by Irvine Welsh
Authenticity.
I wanted a social life. I wanted a sex life, as much as any freshman student at the Art Institute. But I wasn’t there to hang out, party, get laid, and be cool. I was there to learn as much as I could and to become an artist. I was driven by a hunger for success more voracious than any business-school student could have displayed. And I was far, far more determined than any other student at the Institute. I felt I had greatness in me. I wanted to learn how to be good enough to be great.
There were two principal requirements of being a freshman student at the School of the Art Institute. You needed to buy an Apple Mac and you were required to live in the residencies on State Street. They were housed in an interesting building by the Borders bookstore, and near the Gene Siskel film center, which made it wonderful for me, in spite of the possible embarrassment of running into Mikey.
The white, bright rooms, with large windows and track lighting, were shared with another student, and I was fortunate to split the space with a lovely Korean girl called Kim. Along with Amanda, she became my closest friend. But I had to pay for the dorm rental upfront: almost $20,000. That shared box turned out to be the most expensive rental I and a lot of other people would ever have in Chicago. The huge turnover of students meant big money for the school. Each of the rooms had a bathroom and kitchen. Students had their own drafting table, chair, and closet, but the beds were in loft areas, offering minimal privacy. There was a communal laundry room, and recreational facilities, like a TV lounge and gym, and we all had safety deposit boxes. The best feature of the rooms was that they were a short walk from the school.
I loved all the tutorials and workshops—most obviously 2D (painting), but 3D (sculpture) was a revelation to me. Even 4D (performance art/video) though I had no empathy for it whatsoever, I studied without resentment. And then there was the history of art, which I adored. Other students couldn’t wait to get away after a full day’s work. I always felt a hollow thud in my chest when a tutor insisted that I had to go home, or even get lunch.
While I was far from the worldliest of art students, I knew what was going on. All staff had to be working artists, and most had a Marxist esthetic, which frowned on elite distinctions between high and low art. This often produced strange results; when I arrived at the Institute, a childlike art movement was ascendant. Prevalent in its oeuvre were effete depictions of unicorns and the like. Art now considered rather ridiculous and lame, such as the copious representations of cartoon characters like Garfield, were assigned a pseudo-Warholian credibility. I knew I wanted none of that, but I strangely benefited from it, as my images of wasted, future humans would soon be lumped into that populist school.
I also learned that socializing with staff members, and fucking them, was rife, indeed considered almost de rigueur for the more ambitious students. If there was such a thing as gross moral turpitude in art schools, it was certainly applied less rigidly than across other strands of academia.
What else did I learn from art school? Certainly, there was the cruelty of critique. Classes often seemed to be a competition to determine who could be the most subtly cold-blooded and pitiless, who could best justify their vitriol intellectually, and it was all about alliances. I soon realized that while we didn’t produce many great artists, the place was a factory for people who could deploy verbal sadism with aplomb.
But the most important lessons I quickly grasped—how extremely important curation is, and how crucial it was to meet the right people.
And then I met Jerry.
And when all these things fell into place, I thought I had everything. I did have everything. Now what do I have?
An airplane roaring above, coming in from the ocean, ready to head out to the Glades, before circling back into the city to touch down at Miami International Airport. Sometimes, as they soar, I think again about those images of the World Trade Center going down, imagining myself being crushed in rubble or seared with fire, until I’m sick and dizzy with palpitations.
I move cautiously toward the cool glass window, now cruddy with the marks of my forehead, fingerprints, and breath. Look out onto the emerging grid of street and car lights as the day fades away. This is the only window within reach; I’ve learned instinctively to know the limits of my freedom, before that unforgiving metal bracelet twists and wrenches my arm. The way the tempered steel of that cuff works through the soft fur, giving me a reprimanding slash if I struggle too much. I think of what Lucy might have done with those shackles; how she might have used them on others, prior to me. Attached to that terrible length of chain, with no weak links. So unnegotiable.
I look out the window across to an adjacent block of apartments. On one floor a light clicks on at 8:15 and goes off again at 12:30. It’s on a timer, like the ones in here, servicing a ghost apartment. Once I saw two men over in that unit, engaged in quite animated discussion. I waved (screaming is pointless but irresistible) but I knew it was hopeless; even if they did look my way, all they would see is another cold, black window.
Lucy usually comes back in the early evenings, hopefully bearing the luxury of hot food. If it’s cold I detest her to my core. Otherwise, my feelings are more complex. The small TV she brought after my opening week of double-digit weight loss is an absolute godsend. It gives me the time, and lets me know what’s going on in the world outside. It means I can speak about the Siamese twins with her.
Stephen’s role as lead guy in this drama has been usurped by Troy Baxter, a handsome, youngish media-friendly surgeon. He is to lead the team of thirty medical staff who will separate the girls. He’s on Channel 8 again, upping his contention of Amy’s life chances after the separation procedure to as high as 40 percent, with Annabel’s around 90 percent. — The girls share a liver, but have separate hearts and, crucially, they do not share a biliary tract, one of the most vital aspects in the separation of conjoined twins.
They cut to the Wilks mother, who once again robotically advocates prayer as the sole coping strategy. I used to loathe this willful mindlessness, but now I know how she feels. But I also know that it’s driven so much by desperation and fear, because that’s been my life here. The most chilling aspect is that I still don’t know what Lucy’s plans for me are, after I hit that target weight loss. I keep telling myself: she isn’t a killer.
She leaves my phone back in the kitchen, on vibrate. I can hear it purr and beep from the countertop. She keeps it charged, but won’t tell me who is trying to call or email me. I make up scenarios about who those calls could be from, long poignant narratives involving Mom, Dad, Kim, and Amanda. But mostly I think about Jerry; so stupid and pathetic, but I can’t shake the bittersweet fantasy that he’ll kick in the door and rescue me and hold me and be somebody else: the person his words always promised.
I’m running my hand along the bottom windowsill, and there it is, an indented handle! My pulse races as I pull it out and start winding, as the window opens to about two inches. Cool air from the ocean rushes in; its welcome contrast from the recycled gunk that blows through the vents makes me instantly giddy. This slight gap is useless to me; but even if it were wide enough to get through, at forty floors up I’d still be as much of a prisoner as ever. Then I turn to my comforter and my buckets, and my spirits soar euphorically.
36
DOGS
MONA: I SWEAR to fucking God that someday I will sledgehammer in that bitch’s fake, plastic cunt! I’m driving over the Julia Tuttle Causeway toward Midtown as her text pops into my phone, gleefully telling me that Carmel Addison, a Botoxed, vinyl-faced troll, but a good payer, is the latest client of mine who came in to terminate her membership.
Fuck you fake ass fuck you fake ass fuck you fake ass.
I’m running around so much, I realize in despair, I haven’t even recorded my data on Lifemap for a couple of days. I feverishly try to recall what I’ve eaten and done, but I’m passing the spot where the incident happened, and through the muggy heat, a shiver spreads across my back. As I arrive at M
iles’s place, he’s leaving the apartment building and getting into his Jeep, wearing wraparound Ray-Bans, a bomber jacket, which looks like calfskin, and baggy blue brushed-denim pants. In tow is a washed-out Eurotrash blonde, frizzed locks falling out a freakin beret. She looks like she’s just come off the plane and a gangster boyfriend has given her a grand to splash on clothes, but only on the proviso that she spends it in his shabbily stocked money-laundering Russian boutique.
She sees me stealing across the road toward them, and nudges Miles. As he turns, I shout, — You fucking asshole!
He’s panicked as he starts pushing the green-card-sniffing whore into his vehicle. It still has that irritating sticker on the windshield: IT’S A JEEP THING, YOU WOULDN’T GET IT.
The bitch looks at me and says in a Commie accent, — Eet ees hore! Eet ees thee crazy kung-fu cheek!
— Get in, baby, Miles says. — I’ll handle this.
Chico the dog is pissing up against a tree. Miles, who has him on that fucking extension leash, advances toward me, his arms outstretched and his palms upturned. — Lucy . . . we gotta talk . . .
It’s a bad stance for him to adopt as I kick out straight for his balls, but he swerves and I only catch his thigh. He jumps back. — You crazy fuck!
— FUCKING LIAR!
He runs to the Jeep, getting in, slamming the door shut, and groping for the ignition as I kick at the body of the vehicle, denting a panel. — FUCKING BITCH!! he screams, pulling off quickly, forgetting Chico and not noticing his leash is caught in the door, as the line unspools. As he tears away I shout at him to stop but there’s no way, and, as the line reaches the limit, the pissing dog is yanked from the tree, shooting like a missile, still attached to the leash. Miles hears the yelps and screeches, as Chico rockets past the passenger window, smashing onto the road and bouncing along it like a rubber ball before being snapped back by the leash. Miles gets out the Jeep. — Chico . . . buddy . . .
Chico is miraculously still alive, the poor little guy pulling himself on his front paws, dragging two broken back legs behind him, onto the sidewalk and under a bush. Miles is in tears, begging the animal to come out, every tug on the leash eliciting a sickening snarl. — WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?! He turns to me, face etched in agony.
— What have you done?!
— Zee poleece . . . we must call zee poleece, demands the Russki, who has gotten out the car.
Miles gets a hold of the lowly growling dog and carries it to the Jeep. The Commie gets in the driver’s seat and they speed off, vet-bound. My nerves are shredded as I jump into the Caddy DeVille and drive. I pull up into a service station and buy an aerosol can of black spray paint from the store. Then, doubling back to Miles’s apartment, I gain entry to the building after pushing every buzzer. On his white door I write in capitals: IT’S A CREEP THING AND I TOTALLY FUCKING GET IT.
Heading for downtown, my head is wrecked: I never meant for his dog to get hurt, but it was his own miserable fault for being such a fucking cowardly douchebag. I punch in that egg salad I’d forgotten about yesterday, also recollecting a stress-relieving triple set of pull-ups, and as I control the Caddy with one hand, a lane-changing asshole in a truck pulls in front of me, not even indicating—
FUCK.
As I slow down and hit my brakes, I look up at the apartment block from the Interstate 95, and feel myself sink in dread into the Caddy’s ungiving seat. There’s a banner drapped out the top floor . . . of our block. Of our apartment!
Two words on a white comforter, thickly scrawled in what looks like . . . surely fucking not . . .
HELP ME
FUCKING SORENSON!
I turn off into Bayshore Drive and park outside the block, running in and pulverizing the elevator call button. C’MON! It slams and slaps down through the empty floors and the door springs open. I hit the top-floor button and my heart races as the door snaps shut and the elevator ascends, picking up speed. I’m hoping passing motorists on the Interstate 95 who might have seen the banner figured it represented some sort of urban chic humor; the empty block screaming for help in the real-estate desert. Surely nobody would have stopped and investigated. But the cops . . . how fucking long has it been there?
I get into the apartment and steal down the hall, assailed by a foul stench as I step inside the front room. Sorenson’s sitting on the floor on her mattress, but the upturned buckets sit in a lake of stagnant piss and grotesque melting turds spilling across Mom’s hardwood floors. — OH MY GOD, YOU FUCKING GROSS WHORE!
— FUCK YOU! Sorenson looks like a malevolent little leprechaun, a real fat person, twisted and hateful as they always are, beyond that sickening jolly-fool facade. Bitch might shed pounds but bitch’s soul’s still corpulent.
I run straight to the window, yanking handfuls of the comforter inside. It’s covered in shit; bitch has scrawled in her own fucking mess! I’m shouting, — You fucking foul— then there’s a metal swish in the air, as something wraps tightly around my throat. My hands go to my neck, fingers groping at a cold, uneven metal. Fat bitch has whipped her chain around it and she’s throttling me . . . I reach behind to grab her wrists, pulling them toward me, as I lever my feet against the plate glass, pushing off back into Sorenson, then reverse headbutting her, hearing her nose crack. The animal shrillness of her scream tells me she’s in pain and shock will follow, and, sure enough, I can sense her grip weakening. I ram my elbow into her gut and feel her letting go, and I’m pivoting to watch her crumble to the floor in jagged installments. The chain against my neck, gravity, and her bulk are pulling me toward her and I use the momentum to land on top of her, my palm on her chest, forcing her down. I tear the slackened chain from me with my free hand. — You wanna play rough, fat girl?
To my surprise, Sorenson’s recovered her rage. Blood and snot jet from her nostrils, but her eyes blaze in defiance as her hands go round my wrist. — Fuck you!
I pound her fat chops, get in a left hook, and, as she relinquishes her grip on my arm, I follow with a sharp right to the nose. The blood gushes out and tears blind her eyes. I can feel the fight ebbing out of her. — You want me to fuck you up good? Huh?
— No . . . I’m sorry . . . she whimpers.
I get off her, and pull her by the hair, dragging her like a dog over to a pile of her disgusting, sloppy shit. — NOOO! FUCKING LET ME GO!
She’s at full-stretch on her cuffs and chain, kicking out as I force her face right into it, screwing her head deeper down into the mess, as she chokes and retches. — I’VE HAD A BAD FUCKING DAY, SORENSON! I’VE HAD A BAD FUCKING LIFE SINCE I MET YOU! YOU AND YOUR FUCKING VIDEO CLIP!
Choking and gagging, Sorenson throws up into the excrement, forcing me to relax my grip. She tears out of it and looks at me, face covered in blood, snot, shit, and puke, eyes bulging. — WELCOME TO MY FUCKING WORLD! I’VE HAD A BAD FUCKING LIFE! MY MOM . . . She takes tight, rapid breaths, fixing me in a demented stare through her shit-puke face mask, — . . . she and Dad disapproved of everything I did, my art, when everybody told them I was good . . . she stuffed me to try and make me as fat and miserable as she was . . . Jerry . . . and now . . . her eyes glare, — FUCKING YOU!
Then she forces air into her lungs and springs forward like a sumo, grabbing my shoulders. I swear the bitch would have decked me, but for the chain snapping her back like a cartoon bulldog. We’re thrashing around on the floor, wrestling in the stinking, vile mess, before I put her in ju-jitsu armlock and I’m ready to rip that fucking side of ham from her wobbly frame till she screams for mercy and once again comes to rest in a declining cacophony of sobs and retches.
I’m covered in her pungent shit and I’m saying to her, — I’m trying to make your life better, Lena, I really am.
She shakes her filth-caked head, her sobs heavy and angry. — You’re fucking ridiculous . . . this is fucking ridiculous . . .
— Yes, I am, and so are you!
I go into the bathroom, taking my clothes off and jumping under the tepid shower, cleaning t
he rancid shit and mess off me, struggling to control the gagging reflex in the face of the toxic stink. I dry myself off, wrapping a big bath towel around myself. The thermostat is set high, but I’m shivering after the confrontation. I go to the kitchen and put my clothes into the washer, then I pick up a large pair of scissors from a drawer and go back to Sorenson.
She’s sitting there, in her own mess, in a trance; silent, save for the sound of heavy bull-like breathing through her nose. She looks up at me, her shit-caked face set in a mocking sneer. Then she sees the sharp implement in my hand and recoils, pleading, — What are you going to do? . . . Please, I don’t want to die!
— What the fuck are you talking about, Lena? I snap. — I want your dirty things, I’ll put them in the wash. I was going to cut them off you cause they’re covered in your fucking shit. I stretch my hand out, keeping my distance in case the filthy whore tries another lunge.
She complies, pulling off her filthy bra, cringing fearfully as I wave the scissors, indicating that she sticks it on the end of them. I then lower it into a plastic bag. God, the fucking stench! Then she yanks down her panties, stepping out of them, placing them in the plastic bag, eyes not moving from my scissors. — I thought you were going to . . .
— Stab you? I hold up the scissors. — With these? Jesus fucking Christ, gimme a break! You started the violence. I rub my neck and turn, heading for the kitchen, musing as I go, — You try and help a fat bitch and as soon as she gets stronger, she attacks you! Not acceptable!
The place is a mess. I’m so relieved that the bear pool happened to be empty, that could have seriously fucked things up.
I get her fresh underwear from the bag and put her filthy clothes into the washer with my own things and the shit-defaced comforter cover, starting up the cycle. After composing myself through a series of deep-breathing exercises and a stretch routine, I return to Sorenson, filling the bear pool with soapy water, then handing her some paper towels. — Do the best you can, I tell her.