by David Vann
“I haven’t done that enough.”
“You’ve missed something there.”
Jim wonders about this. An isolated life. How did he miss the group? He’s given zero importance to anything social.
“And commercial fishing with you,” Gary says. “That was something. Being out there, and also building the boat.”
“Thank you.”
“Yeah, that was great. I don’t know what else. Sex of course, but that’s number one on any man’s list. Food sometimes. The piles of abalone we’ve had. That’s going to get more and more rare.”
Jim can see he’s had a good life, rich. He’s had everything Gary’s had, except the sports and more social life, but he’s also had more money and opportunity. Somehow he didn’t make use of all of it, though, or didn’t find it to be enough, and it’s a mystery why.
The grainy malt in the chocolate shake, a pleasure that should by itself be enough reason. The ripe banana too. His brother who loves him, who’s happy and relieved that Jim is well. That trusting and easy.
They finish the burgers and shakes and just sit stunned for a while. Fresh burgers brought out to other patrons, and even when he’s stuffed they still look good.
“Well,” Jim finally says. “You should maybe hit the road, so you don’t get up there too late.”
“Yep,” Gary says. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay?”
“I’m fine now.”
“I’m happy to come up, even for just a couple days to be sure.”
“I know, and I appreciate that. But there’s no need now. I feel good. I just enjoyed a burger and shake with my brother, and I feel normal. I’m looking forward to things up in Fairbanks and I’m also thinking of what you said about basketball. That barbershop quartet is my chance for a new group of guys, and I’m going to enjoy that and see what’s possible.”
“You’re on the right track there. You’ll get a lot from that.”
“I think so.” Jim nods then and raps his knuckles on the table and they stand. Out of the blue world of the burger joint and along the crap construction site again. Jim has an eye out for prostitutes but doesn’t see any yet. He’ll have to ask the doorman or the bellboy.
In no time at all they’re standing in the hotel parking lot by Gary’s truck. Jim’s last moments with his brother. He feels this overwhelming sadness and loss but can’t show it, so he smiles and gives Gary a hug. “Thank you, brother,” he says. “Thank you for doing so much for me.”
“Hey, that’s all right,” Gary says. “Just happy you’re back.”
“Come up fishing this summer. Some new spots on the river I’ve heard about for kings.”
“God, I’d love to. But no money, and I think we’re doing that road trip to look for somewhere else to live.”
“I’ll pay for your flights. Just think about it. Catching a seventy-pound king in a river, like the fattest trout you’ve ever seen.”
Gary laughs. “That does sound good.”
Then Gary is in his truck and starts it, rolls down his window to wave goodbye, and is gone. Jim’s last lifeline, last moment with anyone who cares for him. Alone now. But no longer having to smile, no longer having to lie. He’s going to fuck his way into exhaustion and then pull the trigger and be done. To hell with this life.
The hotel doorman looks a bit afraid, or maybe Jim is only imagining it. But maybe Jim looks that grim. It’s possible. “I want a prostitute,” Jim says. “Small and young. I want beautiful. I don’t give a shit about disease, and I’m not using a condom.”
They’re standing outside the glass doors, no one around at the moment.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the doorman says. “But prostitution is illegal in California.”
“I’m not police,” Jim says. “And here’s fifty for you for finding me a couple good ones. I want one now and another a couple hours from now. Maybe a third later. I’m willing to pay for the best you know of.”
“I see,” the doorman says. “What room are you in, sir?”
So the arrangement is made, and Jim won’t have to wander the street like a jackass not knowing where anything is. He showers, looks at his dick a small limp thing, sad, and hopes it will go up when the time comes.
He dries off hard, wanting to get rid of old skin, then sits in bed naked under the covers and watches an old episode of Gilligan’s Island, wishes he could have Mary Ann, misses Rhoda so badly he could howl.
He’s into an episode of Hogan’s Heroes before there’s a knock.
When he opens the door, she walks right in. Small and thin with black leather pants and heels. Looking obviously like a prostitute, but apparently the people at reception don’t care, which is good.
“I’m not cheap,” she says. “Can you afford me?” She’s so cute and young. Pale skin and long dark hair.
“I’ll pay,” he says.
“Three hundred.”
“What does that include?”
“Thirty minutes of anything you want.”
Jim reaches into his pocket and pulls out six fifties. He walks up close and she takes them, tucks them into her purse. “No kissing, though,” she says.
“And no condom,” Jim says.
“I know. I was told.”
She walks over to the desk to dump her purse and jacket. Her shirt is red leather and covers only her chest, her midriff and shoulders exposed. Jim touches her lower back, the skin so soft. She’s certainly better than any woman he’s ever been with.
“Take a shower,” she says.
“I just did.”
“Do it again.”
Jim wonders if she’ll steal. He grabs his wallet and valise with the pistol, closes the bathroom door and locks it. She could leave with his three hundred and he’d have no recourse. He’s not sure what holds any of this together.
He picks up the pistol and holds it in the mirror. Only man and pistol, Limp-dick Jim ready for his last stand. But he puts the pistol away, zips the bag closed, and takes his shower.
When he emerges she’s lying back against the pillows, her heels still on. Looking comfortable, though. All strangely normal, as if they’re really a couple sharing this room.
He walks close and drops the towel. “Sorry,” he says. “You look good, but it’s not going up.”
“Leave it to me,” she says. “Just lie down.”
She moves over and he lies back against the pillows. The room a bit cold but not too bad. He watches as she licks one of his nipples, which feels good but isn’t giving him a boner. He’s so worried now about whether he can get it up. His last hurrah, so it had better work. He’s not willing to go out on total failure.
She kisses his stomach and then his thighs and takes him in her mouth and still nothing. And she has this angelic face, so perfect, and big breasts in red leather. He doesn’t know what else she could possibly offer.
She pushes his legs apart, and he says no, but she goes slowly lower, soft kisses and gentle licks, and he goes up. She doesn’t stop. Strokes him lightly with her hand while she licks, and she’s watching him. He loves seeing her eyes while she does this.
She seems to know how easy it would be for him to lose it. She’s taking her shoes and pants off while she has him in her mouth, going all the way down, swallowing him, and she’s up in one quick movement so there’s no time to go soft, riding him and taking off her top. She has by far the nicest body he’s ever seen. He knows she cares nothing for him, but he’s grateful anyway that she’s so good at what she does. This is close enough to feeling loved. She even smiles and kisses his neck.
Afterward Jim takes another shower and rests but is afraid to sleep. He has to hear the next knock when it comes. He doesn’t know why he didn’t see more prostitutes earlier. Better dates than he would ever be able to get, and in return he gives money, which means nothing to him anyway.
He feels exhausted already, from the last couple days and lack of sleep and now from sex. He keeps thinking of Rhoda, so he calls her.
“How are you, Jim?” she asks, and it sounds embattled, like she’s getting ready for the long trudge. He doesn’t want her voice to sound like this. And he realizes she could call Gary so easily, so he can’t tell her the truth today.
“Much better,” he says. “A breakthrough with the therapist, and also when I visited John, so I feel okay now.”
Pointless conversation, and he ends it quickly. He’ll have to call her from Alaska, when it’s already too late and no one can stop him.
The knock comes earlier than he expected, business moving right along. She’s small and young also, with blonde feathered hair, wearing leather, a black jacket with golden zippers. But he feels only exhausted, not excited at all. “I can’t,” he says. “Here’s three hundred, and tell the doorman no more.” He hands over the bills, which she takes without saying anything.
He closes the door, lies down naked on his back on the floor, the cold tiles, and wants Rhoda, wants to go back to the time when she loved him, when all was innocent, before he cheated. In his office, after hours, when they’d darken one of the rooms and she’d hold his face and give him the most tender love.
26
The night another without sleep, a wasteland to cross. He’s walking the streets all the way to the airport, which is quiet now, no planes moving. He stands at the fence and looks at open runways, vast stretches you could walk forever, trailing into the ocean and more darkness, and the tails of planes all huddled around the terminals, shark fins waiting.
He would climb the fence and wander the runways but there’s razor wire. He wants open space, without clutter. That was the point of Alaska. Fairbanks on a flatland stretching hundreds of miles, interrupted only by rivers. He might take his cross-country skis and just go. Ski all day and into the night and never turn around, and then it won’t be clear there was ever a suicide. His body might not even be found. Such empty places, endless thin paper birch trees. At sixty below, he won’t last even through the day, probably. Won’t have to suffer another night. This is far better than the pistol, and freezing to death is easy. He’ll feel warm in the end and won’t understand a thing, won’t even know he’s dying. Easiest way possible.
The road he’s on now lined with Dumpsters, and the pavement wet from rain. Cold but not cold enough for snow or anything clean. Runoff of waste and trash and too many people, every airport and city a sore. He’s always hated them. No ground he can touch here, no grass, no tree, not a single living thing. Only back lanes leading to nothing, service roads.
The garbagemen are the first to join him. Driving as if using a stick for the first time, jolting and stopping over and over and dragging metal across pavement, making the most outrageous noises, no effort at all to be quiet. The sky starting to hold light, and the first jet engines spinning up and roaring off over the water. Jim can’t see them from where he is now. He should have planned better. He’s cold and exhausted and so hungry and thirsty.
He returns to the hotel for the breakfast buffet, has to hang around another forty-five minutes waiting, and then it’s only continental, which has always disappointed everyone. Europeans are supposed to like it, but is that possible? He chews through cold rolls with jam and butter and thinks it should be better in the end. If they knew, they would make more effort.
He takes the shuttle to the terminal and does more waiting. How much of his life was waiting?
All these people around him, and he has no connection with any of them. He could vanish and it would all be the same. When he boards the plane, also, he sits next to a stranger who will remain a stranger, and it was never any different, really, in the rest of his life except for his kids and wives and family, just that small handful.
He’s so tired he falls asleep on the first flight, then feels groggy going through the Seattle terminal, tries not to fall asleep while waiting for the Anchorage flight. He doesn’t want to miss it. He has a plan to finish, his assignment, his homework. Those words seem different now. It was everything that happened related to home that brought him to this point, and it does feel assigned rather than chosen.
He sleeps on the Anchorage flight, too, wakes at the end to see coastline and islands, beautiful from above. Only scattered clouds. Glaciers and ice fields looking so soft. He should do something spectacular, go skydiving and not pull the cord. Go for the highest dive possible and enjoy what time there is.
At this altitude, humanity is erased. No sign of any building or boat, mountains miniaturized, waves flattened, the world innocent. He could live in it from this far view, if he never had to come any closer. The inland waterways especially idyllic, small blue mirrors and always calm.
He waits again in Anchorage, so much smaller, and cold even inside. His big jacket on now, thermal underwear and boots. He has to walk outside to board the plane, and he wonders what happens to someone who didn’t know, just passing through from some tropical place, wearing shorts and flip-flops. Do they die of exposure? But everyone seems to know, all wearing parkas like his, gloves and hats and snow boots.
A plane with props and seating for less than twenty, and not much warmth, thin walled. All sitting in their full gear. It does feel like they’re going somewhere wrong, somewhere close to the edge of the world. Billions of people but you’d never believe it here.
The plane so light it’s thrown constantly by turbulence, sinkholes in the air, sudden drops, and yawing side to side, as if refusing direction. And dark, always dark, though now, in mid-March, sunset isn’t until after 7:30 p.m., which is fine. It’s only the middle of winter that gets really depressing, and he’s past that now. No excuses. He can blame only himself, not the place.
They pass countless mountains unseen, Denali out there somewhere on the left an enormous white mound dwarfing normal ranges, and then the few lights of Fairbanks below and they’re landing.
No one to greet him at the airport, and it’s late, almost eleven. He’s managed to set up a life here completely alone. It was never his plan, really. We don’t make plans and don’t follow plans. That’s only an idea.
His truck has been plugged in the entire time he’s been away, a heater keeping the engine from freezing, and this strikes him now as tremendous waste, since it’s only fourteen below at the moment, but everything up here is like that, and the pipeline erases all concern. Boom times. So much like a western, all the men who have come here for a black gold rush. Fairbanks even has saloons, which is where he should go now. Why go home?
He unplugs the truck and starts it and crawls away on studded tires. Everyone moving slowly, the roads packed snow. Jim heads downtown to a saloon where he knows there are prostitutes. He’s not going to waste time looking.
The walls made of logs, and inside there are peanut shells on the floor. Small round tables, two dancers on stage. Warmer in here for them, so he has to shed his jackets and wishes he didn’t have the thermal underwear. Sweating already.
One of the dancers looks pretty good. A body never seems real in this light. It looks made out of wax. But still he enjoys the show. The waitress, topless and young, asks what he’d like.
“You,” he says. “I know you’re not a prostitute and don’t usually do it, which is why I’m asking. How about five hundred bucks if you go upstairs with me for twenty minutes?”
She has long dark hair pulled back tight in a ponytail. Slim and new and busty.
“Five hundred?”
“Yes. A one-time offer, right now.”
“Okay,” she says. “But you owe another fifty to the bar, for the room and my time.”
“I’m fine with that.”
“Cash right now.”
Jim pays. He’s been carrying a lot of cash, but there’s so much more in his account. All unused, and it will be taken by the IRS. He should buy a hundred rounds of drinks and have everyone toast to “Fuck the IRS.” No Alaskan likes taxes or the government. He wouldn’t find a single dissenter.
He follows her upstairs. The room is meant to look like the old West. Rough plank floorin
g and walls, stained dark, a four-post bed with a satiny red cover that says brothel, and oil lamps. A spittoon in the corner. He doesn’t have the magnum with him, and no belt and holster for it, either, or he would hang that around one of the bed posts.
She stands in front of the bed, and it’s clear she doesn’t really know what to do. She’s not asking him to shower.
He walks up close and puts his hands on her breasts, cool skin from working bare, a bit clammy. He can smell her sweat. She lets him run his hands along her back and belly, then he unbuttons her cut-offs and lets them fall. Wearing granny underwear beneath, just pale beige and full fitting, so he pushes those down quick and tries to forget the stains on the crotch.
He pushes her onto the bed and spreads her legs but she just looks and smells too womanly and real.
He unbuttons his jeans and pulls them down a bit and stands there limp.
“You’re not even hard.”
“I know. Sorry.”
She sits up and leans in to take his dick in her mouth dutifully, and they could be married, the feeling of obligation without any real desire left. He watches her pretty face, because it should turn him on to see her doing this, but his dick is so loose and blank and he’s feeling no pleasure at all.
“Never mind,” he says. “Just lie down and I’ll get behind you.”
She turns away from him on the bed and he finishes stripping, lies down behind, spoons her. A bit cold in here, and they’re on top of the satiny cover instead of underneath. He knows he’ll never get an erection again. He can feel his time ticking away.
“What are we doing?” she asks.
“Shh,” he says. “Let me just hold you. You feel good. I know it’s only twenty minutes. I know my time’s up soon.”
He breathes in the smell of her hair and neck, her sweat, feels grateful for something real in the end. He closes his eyes, pulls her as close as he can, and tries not to feel alone, but it’s only moments before he’s starting to weep. He tries to keep from moving or making any sound, but she can tell.
“You’re crying?” she asks.