“What you got?” she asks, genuinely curious as she steps to my side to take a look.
“Riptide, by Robert Palmer,” I inform her, proud.
“Robert Palmer? Who’s that?” She twists a lock of hair, takes the CD, and saunters over to an elaborate wooden buffet and puts it into the sleek and slender Bose stereo set there.
I suppress my rage at her ignorance.
The lights are on, but you’re not home…
“Oh, I remember this. One-hit-wonder, right?” She steps over to an armoire and opens it, revealing a treasure trove of whips, ticklers, vibrators, chains, ropes, nipple clamps, and the like. “The usual?” she asks without turning, plucking out the cat o’ nine tails.
Slipping past me, she shoves the whip into my hands, runs a finger down my cheek, and lingers until I remember to withdraw my wallet and slip some cash into her palm, which she deposits into a metal lockbox in the armoire. Sheryl then struts to the massage table, leans herself over it, sets her head sideways flat against the plush cushion, and shimmies that red nightie up, revealing pale buttocks free of blemishes, somehow, despite all the previous whippings. I must ask her about the skin rejuvenation products she uses. My skin is always so dry in this city, despite all this damned humidity.
“Wait,” I order and walk over to the armoire.
“What?” she asks.
I grab a bit of rope from the armoire and tie Sheryl’s hands behind her back.
“Oh,” she says, and sounds a touch frightened, which nearly causes premature ejaculation.
I quickly learn that binding this woman’s hands while whipping her buttocks produces a squeal and scream much more rewarding than I had achieved so far. It also produces orgasm in my pants far quicker than before, somewhat to Sheryl’s relief, I believe, who is more than happy to help me clean up and get me out of her lair.
Out in the flickering corridor I hear a familiar voice ask in a silky, smoldering tone, “Does that hurt? Does it hurt enough? Too much? Does it hurt? Tell me.”
It’s Ben!
But I didn’t know Ben was a customer here. I didn’t think he was interested in this stuff all that much. He’s just here to clean the spunk, blood, spit, and other body fluids off the floors, walls, and sometimes the ceiling. He’s also responsible for scrubbing the toilets. Hard to say which is worse. Poor guy.
Right now I’m certain Ben’s behind the purple curtain. I hazard a peek, and I’m right! It’s the surgery room. He’s wearing his tweed suit with leather elbow pads (twisted professor!), nimbly holding a scalpel against a naked man’s inner thigh. The man with long dyed black hair on Ben’s table is thin, pale, his ribcage protesting against his skin’s embrace. Ben’s trying to appease that tension. He moves the blade beneath the man’s nipple. Whimpers and nods of approval encourage Ben to continue. He slices just under the man’s lower rib. The dark haired skeleton on his table has an erection. It twitches with every cut. Ben averts his eyes from it. The cuts leave little lines of red, but don’t seem to bleed very much at all. Perhaps there’s an art to this? Is this why Ben’s been up late at night, slicing his own flesh? Not out of some sleepwalking fit, but for practice?
Just then Ben looks up and spots me hiding behind the curtain like some foolish Wizard of Oz. I only wanted to give this Tin Man a heart!
The thought actually makes me chuckle and when Ben excuses himself he finds me holding a hand over my mouth, trying desperately not to laugh.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” he asks in a loud whisper.
“I’m surprised you…. Ben, how are you able to do that? I thought you were a classic homophobe.”
“I asked you a goddamned question, Ian.”
“I didn’t… I didn’t know you were a… performer,” I say, my giggle fit fortunately subsided.
“What the fuck are you doing here, man?”
“I… I just… I was…”
“Are you… are you stalking me?”
“Stalking you? Stalking you? What? Stalking you? Me? Stalking you? No!”
“Then what the hell are you doing here?”
“I came to see Sheryl. But, hey, we were supposed to hang out tonight, you know.”
His shoulders slump. He appears contrite.
“Shit. Yeah. Well, you know. Shit. Sorry about that. I just got this gig after cleaning out toilets for years, man. I couldn’t tell them no.”
“So, it’s like a promotion?”
“Yeah. I guess it’s a promotion.”
“You’re making more money?” I ask, hoping this means he’ll have no more trouble paying rent.
“Depends.”
“Depends on what?”
“On how much the client tips.”
“You’re just working for tips?”
“Listen, I have to get back in there. I’m sorry I flaked on tonight, but, you know, now that I’m a performer here, I don’t know if you should continue coming here. There’s a place in Lakeview called The Purple Monkey that you should probably try going to.”
“But, Sheryl—she…”
“Mickey knows people over there so ask him about it. He can hook you up. But, seriously, stop coming here.”
And then he’s back behind the curtain and I hear him say with disgust, “Session’s over. Get out.”
What a great performer Ben is!
I waited up that night for Ben to come home, and he did, a little after three in the morning. He seemed annoyed at first, but his demeanor softened when I got him talking about work. I asked about the legless man in the leather mask I saw quite a few weeks ago and Ben told me he’s a performer at Fisters. The guy’s name is Harold Thompson and he used to tour with the Jim Rose Circus Sideshow. His shtick was bashing glass plates with his head and swinging cinderblocks from his nut-sack while performing on the parallel bars. Ben explained that the guy’s over fifty now and worn out from the touring. He wanted to be able to spend more time with his family, so he left the circus. Harry’s a really nice, down-to-earth guy, Ben said, with two teenage daughters and a successful wife in the publishing industry. They’re good people, having put Ben up for a few weeks before he moved in with me.
When Harold’s mom was pregnant with him she took some kind of experimental anti-anxiety drug that was quickly withdrawn from the market. The poor guy was born with severely malformed legs and chose to have them amputated the second he turned eighteen. “Kind of like balding men that shave their heads before truly going bald,” I remarked to Ben who said, “Yeah, something like that.”
I asked Ben if I should start shaving my head. He didn’t answer.
I asked if he knew anything about Sheryl and he said not much except that she’s working at Fisters to put herself through college and get material for a novel she’s writing. She’s studying up in Evanston at Northwestern, getting a degree in psychology with a minor in English literature.
No wonder she’s so good at her job.
I promptly drank two bottles of chardonnay after my session with Sheryl tonight, which encouraged me to ask Ben where he disappears to so often. Hesitantly, he responded that he sometimes rides the El all night then gets breakfast downtown at this greasy spoon on Van Buren right below the elevated train tracks. Then he goes to the giant Harold Washington Library made of red brick and red granite. It has impressive and enormous copper owls crowning it. I always thought Batman could live in that library. But Batman doesn’t. It’s just a place that homeless people frequent and books rot, unread. It’s also the place Ben goes to after his all-night El trips in order to rest up before going to work.
He’s been taking those all-night jaunts a lot because he believes he thinks most clearly at night, and that the rumbling of the El and sight of the city lit up in the darkness below him awakens something in his lost memory. He’s not sure what, yet, but there’s something. He finished that thought by saying I might be doing the same thing for him—that I may be directly responsible for his slowly recovering memory, which is like a person that has su
ddenly awakened deep down in the dark ocean, unable to tell which way is up. His memory, he believes, is going in one direction or the other. Up or down. Which way, he’s not certain, but I’m apparently helping him along. He tells me that’s why we’re friends. Because the dead bird inside the cage of his brain has been shocked back to life for the first time in six years. There’s a rattling inside his head, and inside his soul, that he can just barely feel—it’s a little tickle of recognition. It’s gotten stronger, he told me, since he took up residence in my little abode on Pine Grove snuggled nicely between Lake Michigan and Wrigley Field amid a web of streets and avenues and raised rails.
“So that’s why we’re friends?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“There’s nothing else? No other reason, maybe?”
“No.”
And that was just fine by me.
PART THREE
CHAPTER 24.
Hi Noel,
Just your friendly neighborhood mother writing here. Thank you again for the lovely dinner with your beautiful family. I’m still, to this day, just so proud of you, son. You and Ashely and little Annie are an inspiration. Just so so so lovely. And your father and me had a great time. I’m gushing, I know. I’ve had a few glasses of chardonnay and I’ve been told not to mix alcohol with my sleeping pills, but what do doctors know, anyway? Next thing you know they’ll be saying mixing sleeping pills with alcohol is good for you! LOL
Don’t mind your doting mother. Anyway, as we talked last night, here’s the updated will (attached). I wanted you to see it just for peace of mind. You have a beautiful family and I want you to know that no matter what happens you’ll be well taken care of when we’re gone. Your father agrees that you deserve this. Don’t worry, we’re leaving your brother something, but as he has no one to care for and no children to raise (and you don’t have to ask me twice whether I think he ever will!) your father and me just can’t rationalize the idea of simply splitting our estate and financials fifty-fifty like most might expect us to. Besides, your father has worked hard his whole life in the computer industry (don’t ask me anything about it as it just boggles my poor little mind!) and I’ve worked hard raising you and your brother (though I’m imperfect, I know), so we believe we have every right to decide exactly how and to whom we leave our money.
That said, don’t tell your brother, please. You know how sensitive he is and how easily that boy can fly off the handle. It’s best to keep this under wraps as long as possible.
Anyway, go ahead and take a look at the attached will and let us know if you see anything amiss. Oh! Also, I got us all tickets to see the new Star Wars at the IMAX next Saturday at 1. I hear it’ll be quite the spectacle on that humongous screen. I bet it will be a lot of fun for Annie (not to mention your father and me!). Let us know if you all are busy, we can always reschedule.
Your father sends his love. He’s standing here right now in his boxers drinking a scotch and reading over my shoulder. He’s so funny!
Love to Ashley. Kisses to Annie.
Hugs,
Mom
I’m reading this email from my mother to Noel shortly after having gotten off the phone with him. Again, Ben has gone missing for days on end. I’ve searched for him on late-night El trains and frequented the downtown library and various little diners around there, as well as Joe’s and Fisters, and I’ve not found him. So I was reduced to calling my ungrateful, spoiled jerk of a brother for solace and company. As usual he tried to get off the phone almost as soon as he’d answered it. I asked him to put Annie on but he told me she was getting packed up and ready for a camping trip she’s taking with the family of a friend from school. They’re heading west to South Dakota where they will see Mount Rushmore, camp in Badlands National Park, and learn why the state has a population of nine. I asked him when they plan on coming down to Chicago again and he stuttered before saying they have no current plans to come to Chicago. I paused, waiting for him to ask me when I’m coming up to Saint Paul, but the query never passed his lips, though I’m sure he knew what I was waiting for him to say. The no-good gimpy little bastard. Before saying something I might regret, I asked how long little Annie will be on her camping trip and Noel said a little over a week. I remarked that it seemed like a long time for their only child to be away and he reminded me that it was August and the kid was on summer break.
“Remember when we used to go camping?” I asked Noel.
“Don’t even start, Ian.”
“We liked camping, though, didn’t we, little brother?”
“We barely ever went camping.”
“We went a few times.”
“Yeah, we went a few times. Then we never went again.”
“It’s your fault.”
“Jesus H. Christ. What’s my fault, Ian?”
“It’s your fault that I’ve lead a life of arrested development.”
“Your life?” Noel asked, incensed. “Your life is the one that was affected?”
“You were their favorite and I play one little prank on you and what happens?”
“You were punished, bro, like every kid would have been. Like any kid that does something that stupid would have been. Mom and dad did nothing out of the ordinary.”
“I play one little prank and mom and dad basically take me out of the picture for good.”
“Yeah. I only have one leg for good.”
“They erased me from the picture, Noel! I’m no longer a part of the program!”
“What the heck are you talking about?”
“They take me out of the picture. They write me out of the teleplay. I’m just like Judy Winslow from Family Matters! I walk up the stairs one episode and I’m never heard from again!”
“You’re crazy. You’re really—you’re just crazy, Ian. I thought you were seeing a psychiatrist.”
“A therapist. She doesn’t have a doctorate. And, besides, I stopped seeing her.”
“I’m not happy to hear that, bro. And neither would mom or dad be. You really should be continuing therapy. Despite what you think, we love you—me, mom, dad, Ashley, and Annie. We want the best for you.”
“For me?”
“Yeah.”
“You want the best for me? That’s rich. Mom and dad have cut my character out of the whole damn show! And—and your wife can’t even look me in the eye when you manage to grace me with your family’s presence!”
“Ashley’s just… shy. And what do you mean mom and dad have cut your character out of the show? What does that even mean? That’s crazy. That’s just crazy talk.”
“I know it. I know they have, Noel. And I know you know it. I know you would never tell, though. You, mom, dad—you’re all in cahoots!”
“Is this about their house? Listen, bro, they’re leaving me the house, technically, but really it’s for Annie—you know, once she gets married and has a family of her own.”
“Annie’s getting married? She’s seven-years-old! Are you crazy? What kind of a father are you?” I screamed into the phone.
“Calm down, bro. Please, try to keep up. And she’s eight now, remember? You missed a birthday. Anyway, the house will be Annie’s when she’s much, much older and starting a family. That’s why mom and dad are leaving it to me. They figure that would be the best use of it.”
“Wait… what are you talking about?”
“Mom and dad…. Wait, what are you talking about?”
“Are you talking about mom and dad’s will? Did they change the will? When did they change the will? That house belongs to the both of us!”
“It belongs to mom and dad, bro. It’s theirs to do with as they like.”
“So, you’re saying the will was changed, with no need to include me in the decisions?”
“I’m not saying anything. Forget I even brought it up.”
“No! How do you expect me to act like you didn’t bring it up?”
“I can’t believe you’re getting this upset because the house may go to Annie one d
ay. What’s the big? How selfish can you be, bro?”
“I’m—I’m not selfish at all! Ask anybody!”
“Exactly who would I ask? Tell me, who would I seek as a source here?”
This had me a trifle flabbergasted. I choked on the phone for a second before saying, “Ben!”
“Who’s Ben?”
“My roommate.”
“You have a roommate?”
“Yes.”
“Since when? Since when did you get this supposed roommate?”
“Months ago!”
“Is this roommate real? Or imaginary?”
“Imaginary?”
“That’s what I thought.”
“No! I mean, what do you mean imaginary?”
“Let’s not go into this, Ian.”
“No, let’s. Please.”
“Fine. It’s no secret that when you were younger you thought you were friends with fictional characters and celebrities. Remember when you believed you shared your room with Michael Knight and that Neil Diamond was a pen pal of yours?”
“Loads of kids have imaginary friends!” I protested. “And… and Neil wrote me back once!”
“You were seventeen, bro.”
“Still.”
“And it continued for a few years after that.”
“Still.”
“Yeah.”
“Ben’s real, Noel. Geez. I really hate you sometimes.”
“I think you hate me all the time, Ian. All of us. Me, mom, dad. Somehow I think you even manage to spread that hate around to include Annie. It’s sad. That’s another problem—another reason why you need to keep up your therapy.”
“Ben’s real, Noel! Goddammit!”
“OK. Fine. He’s real. He’s your… roommate.”
“Why do you say it like that?”
“No reason. I’m going now, bro. Call up your therapist—tomorrow if it’s too late to do that tonight.”
Y Is for Fidelity Page 16