.  She raised her hand to her face and drew lines of tears trailing from her eyes.  I can’t remember the last time either one of us shed real tears.  I wanted to grab her shoulders and shake her.  I wanted to scream the emotions that had been boiling in my stomach for years, but I couldn’t.  I opened my mouth and she pressed her index to my lips.

“Shh,” she whispered.  Nora traced her finger over my lips.  It tasted like candle wax.  “Give her a chance.  You two would balance each other out.”

“But what about you?  Who’s going to balance you out?”

“Remember how I always used to say, ‘Drive fast.  The car you crash into might belong to your soul mate?’” Nora sniffed and rubbed her fist under her nostrils.  She drew it back and smiled at the trace of blood between her knuckles.  “I’m tired of always crashing into the same cars.”

Nora wiped her thumb under her nose and pressed the bloody thumbprint onto the building in her lap.  She lifted it to the light and twirled it.  The building in my hands was shiny and looked brand new.  Hers looked like it had been neglected for generations, like something rotting in a neighborhood you’d be scared to walk through alone.  Behind me a new leak formed in the ceiling.  The rain pattered against the carpet and pooled up into a stain the shape of a starfish.

Nora placed her building in the empty lot beside mine.

“Now it’s finished.”

Easy, Tiger

When I was eight, I saw a plane explode in midair.  It was four days into June.  I was crouched on a milk crate outside the Yankee Deli, waiting for my mom to finish flirting with the hairy-chested Arab working inside.

Up the block, NWA blared on someone’s car stereo.  A handful of flies sucked at a puddle of melted ice cream on the sidewalk at my feet.   Hunger spiked my stomach thinking of the sweet taste of vanilla and although I begged my mom to come out with something other than a carton of Camel lights, feeding me was the last thing on her mind.  That’s when it happened

Living two subway stops from the airport, low flying planes were nothing new.  To me, their roar was always soothing.  I t covered up every voice, every sound and every argument.  It temporarily blocked out the game shows that the deaf lady living above us always watched.  When my mom and one of her boyfriends would fight, I’d fold my hands and pray the noise would override them long enough for me to fall asleep.

I shielded my eyes from the sun and followed the plane as it soared overhead.  It was a 767, one of those dinosaurs with three columns of passengers separated by two narrow aisles.  I’d never been on a plane, but I’d seen enough on television to visualize the layout.  Then without pause, it burst into a giant ball of flaming death.

The boom shook the ground and if I hadn’t jumped to my feet I would’ve been knocked off the milk crate.  Black clouds of smoke trailed behind the falling flames.

At that moment, an airport was descending into chaos.  Hundreds of people were sucker punched in the gut after hearing the news that the loved one they were waiting to pick up wouldn’t be arriving safely.  But where I stood, it was as if nothing had happened.  NWA was still playing on the stereo.  The flies were still sucking at an ice cream puddle.  My mom was still inside the Yankee Deli buying cigarettes.

Ever since that day, every time I saw a passing plane I’d follow its path until it disappeared into the clouds.  I crossed my fingers.  I said silent prayers.  I knocked on wood.  I sold my soul to an imaginary devil.  Anything to make that happen again.

Of course it never did.

When we were bored, sometimes Nora and I would sneak into Harry’s Salvage, lie on the roof of some random junker and watch the planes, hoping to catch a similar tragedy.  Nora harbored a subtle jealousy that I witnessed something so horrific and she didn’t.  She thought some higher power had chosen me.  The same higher power that invented the iron maiden and the judas cradle.  The muse that sparked ideas of genocide in the minds of psychopaths.  The force that gave birth to the atomic bomb and the gas chamber.

“If there were such thing as God,” Nora said.  “He was a vengeful cunt.” She exhaled smoke and paused for dramatic effect.  “And he wanted his work to be witnessed.”

Nora sniffed a bump off her wrist and fell back into the crook between my arm and chest.  The tin roof of a Chrysler held firm underneath us.  The windshield was gone, so our legs dangled inside.  My feet kicked at whatever glass was left in the frame.  A small shard fell inside the car with a soft plink.

“You want?” she said, motioning to the baggie dangling between her finger tips.

“Sure,” I said.  Nora tapped another bump on her wrist.  Before I inhaled, I paused to breath in the hand lotion soaked into her skin.  Tonight it was cucumber melon.  “Thanks.”

Overhead a 747 soared.  It was cloudy, but we could still see the red and white lights blinking; the blurry trails of light sprinting above us.  The sound alone was enough to get me semi-erect.

A sharp breeze rattled a loose flap of leather on the driver’s seat beneath us.  The night was cold, and we held each other tight for warmth.  In between gusts of wind, I could hear the faint patter of her heartbeat. Neither of us said a word until the passing plane safely vanished.

Nora sniffled and rubbed her runny nose on her sleeve.  With her sweatshirt’s red hood pulled over her head, darkness shrouded her face so that all I could see were the speckled whites of her eyes.  Nora tucked her hands into her sleeves and curled them to her chest.

“Lately, I’ve been stuck on some old shit.  Ever play that game Mousetrap when you were a kid?”

“Huh?” I answered.

“I used to play it all the time with my shrink.”

“I played Scrabble with mine.”

“Really?”

“No, I never went to one.  You know my mom would never pay for that shit even if she had the money.  And now.  It’s rather late for that, you know?”

Nora sniffed again.  She craned her neck and the hood fell behind her.  Tonight she was wearing a short, silver wig.  Most of her hair had fallen out from over-bleaching.  She didn’t care though.  “I always get bored with my hair color anyway,” she said.  “With wigs, I can be a blond, a redhead, and a brunette all in the same day.  I can be a new person any time I desire.  Instant fantasy.”

Nora tugged the hood back over her head and clicked her tongue against the back of her teeth.  She pointed to the sky and traced imaginary lines between the stars.  When there weren’t any visible Nora drew her own constellations.  Sometimes she’d even make up stories about them.  My favorite was the one about Sivia, the blind spinster who fell in love with a giant spider.  Together they bore a whole race of half spider/half human children who ended up decimating the planet.  It may not sound poetic, but when Nora told the story, trust me it was.

“I always played board games with mine,” she continued, still connecting dots with her fingertips.  “It was his pathetic attempt to get me to open up.  As if I’d confess anything to that chubby pervert.”  Nora reached into the front pocket of her sweatshirt and pulled out a stick of gum.  She split it in half and shared it with me.  At first it tasted like cinnamon.  After a minute it tasted like cardboard.

“Mousetrap was my favorite because there was more to it than just throwing dice and moving some plastic piece.  In Mousetrap you still did the same shit, I guess, only throughout the game you’re putting together this elaborate mousetrap.  You have to interlock all these pieces to catch this mouse that’s kicking it on the other side of the board.  When you’re done, you drop a ball down a chute and then that triggers something, which triggers something and so on until the trap drops on the mouse and BAM!”

Nora slammed her elbow into the roof, leaving behind a circular dent.

“Anyway, you spend the whole time making this trap and then game over.  You break down the trap, throw the shit back in the box and then bury it in your closet somewhere.  Do you have a cigarette?”

“Here,” I said, handing her my last one   I dropped the empty pack inside the Chrysler.

“Thanks,” she said, cupping her hands in front of her lighter to create a barrier from the wind.

“Anyway, you do all this nonsense. You build this crazy, elaborate trap. You catch the mouse and then it’s back to your bullshit life.  The whole fucking thing is pointless.”

“It’s a game.  It kills time.  That’s why you play.  It’s supposed to be fun.”

“Whatever,” she huffed, still trying to light the cigarette. Finally the wind stopped.  Nora took a long drag and then exhaled slowly.  “Lately all I do is build bigger and bigger mousetraps.”

Another 747 roared overhead.  The clouds broke allowing us to see the landing equipment drop down.  .

“What would you rather be doing?” I asked.  The gum hardened and stuck to the back of my teeth.  I spread it out across my gums with my tongue.  As she answered, a security car pulled into the parking lot and flashed its headlights at us.

“Anything,” she sniffled, burrowing closer into my chest.  “Tossing bibles into paper shredders or setting fire to yellow brick roads.  I’m wasting my time in this hole of a city.  I should be storming castles or raising an army.  There has to be more to life than catching mice.”

“Kind of extreme, don’t you think?”

“Not really.  The other day a client confessed to me that he left his wife so he could run away with me to South America.  Now my voicemail is full of him in hysterics, begging me to return his calls.”  Nora spit out her gum and slapped it away with her hand in one motion.  She flipped the tie-string from her sweatshirt into her mouth and chewed on the plastic tip.  “It’s a fucking shame.  All he ever wanted was to watch me jerk off and then cuddle for a few minutes.  He stunk of seafood half the time, but still.  Easy money.  Better than most of the degenerates I have to deal with every day.”

“A free trip to South America though.”

“Fuck you.” Nora playfully slapped my thigh.  “Might as well, right?  Since I always end up hurting people anyway, I might as well go for the gold.  The more breaths I take, the more I realize I was designed to break more than hearts.  I was built to cause devastation on a massive scale.”

“I love you.”

“Why is it that married guys always like to cuddle,” she said, ashing her cigarette and flicking it to the side.

The security car crept next to us. The driver rolled down his window and tried his best to stare us down.

“There a problem?” I asked.

“You tell me,” he snorted.  An rusty moustache covered his upper lip.  I couldn’t tell if the white flakes cascaded in it were dandruff or powdered sugar.  “This is private property.  Know what that means?”

Nora bit down on the inside of her cheek.  The security guard had a puffy face, similar to her father’s.  He also spoke with the same, exaggerated Brooklyn accent.  It was only a matter of time before she lost her temper and lashed out.  I could sense the anger boiling in her stomach as her body stiffened.

“It means,” he grunted, heavily breathing between each syllable, “you little cocksuckers are trespassing.  Now hurry it on out of here before I bust the two of you.”

“Yes, sir,” Nora snarled.  She leapt off the hood of the car and started towards the fence at the end of the lot.  I knew her well enough to know that although she was acquiescing, inside she was seething; inside she was a swirling ball of rage that was one comment away from bursting.  I didn’t have to wait long for that comment.

“Damn, that’s a mighty fine ass you got there.  Why don’t you come back here and I’ll throw my cuffs on you.”

Nora stopped abruptly, a cloud of dust kicking up from her sneakers.  I was a few feet behind her, but my reflexes were too dull to stop her.

Nora bent over and seductively waved her ass at the security guard.  He pounded on the outside of the car door and whistled.  She slapped it, and turned towards him, licking her finger tips, and grinned seductively.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” he yelled.  “Come on, you little slut.  Bring that here to daddy.”

Nora glanced over at me.  I shook my head disapprovingly, but a wicked smile slithered across her face.

“Why don’t you come get it?”  Nora turned and bent over.  Sensing the security guard approaching, she clutched a rock with each hand.  Slowly, she straightened back to a standing position.

“Come on, you tease,” he said, shoving his hand into his pocket.  “Let me see that again.  I’m going to cum all over that ass.”

“Allow me to finish you off,” she growled.  Nora wound up and fired the two rocks as hard as she could.  The first one shattered the backseat window.  The second shattered the security guard’s nose.  His face erupted a geyser of blood before he even realized what happened.

“You like?” she screamed.  “Want more?”

Nora picked up more rocks and flung them .  I joined her and picked up a brick-sized rock and tossed it through the back windshield.  The security guard stumbled out of the car gripping his face.

”How’s that?” she exploded, side-arming another rock at the guard’s doughy chest.  He fell backwards and clocked his head on the open passenger door of his car.  “Where’s your balls now?  Still hard for me?”

“You’re dead,” he threatened, spitting blood onto the dirt.  “You whore.  If I ever see you again, you’re dead.  You hear me?”

“Death is a promise I’m no longer afraid of” she snapped.  “Enjoy the emergency room, you limp-dick piece of shit.”

Nora grabbed my hand and dragged me towards the fence.  Behind us, the guard stuttered curses and threats.  When we got to the exit the wind completely covered his cracking voice.

“After you,” she said, lifting the chain link fence so I could crawl underneath.  The gap between the fence and the dirt was small, but I could always squirm through easily.  I stood and swatted the dirt from my jeans.

The wind stopped and I heard the familiar roar of a jet engine.  Nora paused to stare up until the plane passed safely, its roar fading to a murmur.  Still on the other side, Nora grabbed the fence and shook it wildly.

“Sometimes the mice make it too easy,” she grinned, baring her incisors.  Her eyes glowed red under the buzzing streetlamps.  She looked like a caged animal. Then again, that’s exactly what she was.

like kissing an atomic bomb

 

Trevor Bailey was used to the buzzing.  He’d been working at Village Petrol ever since he started college and unless he was straining to hear a soft-talker, the obnoxious static the overhead lights hummed never bothered him.  Most of the regulars were used to it too, but at least once a night, some prick customer would demand that Trevor’s bosses have someone look at them.  Trevor would agree (it was easier than to tell the truth than to say his bosses didn’t give a donkey’s cock if the whole station burned to the ground) and thank them for their concern.

            No, Trevor Bailey was used to the buzzing.  In fact, the only time he even noticed was when he’d switch the lights off for the night.  Then an eerie silence would smother the lot and Trevor would stand outside and listen to the flame crackling on the tip of his Parliament.

            Trevor sucked until the stick fizzled down to his fingertips and then flicked the butt at the graffiti-covered garage door.  It bounced off one of the windows and landed in the tiny oil spill streaming under the door.  There were plenty of environmental regulations against disposing of hazardous chemicals like oil, but Trevor’s bosses decided it would be more cost-effective if they waited till after dark, and had one of their off-the-books employees (i.e. Trevor) handle it.  So after every shift, it was Trevor’s responsibility to dump over the designated drum and let the used oil drained a path down to the sewer.  

             As usual, Trevor took his time locking the pumps and shutting down.   Rushing wasn’t going to get him home any faster.  No matter how ghost the night was, he couldn’t punch till midnight, even though the odds of seeing as much as a headlight past ten was about the same as him getting a raise. 

            “Ten minutes, Kitty,” he shouted at the row of cars lined up by the fence.  The Village Petrol mechanics were always overworked and kept about a dozen cars parked outside.  Several oak trees dangled their branches over the tin roofs, keeping the interiors blacked out once the sun set.  This made it the perfect spot to bring a piece and Trevor pulled ten bucks for every slob Kitty brought back there.   

            A Lexus door squeaked open and Kitty stepped out.  After adjusting a zebra-print skirt, she immediately lit a cigarette.  She inhaled and coughed a trail of dust.  Behind her, a man limped out, covering the crotch of his sweatpants with both hands.  Kitty blew Trevor a kiss and disappeared into the night.

            As long as she didn’t leave behind any evidence, the cars were all fair game.  Kitty and Trevor had this deal for almost three months now, but he still didn’t trust her.  He tapped on his flashlight and scanned the backseat for love stains. 

            “Whore,” he spit, pulling a Trojan wrapper out of the ashtray.  No matter how often he warned her, she was often too garbaged out of her skull to listen.  Still, Trevor cleared an extra fifty a night and as long as her sex puddle wasn’t absorbed into the fabric, it wasn’t worth the breath.  He frisbeed the wrapper over the fence and locked the Lexus door behind him. 

            Trevor stepped back into the attendant’s booth and counted the stack of bills in the safe.  The stool scraped against the concrete floor as he sat down, the cushion exhaling air through the split fabric.  Tonight, his drawer ended up eight dollars over.  He folded the extra singles and shoved them in his back pocket.  When he was short the cash came out of his check, so he didn’t think twice about pocketing any overages.  Besides, his bosses were “douchebag, Jew cocksuckers.”  Trevor’s words, not mine.

            The digital display on the credit card machine read 11:24.  Trevor still had another thirty-six to kill before he could skateboard home to his mom’s basement.  He sighed, tapped a ketamine bump on his wrist, and chased it up his left nostril.  After the initial rush he spit pinkish phlegm onto the floor.  He spread it out with his foot until it was nothing more than a dark spot on the concrete.

            When he was faded, sometimes Trevor would stack the cigarette packs into colored mosaic patterns. Tonight he designed them into a red-faced devil.  Marlboro packs for the flesh, Green Newports for the eyes and Blue Parliaments for the mouth. 

            Starting to doze, so he dismantled his creation and slipped the packs back into their designated sections.  With the door shut there was zero ventilation in the booth.  The gas fumes soaked into his clothes permeated the thick air and triggered his gag reflex.  Trevor had to concentrate to keep from vomiting all over the countertop.  He shoved the collection tray out and inhaled a light breeze of fresh air.

            Resting his chin on his palms, Trevor stared through the plexi-glass.  A bright light cut circles through the darkness.  Thinking he was hallucinating, Trevor rubbed his eyes, but the light only grew brighter.  He blinked and leapt off the stool.

The walls shook as a pale blue Cadillac raced through the parking lot, missing the booth by half a foot.  Trevor fumbled with the locks and made it outside in just enough time to witness the car slam into the rear bumper of a parked Toyota. 

            The crushing impact echoed through the stillness. A frightened flock of bats scampered from their tree branches, their wings flapping ferociously as they painted a moving arrow across the sky. 

            Trevor rushed over to check the damage.  Blond hair peeked out from behind the ballooning airbag.  The door was stuck and Trevor had to reach in through the smashed driver’s side window to open it.  He grabbed the body by the shoulders and dragged it out of the vehicle.         

            The girl shoved at him and stumbled over towards a parked minivan.  She coughed blood into the air, the thick specks spotting the front of her lime-colored tank-top.  The girl fell to a crouched position, almost toppling over.  Trevor cupped his hand behind her head and guided her up against the tire.

            “My brakes,” she stuttered.  “They stopped working.”

            Blood bubbled from an open slice on her forehead.  She rubbed her hand from the bottom of the wound to the back of her head, highlighting large sections of her yellow hair with red.  Under the moonlight the painted parts glowed black.

            “Shit,” she moaned, leaning over.  She grabbed onto her jeans and dry heaved onto the pavement.  She wiped at her lips with her fist, coloring her face with more darkness.  “That was gross.  I’m sorry.”

            “No worries.  Wait here.  I’ll be right back.”

            “Trust me, I’m not going anywhere.”

            Trevor grabbed a roll of paper towels and an open Snapple from the booth.  He tore open the package and tossed the wrapper behind him.  He wound a few sheets around his hand and held them to the gash on her forehead.

            “I can do it,” she grunted, snatching the paper towels from him.  Within seconds they were completely saturated.  She crumpled them into a ball and tossed it away.

            “Here,” Trevor offered, handing her the rest of the roll.  “There’s a bathroom around back.  The water stinks of sulfur, but it’s clean.  Wretched, but clean.”

            “Thanks, Trevor,” she said, her eyes squinting at the name on his work-shirt.   “I need to sit for a few minutes.  I’m so fucking dizzy.”

            “You want?  It’s peach.”

            Trevor motioned the half empty Snapple bottle towards her.  She scowled and waved him away.  “No thanks.  Got any whiskey?”

            “Sorry,” he shrugged.  “I don’t drink.”

            “Perfect.  You’re one of those types.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

            “It means you’re one of those pretentious, judgmental preachy types, who think every one who likes to drink is an alcoholic.”

            “Seriously?  I assure you, I’m nothing like that.  I smoke.  Take pills, drop bombs, whatever.  I just don’t drink.  I’ve woken up too many afternoons with hangover knives behind my eyes.  I could care fuck all what you or anyone else does.”

            “Then you wouldn’t mind grabbing the bottle from my backseat, right?  It’s on the floor.”

               Trevor was used to being ordered around by females.  His mother and older sister were always screeching at him to do one thing or another.  Usually he ignored them and let their shrills dissolve into the darkness.  But for some cosmic reason, Trevor felt like he owed the girl on the ground something. 

            While tonight she was a total train wreck, last week when he sold her cigarettes she was a knockout.  Every Wednesday night her tires would screech through the parking lot as she swerved next to his booth.  Always rocking gym clothes, with her bleached hair tailed behind her, Trevor was often mesmerized by the butterfly pattern of fresh sweat between her breasts.  Each night, Trevor spent the rest of his shift squeezing his hard-on under the counter, imagining her ass bouncing on an elliptical.  Fetching her whiskey bottle was the least he could do.

            There were three bottles on the backseat floor.  Trevor grabbed the one that was the most full and stood it on the ground beside her.  The girl crumpled up another handful of reddened paper towels and tossed them as far away as she could.

            “Thanks,” she said.  She brought the bottle to her lips and leaned back.  She swallowed with a grimace and a drop of drool dangled from her lower lip.  “I’m Sayra,” she said, tapping the bottle to her chest. 

With her mouth closed, Sayra was beyond attractive, an exotic mix of Dominican and Chinese, but when she smiled her overbite pushed her teeth past her lips and it was hard not to stare.  Luckily she didn’t grin often and her lips were usually sucked in a vicious scowl. 

            “Nice to meet you.”  Trevor held out his hand to shake hers.  When he noticed the filth caked on his palm, he quickly jerked it away.  Sayra smirked and took another gulp of whiskey. 

            “Sorry, didn’t have a chance to wash them.”

            “Not a big deal.  I like things that are a little dirty.”

              Trevor nervously shoved his hands in his pockets.  They grazed against his shaft and he panicked.  He prayed that the parking lot was too dark for her to notice his erection pushing against his work pants. 

              Trevor hadn’t been with a girl since Sheila Thompson crushed his heart in the tenth grade.  Correction- Trevor hadn’t been able to get hard around a girl since Sheila Thompson crushed his heart in the tenth grade.  His therapist blamed the painkillers, but Trevor blamed the girls.  Even Gina Hellian, the redhead who cage-danced at Poppy’s, was a bitch.  Her only mistake… she attempted to give him a pity hand job after her shift.

            “You can bounce if you want,” she said.  “You don’t need to babysit.”

            “It’s no bother.  I can’t leave till midnight anyway.”

            “What time’s it now?”           

“Twelve thirty.”

            “And you’re sticking around to watch me drink?  I’m touched.”

            Sayra finished off the last of the whiskey and threw the bottle into the trees.  The leaves rattled, shaking loose the remaining bats, leaving the two of them alone for the first time.

“My boss is gonna blow his colon over this,” Trevor said, pointing to the mangled front end of the smashed Toyota.

            “What you gonna tell him?”
            “Not a damn thing.  If he asks, I’ll say it must’ve happened after I left.  He really should install cameras anyway.  I’m surprised these rides don’t get trashed more often with all the degenerates living around here.”

            “Good answer.  I was shook you were going to want to phone the police or something.  Then I was going to have to kill you.” 

            Sayra raised her fists jokingly.  Her arms, skinny sticks attached to her torso, dangled in front of her.  “Damn,” she moaned, her arms falling abruptly to her sides.  “I’m more destroyed than I thought.           

“As long as we can move your car out of here, you’re straight.  Unless, of course, you want some pig sniffing around your shit.”

“No thanks,” she said, laughing for the first time.  She moaned again and clutched her ribcage.  “I’m sure it’ll drive.  Any chance you can take a girl home?  I can hardly see straight let alone navigate a vehicle.”

“I’m embarrassed to say, I don’t have a license.  I know, I’m a loser.”

“You’ve played video games before, right?  Same shit.  Besides my car’s already dented all to hell.  It’s not like you’re gonna fuck it up any more.  And you’re not a loser.  You’re way too cute to be a loser.”

“Thanks,” he said, his eyes nervously wandering down to her ragged Converse. “As long as we don’t have to drive too far, I guess it’s cool.”

“That’s the spirit,” she cheered, struggling to stand.  “Now if you’ll just help me not fall on my grill, we can start our journey.”

Sayra tripped forward into Trevor.  She probably weighed less than a hundred, but gravity knocked them both into the car behind them.  Trevor grimaced as the door handle jagged into his back.

            “Nice catch, tiger,” she flirted.  Her head wound was no longer bleeding, but scattered splotches still stained large areas of her face.  Up close, Trevor noticed a red pool swirling next to her right iris.  The damage to her Cadillac was minimal, but Sayra looked like she had survived a suicide bombing.  But underneath all the scratches and clotted blood scabs, she was still the girl who’d been stuck in his head for the past year. 

            Sayra smiled but Trevor was too distracted to stare at her overbite.  He was too preoccupied over whether or not he’d be able to keep his pecker hard if she gave him the green light to pounce.  She pushed her fingertips under his chin and raised his head so he had no choice but to stare into her eyes.  Trevor sucked in the burning stink of whiskey as she exhaled.

             “I have to come clean,” Sayra whispered.  “My brakes didn’t fail, I just didn’t feel like stepping on them.”

            “You wanted to crash?  Why?  You stuck on a death wish?”

            “No, nothing like that.”  Sayra tugged on her belt.  Trevor’s eyes shot downward, but all he caught was a glimpse of darkness.  “Truth is, I wanted to grab your attention.”

            “My attention?”

            “A gentle tap on the shoulder pales in comparison to a sledgehammer across the face.”

            “I don’t understand.”

            Sayra’s finger traced a circle around his lips.  She blew soft breaths and Trevor’s flesh tingled. 

            “I’ve wanted to get you alone since the moment I saw you.  You were reading a book about the Zodiac killer.  I read that book a dozen times just to have something to talk to you about.  But every time I had the chance, I’d freeze.”

            “Stop jerking me off.”  Trevor squirmed back, the door handle sticking deeper into his lower spine.  “If this is some kind of joke, it’s not funny.”

            “I’m serious like swine flu.”  Grabbing the belt loops of his work pants and pulled him forward, Sayra leaned in for a kiss.  She stepped in between his legs so that their thighs pressed against each other.  “I’m completely mental, but I’m not joking.  I’m a psychopath who’ll drown your pet bunnies in a pot of boiling water if you cross me.  I’ll start fires, crash cars, burn buildings, whatever it takes to get what I want.  And right now, I want you.”

“That’s intense.”  Trevor closed his fist around a crease in her jeans.  He was terrified, but he wasn’t going anywhere.  “Are you for real?  You don’t know how many times I’ve drifted off into a daydream about something like this happening.”
            “I think I’m real.  I’ve often felt that I was living stuck in a dream, but I’m pretty sure I’m part of this world.  If not, fuck it.”

Trevor surprised her with a kiss.  It was sloppy and wet; the kind of kiss that you’d see in cartoons, when the boy ends up with lipstick smeared all over his face and birds dancing around his skull.

            “Trust me, you are definitely part of this world.”

            Trevor ran his hands up the back of her shirt.   Her flesh was cold, but so were his palms. Sayra shivered but didn’t stop him.  His staff throbbed against his jeans.  If her weight wasn’t crushing him against the car behind him, he would’ve shoved his hand down his pants to adjust it.  But he wasn’t going to ask for a time out.  He had his whole life to be uncomfortable. 

            “So, you’re not creeped out?” she asked.

            “No.  I should be, I guess, but to be honest, I’m too turned on to be creeped out.”

            “That’s too bad,” she said, her eyes wandering around the car.

            “Too bad?”

            “Sex is always better when you’re a little frightened.”

            “Sorry to disappoint.  Now if you told me something like I reminded you of your father, than I’d be afraid.”

            “You’re nothing like my father,” she said, playfully dragging her index finger down the side of his cheek.  “He was a much better kisser.”

            Trevor recoiled back as far as he could slither.  Sayra threw her head to the side and laughed at the starless sky.  When she swung her head forward her hair tickled his nose.  “I’m joking,” she said, breathing heat into his open mouth.  “Or am I?”

            “You’re twisted.” 

            “Then twist me.” 

Sayra shoved her lips against his and forced her tongue into his mouth.  Within seconds, Trevor forgot all about Gina Hellian and the short-list of girls that left him for dead.  Sayra’s kiss shot electric currents through his bloodstream.  It was like kissing an atomic bomb; a mushroom cloud filling his lungs and rupturing a tidal wave of saliva into his mouth.  Typically at a time like this Trevor would panic and try to conjure up the most depraved scenarios involving Sayra to keep himself thick.  This time all he had to do was open his eyes. 

Setting Fire to Sleeping Addicts

 

            “Fuck. What time is it?”

            I needed at least an hour before I could even consider opening my eyes, so I responded with an unintelligible grunt.  I squirmed away from the body lying beside me; the mattress, sticky with sweat from last night’s sex, squeaked beneath me.  Jazzie jumped out of bed and thudded against the windowsill.

            “Don’t even tell me it’s Saturday,” Jazzie blurted.  “Rich, wake the fuck up.  Now.”      

            I grunted again and burrowed under the itchy, wool blanket. Jazzie was infamous for crack of dawn outbursts like this, so I ignored her as she frantically paced the room, hurriedly throwing on whatever clothes were strewn across the floor.  Chances are, this emergency was nothing more than she’d forgotten to pick up her dry cleaning or we were out of cigarettes.  Jazzie was beyond insane, which was sexy at two AM after several bottles of red wine, but during a hangover her psychosis was like a sledgehammer pounding behind my pupils.  Jazzie jerked the blanket off me and threw it on the floor.

            The thermostat in Jazzie’s apartment was permanently busted so a steady blast of hot air perpetually rattled through the air vents.  Even in the winter the heat was unbearable so we often left the windows open, making the studio sub zero in the morning.  Today was no different.  I shivered and blindly reached on the floor for a t-shirt.  I found one of hers and stretched it over my torso.  It stunk of Red Bull and vodka sweat.

            Outside someone was aggressively pounding on the front door.  It was the same obnoxious pattern the super used when we played the music too loud or left trash bags in the hallway.  If it was him, we were beyond fucked as we were about two months late on the rent. 

            “One second,” Jazzie yelled.  “Be right there.  Rich, please.  You have to get dressed.  It’s my parents.”

            The room spun as I stumbled towards the bathroom.  The sunlight beaming through the window was too much for my eyes so I closed them and clumsily bumped into her dresser and knocked a glass onto the floor.  It shattered and spilled a dark liquid everywhere, a mixture of dirty tap water and American Spirit ashes.

            “One second.  Rich, here.”  Jazzie tossed a pair of jeans and a button down shirt that didn’t belong to either of us.  I thought about asking what guy left it here but even if I did, it wouldn’t have mattered.  Even though I knew she’d slept with about a dozen guys since we became “official”, the only thing keeping me from leaving her was the same thing keeping me from running the New York City marathon.  I didn’t have the motivation or the lung capacity. 

            “Put that on,” she said, squirming into an sparkly, cobalt blue pin dress.  “And clean yourself up.”

            “What’s going on?”
            “Quickly.  My parents are here.  Damn it, there are drugs everywhere.”

            Jazzie fell to her knees and shoved the ketamine-dust-covered cookie tray under the bed.  I slid into the bathroom and held my face under the faucet.  The water was thick and stunk of rust.  It didn’t help me feel any cleaner, but the pressure did wake me up slightly.  

                “I’ll be right there, mom.  One second.”

            Jazzie shoved her way in front of the mirror.  Trying to rub the red from her eyes, she panicked and tore apart the medicine cabinet searching for Visine.  Seeing her under the forty watt fluorescent lights, she was miles away from the girl I met last year.  Don’t get me wrong, Jazzie was never perfect.  But back then, after watching getting dragged out of Aces after a bar fight, it took about five minutes before I was hers. With deep scratches dug into her cheek, and an eye beginning to swell, to me, she was beautiful.

Of course, if it weren’t for Nora; the whore who shattered my heart into a million pieces; I’d never have fallen so hard.  I’m not saying I wouldn’t have spent the last eight months of my life in self-destruct mode.  I’m just saying.

But that was a lifetime ago.  Now Jazzie’s unwashed hair was fried from over-bleaching and stuck out in pyramid clumps.  Years of anorexia had left ravaged; her spine sticking out in triangle bumps along her back

            “How do I look?” she asked, trying to pin the back of her dress so it didn’t fall off her skeletal frame.

            “What are they doing here?”

            “I told you they were coming.  I even marked it on the calendar.  I must’ve mixed up the dates. Fuck, what day is it?”

            I shrugged, not really sure of the answer either.  I remembered having sex on the pool table in Gary Hill’s basement and not being able to climax.  I remembered ordering pizza and Jazzie flinging the slices at my head, missing and then maniacally laughing as they slid down the wall, trailing smears of tomato sauce and chunks of mozzarella cheese.   I remembered getting thrown out of a midnight showing of Salo after Jazzie screamed at the couple in the row behind us for chewing their popcorn too loud.  That was on Wednesday.  I think that was last night.

            “I look like a fucking war zone.  Shit we both do.”  Jazzie shoved her hair to the side.  She coated a handful of powder on her face to cover the pink circular blotches spreading on her cheeks.  I sneezed and tiny specks of blood flew onto the mirror.  Jazzie huffed, spit and then rubbed them off with her fist.

            “What’s wrong with you?  Pull yourself together,” she ordered, spinning around to stop me from muttering an excuse.  “Give me a kiss.”

            As Jazzie’s lips gently tocuhed mine, my stomach contracted.  I clutched at an imaginary spot on my shirt and dry heaved into the sink.

            “Real romantic, Rich.  Real fucking love story.” 

            As Jazzie left to answer the door, her voice changed to the chipper, cartoony tone she reserved for bartenders and old people.  She spoke fast; her words flowing into each other in one long sentence.

            “We have food poisoning I think.  Bad sushi.  We’ve been sick all morning.  No, I’m fine.  Never been better.  Or it could be that swine flu that’s going around.  Everyone we know has it.  I think there was a news report on CNN about it.  But, we’re doing amazing.  Sorry he place is such a mess.  We’ve been working so hardcore.  Maybe that’s it.  I’m run down.  Yeah, I haven’t been sleeping.  They’ve been doing construction and every morning all I hear is hammering and drilling and what do they call that?  Oh yeah, jack-hammering.” 

            I didn’t hear her parents’ voices so either they spoke softly or she didn’t give them a chance to answer.  Jazzie’s voice rattled on, occasionally cracking and my face felt like it was also cracking, so I splashed water on it and watched it drip down the side like yellow tears.  I slipped on the shirt Jazzie threw at me and dried my hands on the thighs of my pants.  My reflection practiced a smile.  Jazzie was right.  I looked like a war zone.

           
———————————————————

            Jazzie’s parents sat stiffly across the table, their freshly-tanned skin covered by matching vicuna suits.  Her father glared at me with disgust as if there were a better person to be screwing his train-wreck of a daughter.                   “Rich, tell them about it.”

            I stared at Jazzie confused, hoping she would telekinetically tell me what the hell she was talking about.   I’d been nodding off since we sat down, but luckily her word salad kept her parents from noticing. Thankfully, Jazzie was on a roll and answered for me.

            “Rich’s going to be a famous one day, you’ll see.  He really is brilliant.  Tell them about the novel you’re writing.”

            “It’s a work in progress, but-“

            “I wish you would’ve brought a sample chapter,” she interrupted.  “Anyway, Rich is super-talented.  He’s so creative.  Some of the shit he comes up with.  Like he’ll describe something and it’s like you’re totally there.  There’s a word for that.  Fuck, what is it?  I need to get one of those dictionary apps on my phone.”

            “Jazz, we need to talk to you about something.”  Jazzie’s father nervously tapped on the table with a butter knife.  Her mother, nowhere near as uncomfortable, folded up her menu with a loud snap.  “You’re not going to want to hear this, but-“

            “What now?  Is that why you invited us out?  So you could both gang up on me?  I should’ve known.  It’s always the same thing with you two.  You always have an anterior motive.  Can’t we for once just have a nice, family dinner?”

            “It’s ulterior, honey,” Jazzie’s mother said to her reflection in the mirror behind me.  She blinked and plucked an eyelash off her cheekbone.  Carefully, she placed it on her napkin and folded the corner over it.  “You always have an ulterior motive.  Anterior means frontal.”

            “Ulterior, anterior what’s the fucking difference?  You know what I meant.”

            “Still, there’s no reason to not use proper English.  We didn’t spend a fortune on private school to have you speak like an immigrant.”

            “Christ, you are impossible.”

           “You’re the one that’s impossible,” her mother scorned.  “We take you and your friend here to Emeraudes and you can’t go ten minutes without picking a fight?  Do you know the favors your father had to cash in to get us a res on a Friday night?”

          “He’s not my friend.  Rich is my-“

            “Now Jazz,” her father interrupted.  He paused to mentally double-check the script he prepared when he planned out this intervention. “You know that both your mother and I love you very much.  You are our daughter and we’re always here for you no matter what.”

            “Picking a fight?  Mom, you’re the one who’s starting.  I am so sick of you always correcting me.  Nothing I do ever lives up to your standards.”

            “Jazz, you’re being ridiculous,” her mother snapped, turning towards me.  “Is she always like this?”

            I shrugged my shoulders and folded my napkin into an origami dagger.  I imagined stabbing the three of them in their ribcages then driving it into my jugular. 

            “Can we please discuss this rationally?” her dad interjected.  “We only want what’s best for you.”

            “What’s best for me is the two of you leaving me the fuck alone.” 

            “Maybe if you acted like a grown up every now and then we would.”

            “That’s it,” Jazzie shouted. She jumped up from her chair so violently; she knocked into the waiter behind her knocking a stack of dishes off the tray he was holding. 

            “A grown up?  Blow me.  You always have to have the last word, don’t you?  Well, I hope you’re pleased.  You’ve just set fire to a sleeping giant.”

            “What does that mean?” her mother questioned, unaffected by the scene her daughter was creating.  Behind us, the waiter scrubbed escargot off the carpet.

“What it means, mom, is that tonight I’m going to shove anything I can find up my nose.  If I overdose and choke to death on my own vomit, it’s on your conscience.”

“Jazz, that’s not funny,” her father said, stroking his wife’s palm.  “You shouldn’t joke around like that. You remember what happened the last time.”

“Oh I’m not joking, dad.  Start planning the funeral guest list and sending out save-the-date cards.  This is the motherfucking end.”

“Jazz, stop it.”

“Relax, Bill.  This is another one of her cries for help.  She does this every time.” 

“Well, consider this the last time,” Jazzie spit. “I’m out of here.  Come on, Rich.”

            Before I could stutter, “Thank you for the meal,” Jazzie was out the front door, hysterically waving her arms to signal a cab.  Without saying goodbye I followed.

When Jazzie was angry, she scratched at her face; often drawing blood.  This time was no different and a tiny stream began to trickle down her right cheek  Jazzie exhaled loud so the whole block could hear as a yellow pulled up to the curb. 

“79^th and Lex,” she barked at the driver before either of us were even in the car. Her two front teeth grinded into her lower lip.  “What are you waiting for?  Let’s go.”

Before we pulled away, Jazzie was already tapping a bump on her wrist.  She did another and then another until the vial was empty.  She covered one nostril and shot a scarlet clump of snot out of her nose.  It stuck to the photo of the driver on the seatback in front of her. 

“Can you believe the nerve?” she said, fanning her face with her palm.  “Holy Christ, it’s like a sweat box in here.  Open your window.”

My window was already rolled down, but it was pointless to argue.  Jazzie tossed the vial out the window and then mass-texted her dealers. 

“You’re lucky your parents are dead.”, she sighed in a soft voice I hadn’t heard her use in months. 

“My parents aren’t dead,” I said for the hundredth time.  “My mom lives in East Flatbush and my dad’s in Jersey.”

“Whatever,” she huffed.  “What I meant was you’re blessed you don’t have to deal with the same drama I have to.  Sometimes I think that if they really loved me they would’ve died in a plane crash or something and left me all their money.  I mean, they always gave me cash when I need it, but I have to beg.  I’m twenty-four years old.  I shouldn’t have to beg my parents for shit.  I should just ask and that should be enough.”

The phone vibrated in her lap.  Jazzie snatched it up and signaled for me to keep quiet with a wave and a scowl.

“Hey Johnny.  It’s Jazzie.  Are you home?  Perfect.  Be there in ten.” Jazzie tossed her phone in her bag and smiled.  “Driver,” she whistled.  “Change of plans.  Take us to First Ave and Tenth.”

Jazzie exhaled and coughed more blood into her palm.  After wiping it on the door panel, she rested her head on my shoulder as the cab slowed for a red light.  The driver blared his horn at the traffic jam in front of us and squeaked an assembly line of curses in a foreign language.

“I really do wish they were dead,” she sighed.  “But maybe I should call them and smooth things over just in case something tragic happens to them.  I’d hate for them to cut me out of the will.”

Jazzie reached for her phone and dialed.