“No.”
“Ian.”
“OK. Maybe a little.”
“What was the magazine?”
“Huh?”
“You said he gave you a bottle of wine and a magazine. What was the magazine?”
“It’s stupid. It was a gaming magazine with a feature on FIFA 16. It had lots of tips and tricks and advice.”
“And this gift, it had something to do with you neglecting to call your niece?”
“Sort of.”
“How?”
“Well, I was so relieved about avoiding confrontation—and still pretty elated about my lunch with Katharine—that I sat down and opened up the bottle of chardonnay straight away and got to enjoying it and reading the magazine.”
“You did that all night?”
“Of course not. I put FIFA 16 in and had to try out all the things I learned from the magazine.”
“I thought you didn’t like sports, Ian. Especially video game sports.”
“I don’t.”
“Then why did you spend your whole evening reading about a game you couldn’t care less about?”
“I played it, too.”
“Why, Ian?”
“I don’t know. I guess I thought…”
“What?”
“I guess I thought if I got good at the game, me and Benoit could start playing it together on a regular basis. You know, maybe we could set aside, like, one night a week—FIFA Night—where we’d play the game and he’d drink Old Style and I’d drink chardonnay. I might even allow him to smoke one cigarette in the apartment on FIFA Night. It’d be a kind of special night, you know? I figured if I knew how to play the game, maybe I could learn to like it.”
“Ian.”
“What?”
CHAPTER 11.
I played FIFA with Benoit last night. Hadn’t seen him in about a week but when I came home after work yesterday I heard music coming from his room—some very loud, very angry music that put me on edge (he later said it was some band called Pantera). Still, I felt the need to thank him for my gift, and the apology, so, I boldly knocked on his door. A cloud of smoke exited when he opened the door and I chose to ignore it as everything had a nice early summer glow attached to it, and also I’d had lunch once more with Katharine recently and she laughed at least twice at my jokes about how stupid Americans are. I really had her smiling.
The world is a better place today than it was yesterday. And the day before that. And so on.
I thanked Benoit and he said it was no problem. He apologized again for his “moods.” He gestured the scare quotes when he said the word moods.
Being Friday night, I was surprised he was there, and I had been planning an evening in binge-watching Keeping Up Appearances and Doctor Who, but I decided to suggest a game of FIFA. Benoit shrugged and squeezed out of his room, shutting the door behind him quickly. He grabbed an unopened twelve-pack of Old Style from the fridge and planted himself on the couch. Remiss at having no chardonnay, I only half-begrudgingly accepted a can of beer from Benoit and settled in, myself.
I told him I studied that magazine he got for me—really studied it. He smirked but didn’t take his eyes off the screen as his FC Barcelona ran rampant over my Chicago Fire. When he paused to pull his fourth beer from the case he admitted that he could tell I’d improved. My face flushed and I felt immensely grateful for the recognition. I scored two goals on him (to his six) and this time he didn’t storm off or throw any airs of contempt my way. He just said “nice one” each time and cracked open a fresh Old Style for each of us, shouting “Sláinte!” and crashing his can against mine.
After we’d played four games, back-to-back, I convinced Benoit to watch some TV with me. I suggested Doctor Who and he said he was aware of the show, but couldn’t remember if he’d ever seen it. This excited me to no end. Now, I know that Tom Baker or David Tennant is the favorite Doctor of most people, but mine is Jon Pertwee. Sure, the series is flawed during his years, but Pertwee’s Doctor is just so nice. And I liked his dandy sense of fashion. Also, while some criticize his years for being far too Earth-bound, I relish that bit about his time during 1970 to 1974. It showed an ability to be every bit Doctory without all that flash-bing-bang of constant space and time travel. Plus, Pertwee bore an uncanny resemblance to Bea Arthur (or, vice versa) and I always liked her, too. Often, when I’m alone, I catch myself singing the theme song to Golden Girls.
Thank you for being a friend…
So, I of course introduced Benoit to my Doctor, and was overjoyed to do so. I went to my bookcases and pulled out the first DVD of the set containing all one-hundred-and-twenty-eight episodes of Pertwee’s years as The Doctor. I had grown quite fond of the show as a child, as well as numerous other BBC programs, because I felt the shows spoke to me. Really spoke to me. They were my refuge from a family of selfish ingrates who all spoke in the language of the adults on Charlie Brown specials. Every once in a while I was allowed to stay up late so I could catch old Doctor Who and episodes of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and the like. Noel would try to join me, but my connection to British television was personal. It was my time. So whenever he hoped to come downstairs and join me for my nights of late-night TV I’d simply hide his prosthetic leg. Before he lost the leg I’d just slap him and slap him until he finally ran away crying to mom. Mom, being an insomniac, is always on some heavy sleep sedatives, so he was never able to get her up. Dad—he would just yell at Noel to get out of his “goddamned room.”
Infrequent as it was, I used to know the sweet taste of victory. It’s even less frequent these days, I fear.
After getting slaughtered in all four games of FIFA and watching the first four episodes of the third Doctor, Benoit passed out on the couch. I turned off the DVD and thought about throwing a blanket over my roomie, but decided that would probably be too gay, so instead I kind of nudged him in the left shoulder with my knuckles and softly said his name over and over again until he woke with a jolt, jerking away from me and hopping over the right-hand armrest of the couch, landing on the floor. He appeared dazed, almost asleep still. I told him he’d fallen asleep and should head to bed. He told me he’d kill me.
I laughed and told him to go to bed.
He pouted, stood, dusted himself off, and told me he’d kill me, again.
I stared.
He turned, walked out of the living room and into his bedroom.
At the instant his door was closed, that Pantera band was playing again. I wondered when he got a stereo. I wondered when we were going to play FIFA again.
CHAPTER 12.
But now I’m following Benoit down an alley in Uptown, which in its heyday was one of Chicago’s classier neighborhoods, home to hip jazz clubs, cathedral-like music halls, cocktail bars with fireplaces, cozy book shops, fine dining, and beautiful stone houses. Al Capone liked to hang out up here. Men wore suits and hats and ladies slipped into gowns and shawls and fancy shoes. Now it’s run down, grimy, full of boarded up storefronts and streets patrolled by zombies and lepers. That’s an exaggeration, of course, but whenever I’m here I half-expect the lumbering, drugged-out masses that drag themselves along these avenues to spontaneously shed a leg or nose or ear. And under the June sun Uptown smells gangrenous, indeed. The wind off the lake a mile east does nothing to mask the stench of the melting zombies and gutters streaming with urine and feces and cockroaches sailing those filthy seas on the backs of used condoms.
It’s Sunday, just a few days after our last hang session. Hang session. That’s how I like to think of our friendly time together. It’s cool. It sounds cool. Hang session.
And now Benoit, in his black tracksuit, is knocking on a door in the alley. It opens and he almost lunges inside.
I scuttle down the alleyway to the door he disappeared behind. It’s a black door that appears… sticky. On the door, in red stenciled letters:
FISTERS
For a second I thought Benoit just walked into a fight club of some sort, b
ut I immediately note a few orange fliers taped to the left of the door, their corners rolling up, the ink of the text and graphics faded. I didn’t have to study the grotesque imagery on them too long to understand just what kind of place this is.
This establishment has no windows, either. Just an open transom above the alleyway door. There’s a faint noise leaking out of it. It’s hard to make out over all the white noise of the city around me, but it’s reminiscent of a hand forcing its way into a big bowl of spaghetti. Muffled unnhhs punctuate the sound.
I didn’t wake up this morning intending to stalk Benoit. Despite what Madelyn may think, I’m perfectly capable of respecting one’s privacy. However, I woke early this morning with that optimistic glow I’d been emanating lately. My PG-13 dream about Katharine didn’t hurt my mood, either! Anyway, I got up and showered then went around the corner and got a coffee at Latte A Lot.
Despite the morning hour, the June sun was already basking us in a comfortable seventy-degrees and the sky was crisp and blue. So, I took my coffee east for a walk by the glittery lake. Lake Michigan was calm this morning and the trees off the walkway shook slightly in the warm breeze. Joggers huffed past me and bikers whizzed by me when I noticed a hefty man coming toward me. I was sure I recognized him but couldn’t place him. He was wearing sweat pants, a baggy, soaked t-shirt, wristbands, and a headband. In each pudgy paw he carried what looked like blue doggie toys but turned out to be three-pound weights.
He was speed-walking.
And he was the fat old bastard I spotted bird-watching when I was snooping in Benoit’s room that first time, weeks back now.
Upon reaching me, he halted his strenuous activity of walking and nodded at me.
“Hello,” I offered. “Do I know you?”
“You live across the street from me,” the fat old man said, though I realized he wasn’t all that old. Probably late forties.
“Oh… you’re the… bird watcher,” I said and hid my face behind my coffee, blowing into the tiny hole in the plastic sippy top then sipping from it.
“Right. That’s me. Birding is a very relaxing activity and my doctor says I need to balance exercise, work, and relaxation. My job—I’m in futures at the Chicago Board of Trade, by the way—can be pretty goddamned stressful. Stress, you know, can be a real factor in weight gain.”
I looked at this tub of lard and was certain stress had little to do with his resembling a pinkish version of Grimace, but I just smiled and nodded and sipped my coffee.
“Anyway, I don’t know how to bring this up…” he said with shifty, fidgety eyes. After a beat, he didn’t continue, just stared off at the rippling lake where a pelican dive-bombed into the water and disappeared. In the distance, sailboats dawdled. Miles southward, the city skyline made God’s far-off mountains seem ordinary.
“Yes?” I encouraged.
“Well, your roommate…”
“I suppose you know about my roommate because of your birding?”
“Well, yeah. You know… I’m not snooping! I swear. I just happened to notice a new person has been in your apartment lately.”
“Right.”
“I also noticed you’re in his room from time to time.”
“That’s really none of your—”
“I’m just looking at birds. Honest.”
“Don’t they have retreats for that? Don’t you have better places to look at birds than the street you live on?”
“Sometimes I become… housebound,” he told me, his sweaty, red face somehow blossoming into a deeper shade of red. “Depression. You know how it is.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Anyway… I get housebound.”
“And?”
“Well, I don’t know if it’s my place… but, is your roommate… is he OK?”
“Of course he’s OK,” I told that fat, middle-aged man. “Why wouldn’t he be OK? He’s my best friend.”
I didn’t mean to say that but it happened, so…
“Oh. Well, in that case… maybe you should know. I have, on more than a few occasions, happened to spot him in his room hurting himself.”
“Hurting himself? When?”
“It usually happens at night. Usually late at night. Or very early morning. Like, three in the morning.”
“I suppose nighttime and three in the morning are ideal birding hours.” I stared at him over my paper coffee cup.
“Uh. Yeah. Anyway, I’ve seen him… cutting himself.”
“Cutting himself?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you sure?”
“I am. For some reason he does it right in front of the window. I’ve seen it. More than a few times. He takes a scalpel or something, and just starts cutting himself all over… his torso, his arms, his legs, his… genitals. It’s… strange. He seems to do it so gently… so effortlessly.”
“He cuts his genitals?” I asked, cutting off his wistful meandering, sure now that this guy is the crazy one probably spending his nights cutting his fatty flesh, hoping to lop off a few pounds the easy way.
“Yeah. Well, it looks that way. He puts the blade down there, anyway, and… winces. Then he starts, you know, playing with himself. That’s when I look away, of course. And close my blinds. He’s always staring right at me, like he wants me to watch. Or, maybe he’s watching his own reflection in the glass. But, to be honest, he looks so out of it, I’m not sure what’s going through his head. This is why I was wondering if I shouldn’t tell you about these… episodes. He might not even be awake and aware of it.”
“So, you’re telling me that you’ve seen my roommate in the wee hours of the night, standing naked in front of his window, cutting and playing with himself?”
“Yeah. I’m sorry. I know it sounds weird. I didn’t want to interfere—”
“No, of course not. Why ever would you—”
“but I spotted you here this morning and a little voice inside my head told me that I have to tell you what I’ve seen.”
“Of course the little voice told you that.”
“You know, in case you can help your, uh… best friend. Or, you know, in case you’re in danger. You know, mental-health issues can be pretty unpredictable.”
“I’m sure they can, Mr. Gacy.”
“What?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Is that not your name?”
“No. No, it’s Roberts. Michael Roberts,” he said, stuffing one of the dumbbells under his drenched armpit and holding out his doughy hand. “Nice to finally meet you.”
“And it’s so very nice to meet you, too, Boss Hog,” I quipped, patting him on the shoulder as I strode past him, quick as I could get away.
Of course it unnerved me. And I didn’t entirely believe the fat man, but I didn’t entirely not believe him either. After all, Benoit is a bit of a rudderless ship. And that writing of his…
So, here I am, standing in a rat-infested alley, twiddling my thumbs, wondering what my new best friend is up to—really up to. I’m actually standing at the mouth of the alley, waiting for Benoit to reappear. Across the street, the Red Line rumbles over all these low buildings that clearly hope for complete annihilation beneath its relentless trundling.
I’m trying to be inconspicuous in the alley but twice I’ve been asked how much a blowjob costs (to which I replied, “How the hell should I know?” each time), three times I’ve been asked where the Chipotle is, and one time I was asked for change.
After an hour has passed that included three more variations of those same three questions, I decide to brave going into Fisters to see what’s up. I figure if I run into Benoit I can tell him I’m just browsing for a friend.
I knock on the door softly.
No answer.
I knock on the door a little harder.
No answer.
I BANG BANG BANG on the door and it opens.
A pudgy, shirtless, bald man in leather chaps, leather vest, and leather hat stares me up and down. His left ear’
s almost all metal, there’s so many piercings, and his lip, septum, and eyebrows also bear the burden of metal.
“Yeah?” he grunts.
“Can I… come in?”
He looks me up and down once more then steps aside.
I pass this man shrouded in a cloud of sickly sweet body odors and stride into a narrow black hallway. Overhead, a flat-screen TV hangs. It’s the source of the noise I heard through the transom. The video it’s playing has nothing to do with pasta. Two women are losing their forearms to each other’s rear-ends. It’s horrifying but I stop for a second and watch the piston pump of their arms, slowed by tension and friction only until another naked woman in a leather mask walks in with a cauldron of oil that she pours over the women to facilitate a smoother, faster action.
The women comply and their unnhhs turn to yelps and ahhs. I jump when one SCREAMS, and the man in leather asks me if I want to know the name of the DVD that’s playing.
“No thank you,” I tell him and proceed down the black hall.
I proceed down it for what seems an inordinate amount of time before a well-lit room opens up on my right. The inside resembles a fairly ordinary video store. Almost. Life-size cardboard cutouts of women grab at their own breasts and vaginas, while cardboard muscle men touch themselves through their essentially pointless speedos. Some of these are adorned with autographs or lipstick-stained kisses. Posters on the walls announce visits and exhibitions by various male and female stars I’ve never heard of. A few are for a class in something called Kegeling and ass-Kegeling.
A lanky, long-haired man in a Sepultura t-shirt stands behind a counter reading a magazine while TVs in all corners play various kinds of porn. One wall is lined with all lengths and colors of dildos and vibrators, while another is stacked with boxes of virtual vaginas and the replicas of famous porn stars’ buttocks made out of latex and silicone. There’s also plenty replicas of male genitalia, as well as copious amounts of lube, butt plugs, anal beads, nipple clamps, and cock rings. I know what these things are only because it says so on the packaging.
Y Is for Fidelity Page 7