Before, he was telling me that he was Mexican-American, but he’d never seen any need to cross the border—I guess they have pesos at U.S. banks. He’s a mortician; he says if I saw a young guy like you on the table, I’d cry. He gives me a couple of gifts from Macy’s: a Calvin Klein jockstrap and silk Perry Ellis boxers. See, Daddy spoils you. If that’s spoiling, then I need a new fruit!
Is there really a whole half-hour on NPR about a BBC makeover show that helps women to look more feminine and throw all the wrong clothes into the trash? Terry Gross should be ashamed of herself, saying she’d really enjoy going shopping with these women and maybe picking out a neat skirt. This trick shows up and he’s so hot, preppy boy with a shaved head and lots of freckles—and he’s grinning at me. Right away, we’re making out and it’s totally sex, soft and hard and warm and connected. His dick is delicious, so straight—I think he said he was straight too, but maybe that was someone else.
I’m on top of him then he’s on top of me, so much kissing and frantic jerking off, and looking into his eyes with meaning or feeling really—just giving it all—and when I come, he pulls me up to his face so the come is all over his mouth, white and yellow, why is my come always yellow? Then he pulls me in to kiss, and there’s my come on my face, which feels kind of gross, I guess because I just came and so I’m worn out. He comes all over his chest and then we just lie there and absorb everything. It’s almost too intense. Afterwards, he says the best part was just looking at you, you’re so hot. That’s what I was thinking about him.
When I put on the new Freaks CD, it’s all about the twisted beats and the vocals that go nowhere—when I’m finished with this novel, I’m going to make that kind of music. Lying in bed, I’m listening to the rats devouring my wall, tapping the wall to make sure they’re not going to walk out into my bed. Though I’ve got so much wax in my ears—do rats eat earwax? Rue says they eat everything—roaches, mice, the glue in the floors. I stay in bed until I have to piss so badly that I’m wired, and then just as I’m about to get out of bed, my headache overwhelms everything. Why does piss bubble so much? Andee says you know the pigeons, roaches, mice and rats don’t get along—they eat each other, and if they don’t eat each other, they just shit on each other.
There’s so much pain in between my eyes that I can’t even stay balanced—am I getting anemic? I get back in bed, hole in my head until I wake up because the mice are squealing. How are we going to co-exist if they won’t even let me sleep? Blake says: remember, mice are rats. Benjamin says: I’d rather see them dead, but I’m not allergic to everything.
Kayti says why do you always try to be lying—there ain’t no fucking pigeons in your ceiling—I mean, I know there’s rats—there’s definitely bugs, probably bedbugs, probably moths, but there ain’t no damn pigeons in your goddamn ceiling, I can tell you that right now because there’s no pigeons and there’s no birds, definitely no deers, probably some vomit. And nope, they don’t all get along—I’m sure the bird eats the worm, the worm gets run over by a car, the car hits a deer, the deer—I don’t know what deer eat—the deer eats the grass, the grass pretty much doesn’t do shit to anything. So pretty much the grass is very benign, very good, I don’t think they have problems with any other living thing, you’ve gotta think about that some more—if grass has any enemies—as far as I know, it doesn’t—except for the lawn mower. Yeah, the grass is a pretty good thing, a pretty good thing.
I remember Kayti used to be allergic to grass. Rue says mice don’t squeal, haven’t you heard the saying “quiet as a mouse”? He says a rat will walk over your body while you’re sleeping; I’ve lived with rats. How do I get rid of them? Poison. What kind of poison will hurt them the least? Rue says: I think that dying of poison is usually painful. At least he’s honest. After I get off the phone, I start crying—just a little—about all of it. Because I can’t live with rats, but I don’t want to poison them. I wish I could just make a deal: stay in my ceiling and it’ll be okay! I’ll even protect you. I’ll let you have the kitchen cabinets, if you want somewhere else. But you can’t crawl all over my house and poison me—I’m sensitive.
I have the sweetest trick. He’s just returned from walking the dog, Sadie, so he takes a bath while I talk to him. He was in a therapy cult in the seventies, convinced himself that people were born with the THC removed from their bodies, and so you had to smoke pot all the time, twenty-four hours a day. He took the bar to become a lawyer while he was high, but quit six years ago—not the bar, but the pot. He’s converted the garage of his house into his living quarters so he can rent out the upstairs—it’s crowded and comfy, the ceiling’s low but there’s a huge garden outside. He wants to get to know me first, and after he comes, the dog jumps onto the bed and licks it all off.
In the morning, I lie in bed tortured by the rats, shouting get out get out GET OUT. They don’t listen. I get out of bed—Rue says he has the worst sinus headache in the world, but I have the worst sinus headache in the world, certified by experts from thirty-three different countries. I have the papers to prove it. Another trick who asks what do you do for a living? I’m a cop, and you’re arrested for wearing cologne with baby oil—a terrorist threat. I sit in the house all day and read Steve’s book—Steve is the THC trick, his book is about a therapy cult—it’s the fantasy of family that’s drawing me in, I’m waiting for the ultimate collapse. A bulk email that says Young Teen Wall Papers? My dick’s so hard on the phone sex line, aching to come I mean really aching, and then after I come OUCH I’m still aching, ouch and then I’m trying to get pictures of the come on the floor but I don’t know if it’ll show up with the disposable camera.
Why do so many jocks go to art school—whatever happened to the good old days of limp-wristed sissies? And why does everyone in the chiropractor’s office have to ask me about my weekend—I don’t give a shit about weekends, I’m a whore—get it—a whore! Shove that fucking weekend down my throat and then hand me a few hundreds, okay? Walk bitch walk bitch walk. Turn. Pose. Walk bitch walk bitch walk. Turn. Oops—forgot to look—swimming pool runway, good thing the collagen is waterproof. Breast stroke or have a stroke? Lifesaver—eight calories—forget it—lifeguard! Up the stairs and it’s dripping-wet runway—doesn’t matter ’cause the sun’s so hot you’re gonna burn. Are the rats doing runway in my ceiling?
Sha-sha-sha-bleh, sheh-sheh-sheh-blah. Sha-sha-sha-bleh, shehsheh-sheh-blah. Rah rah rah! Rah rah rah! Rah rah rah! Movin’ on the freeway, shakin’ on the highway—movin’ shakin’ movin’ shakin’ movin’ shakin’ fakin’ bakin’ makin’ my house—in my house—in my, in my—house! I swear those are the lyrics. A trick calls with a subtle yet sensational request: how much? One-fifty. A dollar and fifty cents? How ’bout two dollars—that way, I can take the bus back too. Ralowe says he ate apples and soy milk all day yesterday, and for some reason he felt faint. He says how do you get protein—every time I eat meat, I get all sluggish and can’t stop masturbating.
Ralowe says is that a rat tap-dancing in your ceiling, but no, it’s a rat-pigeon tango—but which one’s the man and which one’s the woman? Gender is always an issue, even in inter-species romance. Bouncing on that diving board into infinity—no wait, girl, that’s not infinity—that’s the street! I walk into this trick’s motel room and his eyes are popping out of his head while he’s smoking in the dark. I say I can’t really deal with smoking. He says okay, then I won’t offer you one. I say no, seriously—I’m really allergic. He says you should have told me that over the phone—I’m out the door—enjoy your fucking speed addiction!
It’s 2 a.m. on Polk Street, just across from the Econo Lodge that’s getting demolished, and there’s that blonde woman playing violin again. I get closer and her smile gets bigger, I give her a couple dollars and ask her why she’s on this corner. She says because I live over there, and she points to the demolished motel.
Why wear three different overpriced labels when you can spend three times as much on one label—VuittonPradaGu
cci. Rhania’s back from Mexico and she’s already making an outfit, she wants it to be strange but not sta-range. What’s wrong with sta-range? Rhania says I don’t want to go back to work, the kids say weird things to me. The seven-year-old says: you don’t smell good because you don’t wear deodorant. Rhania says: different people smell different. The kid says: yeah, some people smell like roses and some people smell like trash. Later, the kid tells Rhania: I wish we didn’t have to pay you because our parents don’t have a lot of money. Right—with the multimillion-dollar home and the trust fund, they’re definitely struggling.
It’s one of those days when I wake up feeling like my face is scrunched, so much pain between my eyes and nose—and eyes and cheeks—and everything’s dry, I don’t want to take the eye mask off, ever again. Did I mention my new strategy: keeping the eye mask on when I go to the bathroom in the middle of the night/day/sleep? That way the light doesn’t wake me up too much. Kind of works, but it hasn’t helped me to feel any better. Sitting on the sofa thinking about going to bed at 8 p.m. I’m so exhausted that if I listen hard enough, I can hear the rats breathing. Went to get rat bait with Rue, and he pointed out the picture of the rat on the box. I almost started crying; I couldn’t get the rat bait.
Eleven p.m. and I finally have energy—there is hope in the world! I clean all the papers off my desk for the first time in at least two years, then I move the pens to the left side and it all feels so much better. On NPR: a black church that’s paying white people five dollars to go to services, because they want the church to look like God’s country. How much do Asian people get? Jenna says she hasn’t called because she’s been so tired all the time—tell me about it, we can hang out and be tired somewhere together. I take a sleeping pill, and it does make me fall asleep earlier, but at 10 a.m. I’m still eating toast. It’s dry. Back into my head, bed, and when I wake up again, I’m so depressed it’s like a wall between the world and me. More like a ditch—no, seriously, I’m loving it!
I do the craigslist thing to recruit people for Lafayette Park, these people are so skittish! Sure, I suck two guys off, but it’s not even fun because they’re so nervous. At least it gets me out of my exhaustion for an hour, until the walk home, which is eternal—like hope, right? Right. At home, I try to figure out which walls the rats are eating—please just stay out of my food.
If the pens on my desk started dancing, I’d watch. They don’t, but I still wait for miracles, blurring my vision to focus on each color. I just got out of bed, I don’t want to go back—it never fucking helps! The U.S. military spokesperson says we got Saddam’s sons; we’ll get Saddam too. He says the only question is who will get the $25 million reward, and move to another country. Is the $25 million part of the $80 billion Congress appropriated—anything to get control of that oil! You’re wondering about Chrissie—has she died? I’m wondering too, but I can’t bring myself to call her.
I take the 38 to the beach because no one wants to drive there, I always forget which 38 doesn’t go all the way there. It’s always the one I’m on. I discover Sutro Heights Park, where long-ago Mayor Adolph Sutro used to have an estate—there are people playing croquet and so many little black birds! I watch the birds and then I’m tired, have to go down a hill to get to the beach and my hands are burning and the bottom of my right foot is burning too—I shouldn’t have worn the insoles! I feel like an invalid walking down, and then when I finally arrive, everyone’s laughing at my spectacle and I’m way too exhausted. I sit down in the sand and watch the surfers—with the humidity, it’s actually still warm out. I take my shoes off and everything feels better.
I watch the sun, as it becomes a circle—almost white really against the gray-blue clouds, and as it sinks closer to the ocean, I picture my hands falling off into the sand—if only I could bury them and new ones would grow back! The sun gets brighter as it goes down and I’m watching it closely, this ball of yellow with pink and blue fading in and out. And everyone’s watching now, as it starts to sink into the clouds that are right above the water, and everything’s pink and I need to piss. As soon as I leave the beach, I’m exhausted again. I try to find the area by the windmills where the cruising takes place.
Craigslist is such a terrible thing—I’m always thinking it’s going to rescue me, but instead it keeps beating my poor tired hands, my hands—will I ever rescue my hands? But wait, there’s an actual hookup. Rushing over to his house, I’m high—anything to bring me out of that deep dark despair in my chair—help, Tony Blair! I get to this guy’s house, and let’s just say I’m not cruising craigslist for at least six months—it’s a promise. Not that he wasn’t cute or anything, it’s just that horrible feeling of having sex with someone who’s trying so desperately not to connect on any level at all. Kirk calls it two-dimensional sex—it’s worse than a trick because at least a trick wants passion, or the illusion of passion. Rhania calls to ask what I do to stay in my body, which actually brings me into my body.
The story of my life: I wake up, I break up, I wake up, I break up. I love heroin in the springtime, I love heroin in the fall! At least my air purifier covers the sound of the rats. Of course, there’s everything that sounds like rats, and then there’s the sound of claws—or feet—or whatever they have, scurrying across my kitchen floor—at least I hope it’s the floor. Eric wants to know if I have any new crushes—what do you mean? He says it’s funny; you’ll talk about absolutely anything else. Then I start talking about the come-on-myface photo project, so I guess Eric’s right.
The elevator in my building is broken again, and I have crabs. It’s another day when I don’t know how I’ll stay up, but then 3 a.m. rolls around and I’m wired—it’s so predictable and strange. There was a fire in the building two doors down, and a whole charred apartment is in the street. Ralowe’s getting her wisdom teeth removed at General tomorrow, and I’m worried that I’m going to need a root canal. Two years ago, a dentist tried to give me one, I said give me another dentist!
Ralowe wants to know if his music is full of purposely obscure and arty references. Is that a serious question? Jeremy and I go to Golden Era—just after we arrive, a table of seventeen sits down, so we’re rushing to order but no one’s rushing to take our order. Wednesday night and it’s completely packed, what’s going on? Tenderloin gentrification for sure, but the food is extra-delicious because I haven’t been there in so long. Jeremy’s taking a Greek and Roman mythology class this summer. The teacher gives these multiple-choice tests where she tries to trick you into picking the wrong answer; Jeremy says: does it really matter if the monster had a thousand hands or a hundred hands? Though he got that question right—he says you can have a hundred hands, but you can’t have a thousand. He’s talking so there won’t be any quiet spaces. I wait for one, look him in the eyes. He goes to the bathroom.
When Jeremy and I get back to my house, someone who looks like Rhania is at the door—oh wait, that is Rhania. She says I’m just buzzing my friend Mattilda, but she’s not here yet. She comes up and we all sit down on the sofa—Jeremy and I are exhausted, and Rhania’s wired. Jeremy goes home and Rhania and I end up talking more about how to stay in our bodies. I say you’re definitely way more in your body since you haven’t been doing so many drugs. She says well, if that doesn’t help, then something’s really wrong.
The pigeons enjoy celery, they love beans, collard greens, and kale, but they’re not particularly interested in cilantro. And they don’t even touch lemons or kombu seaweed. I’m afraid that the rats are not as particular, chewing away at every plastic bag underneath the sink. I just wish they wouldn’t make so much noise. This morning, I was actually having a restful dream, Ralowe was squeezing cloves into a stew like cloves of garlic or maybe they were chestnuts. And all of the sudden I heard this scurrying behind my head: if this novel is about parasites, then how will it end?
I call Rue and ask him if he’ll go to the hardware store again to get bait, just don’t show me the picture! I don’t want to kill the rats
, but I don’t want them gnawing away at the electrical wires until BOOM—there goes my apartment. Or feeding me allergies until my head is one big cocoon. Andee says you need to go to the country, and when I excavate the stack of bills towering over my desk—I don’t want to live with money, wait I mean without money—I mean I don’t want to give them any more money. That’s where the country comes in, starving to death on some farm because I can’t pick anything, my hands planted in the soil. Reap and sow, honey, reap and sow!
Oh wait—the pigeons are eating the cilantro—they just like to let it cook in the sun for a little while. Rue’s been working sixteen-hour days doing cinematography for a movie she doesn’t really like that much, she says this is gonna kill me much faster than the AIDS. On our walk, she starts to get a fever. Everyone’s getting impetigo, this rash that spreads all over your face. Jaysen, Jeremy and Rue have all had it, and the corners of my mouth keep getting redder—is it the impetigo? In the morning, it’s the same old mantra: I don’t want to get up, should I get up? I don’t want to get up. Should I get up? I get up to see what time it is—12:47, which means I guess I should get up. I thought maybe it would be eleven-something, and then I’d have to get back in bed.
NPR says the mini-nukes are almost ready! I guess there’s always something to choke on, if it’s not a ham sandwich then it’s Hammer time. Later, I’m choking on this guy’s cock and he still pushes my head down, he knows just the right time to pull back and then I’m back on it. It’s Buena Vista Park and when I come, I’m so crazed that the guy holding me says breathe, breathe.
I breathe, kind of twisting my ankle as I’m walking down the hill, but honey it sure was fucking worth it. The first guy I had sex with was wearing Jeremy’s blue jacket, and he had spongy hands, too. The second guy was smellier, but damn I just loved the way he held my head like a football. On the bus, there’s some tweaked queen who asks me if I’m still living at the President Hotel—no, I live a few doors down. But how does she know I live on that block? She says: in the building that had the fire? I say no, two doors down from that one.
So Many Ways to Sleep Badly Page 16