Enjoy Me

by Logan Ryan Smith

  Gurgling. I look down at my feet. I see my all-black Chuck Taylor All-Stars. A few inches from them, I see Cameron’s big brown eyes rolling all over the place. Cameron’s choking on her own blood. But just barely as she’s nearly out of her own blood. Her brown hair is black. It’s gross. It’s matted and sticky and dark. She doesn’t smell good. It’s upsetting. I feel my blue stomach go green again and nearly vomit. I nearly shit myself and wish I hadn’t taken those suppositories. But I don’t. I realize what’s happening, though I don’t understand how or why. I hurt. More than just my stomach, now. I feel sick and sad.

  Gurgling. I lean down and say, “Cameron, sweetie, what happened?”

  But she’s too sticky and self-involved to answer.

  I try again, “Baby, what’s wrong? What can I do?”

  Again, too proud to tell me. I should have known this would happen. I’ve loved Cameron for a couple years now, though she rarely paid me any mind. I frequented the bar she tended, Bourbon Bandits, regularly, convinced she’d finally notice me. She never did. No matter how many times I jumped up on the bar after seven pints of whiskey and soda water and sang along to Duran Duran’s “Come Undone,” it didn’t matter. I would tell her I never dance for anyone unless I’m in love, or drunk, and she would ignore me and ask me to leave. I would tell her I love her and that I’m not scared of the monster tattooed on her arm—or leg, or tit, or back, or wherever it is these days. I just wasn’t scared of it anymore. I got over it. It took months of living in a black room, but her monster didn’t scare me. I knew we all had it under control. She had it under control. I had it under control. We all had it under control. And, besides, monsters aren’t real. That’s just stupid. Only stupid people believe in monsters.

  She knew I loved her, though. She wasn’t stupid. No. She told me she knew once after I bought her a few shots and no one else but Old Man Bill was in the bar at the end of the night. She said, “I know you’re in love with me, loser.” She said, “Love is for suckers, idiot.” She said, “My vagina’s eight feet wide.”

  I felt inadequate.

  Old Man Bill was collecting empties and glasses and bringing them to her in exchange for a free drink on the morrow. Crickets kept dropping from his hairy ears and from the holes in his smile.

  Despite that, every once in a while I, or one of the other regulars, would buy him a drink, too. Like a pigeon, he kept coming back to the source. Despite all the signs around town that said “Don’t Feed the Old Man Bills” we felt good about ourselves for doing the opposite. One night, after making a tasteless comment about the one black girl in the bar, he told us he might just punch our faces off. Then he laughed a toothless laugh and we poured a couple whiskeys down his throat. We hoped he’d die of liver failure right there, but God doesn’t work that way. He’s lazy and not at all interested in offing those that really deserve it. Like Old Man Bill. What a piece of shit, right?

  Gurgling. “Shhh,” I say, petting her blood-blackened brown hair away from her bloodshot eyes. “Shhh, sweetie, just tell me who did this to you.”

  She says something like, “Call an ambulance,” but I’m simply too upset to really get at what she means.

  “Shhh,” I say. “Just… just stay calm. I’m here, baby. I’m here.”

  I’m holding her head with both hands. I bellow, “No!” when her eyes flicker and seem about ready to go out. I yell out, “Shit!” when her blood-soaked hair puts out my Winston. I gently lay her head back down in the pool of black sticky blood and look for my cigarettes again. Opening the pack, I find I’m fresh out.

  “Fucking great,” I say. “Listen, honey—Cameron—I have to go out and get some more cigarettes. I’ll be right back, OK?”

  But, as I should expect, her eyes stop moving all together. They slide over to the right and stop. I can’t fathom what she’s even looking at over there. From her vantage point, all she could possibly be looking at is the dust and lost cigarette butts and crumbs of pizza crust stuck under the nightstand next to her bed.

  “Baby,” I say. “There’s nothing there.” I gently slap the side of her face. “There’s nothing there.” My sticky hand sticks to her sticky face and it pulls away with a Velcro-like sound. “There’s nothing there,” I repeat, more resolutely.

  Crumpling up the empty golden Winstons box, I take a deep breath and throw it into the trash bin next to the nightstand. “I’ll be right back, baby,” I tell Cameron, who’s still playing coy.

  I’m not completely stupid, of course. I know what’s going on. I didn’t go to San Francisco State University and get a degree just because I paid for it. I’m a smart guy. A sensitive guy. I’m upset. I’m in shock. I’m lots of things.

  So, I exit the room and try to remember if I have eight bucks in my bank account in order to buy a fresh pack of Winstons. I’m not sure, so I return to Cameron and ask if I can borrow a tenner. She doesn’t say anything, so I riffle through her pockets, roll her over, and find a wad of her tip money tucked into her back pants pocket. I tell her thanks and slip the cash into my front pants pocket. I say I’ll pay her back soon as I can the way I always do when she hands money off to me.

  When I’m opening the front door of Cameron’s apartment in the Tenderloin on Geary, a high-tide of scents from the hallway floods my senses: moldy carpets, wood rot, old piss, bloody feces, body odor, stale beer, nickels and dimes, and yellow-green phlegm.

  It’s enough to knock me back, though I don’t know why I haven’t grown used to it. San Francisco is a festering, red-ringed and pus-filled wound dressed up like a cheap postcard. Its legs are open to all, except those of color or lacking in funds. Now that I think about it, why the disenfranchised and disallowed don’t do worse than piss and shit and bleed all over its pretend-beauty, I don’t know. In fact, I’m so overcome with solidarity that I whip my dick out and piss a thick stream of steaming yellow piss right into the hallway of Cameron’s apartment building. As an unemployed white man, I’m right there with the rest that the system has totally fucked over. When I flick the last yellow drops from the tip of my dick, I raise a fist and yell, “Power to the people!”

  Cigarettes. Fuck, I need cigarettes.

  Then, “Momma?”

  The pitter-patter of feet as dirty as freshly pulled potatoes.

  Zipping up I turn back into Cameron’s apartment and see Toby stumbling out of his bedroom and rubbing his eyes.

  “Momma?” it says again.

  “Hey there, little guy,” I say, heading him off at the pass. I can hear the orange curtains in the other room billowing in with the orange morning light.

  “Lou?” the potato-head says, pulling his little fist away from his eye. He’s three or six or ten—how the fuck am I supposed to know?

  “Uh, it’s Luke, kid,” I say and muss his potato-head mop.

  “Lou?” it says again.

  “Sure, yeah. OK. I’m Lou. Alright. Look, Toby, your ma—she’s sleepy. Real tired, OK? I’m gonna take care of you today,” I say and pinch his fat potato-y cheek.

  “You a take me to school?” it says, eyes wide. Cameron’s stench from the other room is becoming unbearable. I grab the kid by the hand and pull him out the door and pull the door closed behind us before he can smell her foul disrespect.

  “School?” I ask, kneeling down to make eye contact with it because I remember being told that little monsters like to bring you down to their level in order to communicate clearly. “Do you really go to school? Or are you playing pretend?”

  “Hungy,” it says and rubs its eyes before holding its arms out to me.

  Down the building’s hallway, I hear Cameron’s sister jostling with the locks of her own apartment door. Quickly, I pick the kid up and skip down the piss-wet stairs.

  “What, you don’t like it?” I ask, nudging the little guy in the ribs as I slice up the ham on my plate. The cheap boombox in the corner plays Blink 182’s cover of Spice Girls’ cover of Ace of Base’s cover of Ugly Kid Joe’s cover of “Cat’s in the Cradle.�
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  We’re at Golden Coffee, a tiny corner diner at Stockton and Leavenworth. It has big windows and a square horseshoe counter and that’s it. It’s about a block uphill. I like to come here early in the morning and watch the refuse of the previous night roll down the hill: wallets, spare trolley wheels, Prada bags, the hopes and dreams of privileged people sunk by a bad break. Those dreams usually look like Britney Spears as they come tumbling down the hill, but end up looking like Fred Savage in high heels at the bottom of it. Each time it happens, I’m embarrassed. Embarrassed because I always run out after the messy tumbling mass and yell, “Britney, I’ll save you!” but in the end Fred wants nothing to do with me and just raises one eyebrow at me while giving me a look of disgust before hobbling up Geary toward Union Square to drink out of the bowls there that catch rainwater and are labeled with names such as “Fido” or “Mayor.”

  “Is greezy,” the kid says, handling his utensils like a fucking Neanderthal.

  “Greasy?” I ask, exasperated. “This is what’s called a greasy spoon diner, son. Here, I’ll cut this up for you. There, now eat. It’s good for you. Makes you shit. That’s good for you I hear. I sort of read a book about it once. Keeps the ass cancer away.” I gulp down my coffee and motion to the old Asian guy that runs the place that I’d like another, please. He smiles and refills my stained and chipped mug while his slightly younger brother works behind a sizzling grill at the back of the counter next to the industrial-sized sink full of bubbles. Just then, I feel inspired and pen a poem onto a napkin:

  Golden Coffee

  how I love thee so

  let me count the ways:

  your coffee

  bacon

  and eggs

  are the tops

  but you’re so much more

  than a greasy spoon to me

  your hash browns

  rye toast

  and counter service

  are also pretty neat

  and I think the cook’s name is Fred

  which is also kinda neat

  Golden Coffee

  your view of the busy intersection

  and pedestrian traffic

  is pretty sweet

  Golden Coffee

  how I love thee

  you’re one swell place to eat

  Then I fold the napkin up and slip it into the shirt pocket where my Winstons should be. I smile, knowing the poetry community will eat it up and praise me, but give me no money. Speaking of, I plan to pay for this meal with the money I stole out of the tip jar from the fancy café across the street.

  “It’s great, right?” I say, nudging the kid in the ribs again. He groans and moans and pouts and leans away from me. “What? You don’t like their breakfast? Look, these people here worked very hard to make that ham and eggs for you. And I have it on good authority that you’ve read a book called Green Eggs and Ham—you know what they call this? Living the experience, son. Now, eat up.”

  “I did a read dat book,” it says, handling his fork and knife like an invalid.

  “Hey, now!” I say. “I told you I knew you, you little bugger, you. Now, chow down. In this meal you’ll get most of the nutrients you need to grow into a full-grown man—primarily, pig nutrients.”

  To show him there’s nothing wrong with slimy diner food, I greedily chop up my own ham and eggs and shovel it into my face. He smiles. So, I start shoveling faster. His smile turns to giggles. I take it to the next level because I’m sleep deprived—and sad and confused and sickened about Cameron, I think—and pick up the plate and start gobbling at it like a cow at a trough. That has the little shit grabbing at his stomach and laughing so hard that he falls off the stool.

  “Can I hold-a your hand, pawleez?” it asks as we’re walking down Geary, our bellies full of greasy ham and eggs and goodness.

  “Can you hold my hand?” I ask. “Of course you can.”

  The little dummy holds his hand out and wiggles his little digits. I don’t take his hand.

  “You a said you hol’ my hand,” it says, pouting again and looking like it’s about to cry.

  “See, this is why I’m here,” I tell Toby, kneeling down again so that we make eye contact. While I’m preparing my response, Geary Street’s usual zombies and monsters walk past, bumping into me while scratching the sores on their faces and crotches. One walks right into me, trips over my back, and slams into the concrete. It makes the sound of a mallet swung hard into a side of beef. He doesn’t get up and I don’t bother to offer help. Toby looks at him and erupts into giggles.

  “I’m here,” I say over his laughter, “to show you how to grow the fuck up. You can hold my hand. What you meant to ask was, ‘May I hold your hand?’ You understand? You see the fucking difference?”

  “I’m five. You us’t a bad word. I am not growed up, you know,” he says, pouting again.

  “Jesus! I know that. I am growed up. Are you listening?”

  I grab his hand and we walk down the sidewalk littered with needles and used condoms and lost teeth. Kicking those aside, we eventually end up at Bourbon Bandits.

  Stan’s behind the bar skittering around on his skinny cricket legs. As usual, there’s no one here, but the bartender seems busy as shit. A high-pitched whistle, barely audible, accompanies his every move.

  I pick up potato-head and place him on the bar.

  “Oh, uh, hi there, Luke,” Stan says in the midst of utter confusion. “What—you taking care of Toby today?”

  “That’s what it looks like,” I say, and take a seat at the bar. On one of the TVs the Giants’ pregame show has begun. On the other, a man wearing an American-flag dress is spreading George W. Bush’s legs and tonguing his asshole.

  “Stan,” I say.

  “Huh?” he asks, looking up from his glass-washing duties.

  “You think that’s appropriate for children to be seeing?” I ask, pointing at the rimjob taking place on the TV.

  Stan stares at the TV and asks, “What? The news? Shelter the kid much?”

  “Don’t look at that,” I say, covering the thing’s eyes, though he’s busy playing with a Transformers toy Stan must have given him. “You’re too young to be bothered with politics,” I finish, but realize he’s too interested in his toy, so I take my hand from his eyes. I can’t help but think there’s something symbolic happening.

  “Stan, give me the usual, pour a favor,” I say, having a hard time taking my eyes off the TV that isn’t showing the Giants’ pregame.

  “Wha’s that?” it asks, pointing now at that TV.

  “The way the world goes round. Don’t look at it, kid. It’ll make you sick. Jesus, Stan, you really can’t turn that shit off?” I ask, putting my hand over the kid’s eyes again. “I’m trying to raise a child here, man. He doesn’t need to see that shit.”

  Outside: sirens, flashing lights, screams, the smell of bacon with a side of gunfire.

  Stan pays no mind to anything but his precious glasses that must be cleaned and cleaned and cleaned. Finally, after washing a thousand glasses and stopping before the mirror to comb the mustache masking his flittering mandibles, he walks over and says, “The usual, Luke. Really?”

  “Exprechen eee doytch?” I ask. “Yeah, the usual. What, does ‘the usual’ mean something different on your planet, Stan? Jesus.” I laugh, trying to keep the mood light, despite the orgasmic grunts eschewed from one of the TVs.

  “Luke, you got the kid. You think it’s such a great idea to drink a whole pint of whiskey and soda water?” he asks, giving me a very sincere look while scratching his hairy upper lip.

  I feel blood rush to my face in a flash of hot red steel. “Don’t. Fucking. Tell. Me. How to raise my kid, Stan. Don’t you fucking dare.”

  “How ‘bout a light beer?” Stan asks, rubbing his cricket legs together pornographically.

  As usual, that cricket noise fucks with my brain and I agree, “Yeah, give me a, um, Coors—no, Miller Light.”

  He acts accordingly and places a frot
hy pot of piss before my face. Thirsty, I decide I don’t care and dive head-first into the toilet in front of me. Dirty amber everywhere. Formaldehyde and ammonia tickle the hair in my nose and at the back of my throat. When I pull out of the piss bucket, I’m rotten and yellow. Jaundiced the same way I was when I crawled out of my mother’s womb.

  “Wha’s that?” the thing asks, pointing again.

  “Politics, kid. I told ya.” But then I notice he’s pointing at the Giants game. “Oh, uh, that’s baseball. You’ve watched some baseball before, right?”

  “Ba—ba—baseball?” it says, fumbling with the missile-shaped Transformer. Focusing, I realize the kid’s handling a dildo and, shocked, I quickly nab it from the kid and toss it behind the bar, giving Stan a dirty look as I do. I give him another look that says, “Filth. You breed nothing but filth.” But he just flicks a few crusty bits from his mustache and smiles at me before returning to glass-washing duties.

  “Yeah, ba-ba-baseball, dummy,” I say, returning my attention to the pudgy parasite sitting next to me. “Jeez. It’s like the greatest sport on the planet. Your ma never took you to a game? You mean to tell me you’ve been on this stinking planet for five years and she hasn’t taken you to a Giants game?”

  Big blue eyes look up at me and shake back and forth.

  “Well, shit, you’re in for some more real life experience, today, Tobster. I’m sure we can scalp tickets real cheap an inning or two or three in.”

  I down the bedpan of light beer, thank Stan, drop five dollars of Cameron’s tip money on the bar, then grab the kid by the hand and yank him out of the bar into the hazy light of day.

  “No! No! No!” I yell, seated in the upper deck behind the wall in left field. I grab Toby’s little shoulders and push him back into his seat. All around us some people are trying to start the wave. “This is baseball,” I tell him. “You don’t do the wave. That’s for those football fucks. Football—a game for complete fucking psychopaths, morons, and sheeple. No wave here, kid. You get me?”