and Dallas’ head snaps back. She opens her eyes again. He’s gone, probably back on the floor. She crawls to see. He’s on his side. She looks closer. He looks at her. She steadies the gun again. He pops off the floor. She’s startled. He looks into the mirror. She still aims at him but is unsure if she should fire again.
It’s happening, he thinks. He lifts his hand to his temple and feels the doughy wet opening. My head is actually emptying onto the buffet! My head is actually emptying, just as I’ve always imagined! He sticks three of his fingers into the hole in his head. He feels the soft flesh and the empty space where soft flesh once was. He discovers his blood isn’t like water, though. He’s seen blood spill over a zillion times, and it’s always looked to him like red water. Not this time, though. This time it’s more like red syrup. He allows it to crawl onto his hand, his fingers working like a bridge, and slowly work its way down his hand to his wrist and rush down his forearm. It feels as though it’s moving slowly, but when he looks down to the top of the buffet, he sees a large reflecting pool, a red one, and he knows that the reflecting pool actually came from inside him, from inside his head down his arm to the buffet, and he knows he hasn’t long to live. It’s at that moment, that very particle of space in time, that realizes he’s not going to live, that he’s finally going to die. His time has finally come. He wishes Liz could be here to see this. He wishes he could turn to Liz and say, “See, I’m finally going to die. I’m not going to live. My life is finally over. Are you happy now?” He wishes he could ask her if she’s happy now. Or if she’s sad. He wishes he knew. He would just like to know now, now that his life is really over, if she loves him or ever loved him. He doesn’t want to die not knowing that. But, he knows, it is too late to determine that. He decides at that moment, at that very particle of space in time, that Liz does love him and that she wishes he wouldn’t go.
Baby hears footsteps in the kitchen. She turns and aims the gun (as best she can) at the doorway. She sees a Tall Black Man slowly enter, then watches as he ducks backwards. She knows who it is. She recognizes him, even through the fog. It’s Dante’s boss, who was also Dante’s pusher, who was also Dante’s meal ticket, and probably also Dante’s murderer. It was the Tall Black Man who always leered at her, who always wanted her, who did like the nasty young boys used to do when she was a kid and her breasts were just starting to bloom and they’d burn a hole through her blouse with their eyes to see her bouncing tits. She tried to tell Dante once that this Tall Black Man made her uncomfortable, that this man was always leering at her, but Dante ignored her, because Dante was afraid to lose this man. It was a very real fear for Dante. But now Dante’s dead. And this man is probably the reason. Baby sees the Tall Black Man stick his head back into the room. Then out again. Then the man enters. She sees that he’s watching Dallas and probably doesn’t see her. She sees that he sees that Dallas’ head sprung a red leak.
“Where is she?” he asks Dallas. Dallas looks at Frady, then folds to the floor.
“I’m right here,” she says.
Frady pivots around and falls. He appears to have lost his balance or something. He falls into the broken recliner. He aims his gun at her and she fires. The wall behind Frady explodes. He ducks and raises his hands sans gun. He watches her as she tries to get to her feet. He is unable to protect himself. He knows this. And she knows it, too.
“Aren’t you going to kill me, too?” he asks her. He sees that she’s trembling. She sees that he looks hurt already.
“I didn’t want to kill him,” she says, motioning to Dallas, who could still be alive (she can’t tell). “But he had it coming.”
She watches Frady through the sight of the short barrel and finally (unsteadily) takes to her feet. She hears her body scream at her, and it scares her. She knows that there are many things wrong with her right now, but it would be impossible to pin-point which part of her body is currently screaming the loudest. She doesn’t care right now. She knows she’ll heal. She just hopes nothing that is wrong with her is debilitating enough to prevent her from leaving the confines of this torture chamber inside this strangely colored house.
Frady watches her through the eyes of a man who knows his time is up. But it’s not like he has nothing to lose. He still has life left in him. He still has a fight left in him. He still has an out, if he can find an out from this situation. He still has a plan, but the plan takes place after he leaves this house. He knows that the money is gone, that Baby will take it. He glances at the coffee table and watches as she crams money, probably the money that was in the bag, the money that he was after, into her jeans pocket, and sees that there are still some small baggies of dope left.
“Thanks for leaving . . . something for me,” he says to her, realizing that he’s struggling to breathe. Or that he hasn’t much time left. The words come out hard.
She stuffs another fistful of cash into her other pocket. She’s still trembling. She’s still pointing the gun at his head. “Fuck you,” she says. “That wasn’t me.”
The words make him laugh, then cough.
“You can take that money, Baby,” he says. “I can’t . . . stop you. But you know what, Baby? You . . . you can have all the money in the fucking . . . all the fucking money in the world, and you’ll still. Be nothing. Nothing more than you are. You’ll always be just . . . just a stupid fucking whore. A stupid. Fucking. Whore.”
“No,” Baby replies. “No. Not today. Today I ain’t a stupid fucking whore, mutha fucker. You wrong. Today I’m the woman who took all your money then looked you square in the eyes and told you fuck off. That’s who I is today. And you right about one thing, and one thing only—you ain’t gonna fuckin’ stop me.”
She shuffles backwards into the kitchen. Frady hears the back porch door open and close quickly. He hears his car drive away. He can’t get to his feet. He hears several patrol car sirens in the front of the house.
SaturdayintoSunday
Here is Wisdom
You look around you and decide that the place you live is a horror show come to life. You look at the indiscretions, the atrocities, the violations of beings, human or not, big or small, and you feel squeamish. And then you suddenly realize something that throws you for a loop at first, but something you realize you must accept, because it’s truth—your family members act as these demons on the streets act. These are people that are of your blood, and they too lie, cheat, steal, kill, and stir the debauchery just as vehemently as the scum on the street does. There’s that bar, the one that’s a real dive, the one that gets shot up on a Saturday night, coke on the pool table, whores swimming in STDs, and you know that you wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like that, and then you realize that other people, people close to you, don’t think that way at all. There are people in your family that call that place home (or a second home, but can it really be a second home if they don’t want to ever be around the first?).
And then you realize that that person, that person who could be called mother or father, that person who could be called sister or brother, that person who calls that dive their home, is just like them. And it eats you away inside. Suddenly, you are linked to the debauchery. Suddenly, the debauchery is a part of you. The taint. The taint is painted on you—strike that, it’s tattooed on you, because it will never be able to be washed off. And those associated with the taint now see it on you, and they mistakenly believe you to be one of them. Now it’s a scent. And it doesn’t wash away.
All this while, you try to believe you are better than the scum. Now you must try to either justify it or ignore it, because there’s no way out if that family member is and always will be one of them.
Suddenly, as if a thousand stars guided your enlightenment, you see yourself still living in the neighborhood, and you begin to wonder—am I one of them, and I just can’t see it? You begin to wonder, and then you know, even more urgently now, that you must get out of the neighborhood.
And you suddenly understand why p
eople vacate Detroit and sprawl to the suburbs.
The Greyhound Station
(Lincoln Park)
Baby can still feel the restraints on her wrists. She still feels the gag in her mouth. She still smells him, it, them, trapped in her half-swollen nose. The visions still play before her half-swollen eyes. The tastes, her half-swollen lips.
“I know, Mama,” she says. The mouthpiece on the phone smells. But at least it works. Most of the remaining payphones in the Detroit neighborhoods are broken, used mostly by dealers to stash their drops.
She tries not to attract more attention. She never really liked attention. Maybe a little, but not the kind of attention she drew when she was earning, when she wore her Daisys. Or white belly shirt. Or red Candies with the ten-inch heels. She just doesn’t want to be that kind of person anymore. She never did, really. She’s tired of that girl.
“I have enough. I’m telling you, I have enough. No need to worry. . . .”
She feels as though she’s attracting attention. Two little white kids pointed at her. Their mother slapped their hands and dragged them away. A Sir Graves Ghastly looking mutha fucker who was drinking a Faygo Red Pop stood next to her, and she thought he was listening in, but he was really just looking down Fort Street for the bus. A soldier-type in camos is staring at her now.
“I’m not sure exactly, yet. . . .Yeah, when I get there. It won’t be for a few days, though. I’ll let you know the minute I settle in somewhere. . . . I’ll miss you, too. . . . I love you, too.”
She hangs up the phone. The phone booth is close to the street. It’s making her toes dirty, her sandals dirty. She checks her watch, the one her mother gave her—the bus should be arriving soon.
“Was that your husband?” the soldier asks.
“What?”
“I said, was that your husband you were talking to?”
“What’s it to you?” Baby replies. Get away, mutha fucker. I don’t need this shit now, she thinks. I don’t need no shit now. I just need to be left alone.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I was just asking. I mean, I see that you’ve been hurt. Was it an accident or was it that guy that did this to you?”
What is this? “I was in an accident,” she lies.
“I see,” he says. “Well, I hope you can leave that accident behind. You know what I mean?”
“Yeah,” she says.
“I hope you leave that accident behind and I hope it doesn’t follow you wherever it is you’re going. It’s not going to follow you, is it?”
“No,” she says. “It won’t follow me.”
He puts down his duffel bag. She freezes, even though the temperature is already 80 degrees. He reaches out his hand. She flinches but doesn’t back away. He puts his hand to her cheek, and examines the damage done to her face, along her jaw, and back up behind her sunglasses. She winces. He draws his hand back.
“You never told me your name,” he says.
“It’s Loretta,” Baby/Loretta replies. “What’s yours?”
“Daniel,” he says. “I’m glad to have met you. I think my bus will be here in a few minutes. So I guess I won’t be seeing you again. But it was nice meeting you.”
He bends to pick up his duffel bag when she reaches out and touches the air. “Wait,” she says. “How do you know you won’t be seeing me again? Maybe we going in the same direction.”
Daniel shrugs. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. I’m going back to my base, in San Antonio. What about you?”
“See,” Loretta says. “See. I told you. I’m going to San Antonio, too. See? We can get to know each other more on the bus.”
“And it’s a long ride, too,” he says.
“I’m looking forward to it,” she says.
Here is Wisdom
Friedrich Nietzsche once wrote: “There is nothing very odd about lambs disliking birds of prey, but this is no reason for holding it against large birds of prey that they can carry off lambs. And when the lambs whisper among themselves, ‘These birds of prey are evil, and does this not give us a right to say that whatever is the opposite of a bird of prey must be good?’ there is nothing intrinsically wrong with such an argument—though the birds of prey will look somewhat quizzically and say, ‘We have nothing against these good lambs; in fact, we love them; nothing tastes better than a tender lamb.’—To expect that strength will not manifest itself as strength, as the desire to overcome, to appropriate, to have enemies, obstacles, triumphs, is every bit as absurd as to expect that weakness will manifest itself as strength.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank the following people who, in ways big or small, made this book possible:
Ricky
My mom
My dad, who years ago allowed me the chance to write
Jill
Jon Bassoff
Clara and Maddy
J. Terry Riebling
Roger K. Johnson
Laura Kasischke
Arnold Johnston
Frank Trocco
Megan Staffel
Kent Jacobson
John Reed
Ruth Ray
Richard Russo
Jaimy Gordon
Stu Dybek
Bill Harris
Chuck Palahniuk
Mark Richardson
The late Father Anthony Bologna
In this novel, I pay an illustrative homage to the remarkable graphic stylings of Daniel Clowes, Margaret Kilgallen, Jorge Longaron, and Alden McWilliams.
In Nine Kinds of Pain Page 16