Y Is for Fidelity

by Logan Ryan Smith

  Oh, and by the way, this kind of soul-searching and mind-tuning is costing me money—not that I have all that much to begin with. I won’t be able to pay September’s rent. I’m sorry about that, but I know you understand. Because you’re a good friend. This is important.

  Signed,

  Benoit Jones

  His salutation actually read “signed.” What’s that about? What a total weirdo, right? In any case, my best friend’s got to do what my best friend’s got to do. Which is why I’m now at Fisters looking for him, because no matter what he thinks, what he really needs at times like these are friends. And who’s a better friend to him than me?

  And of course I’m worried about him. I’m not a complete dolt. I recognized the allusion to possible suicide in that note. I’m totally worried!

  Of course I am.

  At Fisters’ front entrance I find that steadfast sentry, Mickey, in especially good cheer. I first ask him if his leather chaps are new, then ask if he’s seen Ben around and he just giggles, jiggles his belly like a bowl full of larvae, rubs his nose and says, “Nup.” I ask if Shirley’s on duty tonight and if Jimmy’s back in the DVD room and he rubs his nose again then says “Yup” on both counts. When he grins I can see his gums bleed, so I quickly skedaddle down the hallway and into the video-rental room where I find Jimmy spit-cleaning sticky DVD cases. I ask him if he got a haircut recently and he runs his fingers through those long, thin, split-ended locks and says, “Um, no, man.” I follow that with an inquiry about Ben’s whereabouts and he looks skittish then says he hasn’t “seen the dude around lately.”

  “I have a fake leg now,” I tell Jimmy, rocking on my heels and grinning up at him, proud.

  “That’s, um… nice,” Jimmy says, spitting on another DVD case and rubbing it dry with the bottom of his Megadeth t-shirt. “No discounts for the handicapped, though,” he adds, his eyes focused on the work at hand.

  Such a dedicated staff here at Fisters.

  “Mind if I pop back for a visit with Shirley?” I ask, pointing back over my shoulder.

  “It’s a free country, man,” he says, really rubbing hard at some particularly difficult gunk stuck to a film titled Shy Sheep and Lil Bo Prick, Vol. 2.

  It’s midget porn if you were wondering.

  Walking through the curtain, I descend those steps into that sunken nest of sexual depravity and liberation. The familiar yelps and squishy sounds accompany my entrance. It seems a full house tonight and I hope my Shirley is available. My need is particularly strong after such an overwhelming personal victory achieved just last night. A good day’s sleep really did me good, too. I’m feeling frisky.

  On my way down the black hall reverberating with male voices pleading “No, daddy, no!” and other voices groaning, moaning, whimpering, and ululating, I make sure to peek through a curtain here, a curtain there, just to confirm Ben’s not down here working his surgical mastery on some lucky soul’s nether regions.

  I’m about to peek behind the gold curtain when a thin man in a suit exits from behind it, bumping into me. It jolts me back and before the man can scurry away and up the stairs like a beetle, I say, “Dennis?”

  It’s Dennis, from work! I’m so glad to see a familiar face. Aside from that first time, I haven’t seen Dennis here since, and I find this run-in quite the surprise. I want him to stop so we can exchange pleasantries like good human beings are supposed to (I’m so sociable now!) but he just pumps his knees up those stairs. I’m sure it’s Dennis, though, because he gives me a second look over his shoulder as he pushes through the curtain at the top of the stairs.

  He’s pale as a ghost and I really wonder what the big deal is. I shake it off and carry on (like the British!).

  “Long time no see, stranger,” Shirley says as I confidently stride into her den of rapture (confidence—that’s something I guess I’ll have to get used to!).

  “I, uh… I was here three days ago, Shirley. Don’t you remember?”

  “Figure of speech, doofus.” She strides toward me, runs a finger under my chin.

  “Don’t… don’t call me doofus,” I order.

  “The usual tonight?” she asks.

  “No, no. Not the usual tonight, Shirley.”

  From the armoire I do retrieve the usual ropes to bind her hands and feet, but tonight I’m also making use of a choke-chain and something else I secret into my pocket.

  “It’s going to cost you extra if you’re expecting anything more,” she says, businesslike.

  I hand her the normal amount of cash. She stares. I push a fold of extra bills into her hand and she finally blinks.

  “On the table, please,” I order and she complies. First I use rope to tie her ankles together and her hands behind her back. Next I bend her legs back and bind her ankles to her wrists. Stepping up onto the table, Shirley half-laughing, asking what I’m doing, I screw a hook into the ceiling and run a rope through it. Tugging on the rope, I’m satisfied it’ll hold. I take that rope and tie it to her ankles and wrists, then wrap a blindfold over her eyes. Lastly, I slip the choke chain around her slender throat.

  “Um, Ian,” Shirley says as she lifts away from the table. I’m pulling on the rope, slowly, just hoping that hook holds long enough for me to reach the fifth plateau.

  “Shhh…” I say. “Did you sleep with my brother?” I say.

  “What?”

  Tenderly, I place one finger against her bended knee and give the slightest push. Shirley twirls. Sweetly, I grab hold of the dangling choke chain and yank her one way, then the other, and set her spinning again.

  “Whose children are they? Mine or his?”

  “Ian… is this… are we role playing? I need to know my role before we start, you know.”

  “Even if you’re pregnant now, it doesn’t… matter…. Doesn’t change anything.”

  I lightly whip her buttocks with the cat o’ nine tails and she moans. I whip harder, wanting to see her skin bloom in a tangle of twisted red lines, wanting to hear that shriek ease out of maudlin and into manic.

  “You’re my piñata. My beautiful piñata. And you let my brother break you open and suck on your candy.”

  I snap the whip across her bended legs, reach out and cup her face and push to keep her twirling. I stop the twirling by yanking on the chain and she gags and grimaces. I whip her back but the slip she’s still wearing hides the skin and I must see her skin welt and redden, so I reach into my pocket and pull out the small knife with the quarter-inch blade I had retrieved from the armoire. I slice through the back of the slip as Shirley voices complaints but I shush her again and tell her I’ll buy her a dozen just like it.

  With the slip removed, her breasts dangle freely, her nipples hard and pointing toward the floor. I unzip and drop my pants to my ankles, then kick them off along with my boxers, and tie the slip material around my waste, enjoying the silk against my growing erection. Because of my potbelly, I leave my shirt on, even though I long to be (mostly) naked at this very moment (but who am I kidding, I don’t even swim shirtless).

  “Ian?” She swung away and attempts to look over her shoulder to find me, which is silly given she’s blindfolded.

  “Call me Ben. Call me Ben!”

  I whip at her back and she SCREAMS and welts pucker pinkly right away. I whip at her buttocks, twice as hard, and she WAILS, and again there’s that satisfying eruption of skin. All my doing. I whip and I whip and I whip and she SCREAMS and WAILS and SHRIEKS.

  “Call me Ben, Katharine! Call me Ben! You like Ben, don’t you? Don’t you?! Call me Ben! Say it! Say my name! It’s Ben! Call me Ben! Ben! Ben! Ben…”

  I whip harder over and over again and when the whipping doesn’t produce the scream I want (the sound I need) I grab that small knife and stick it into her thigh and she screams and starts yelling BANANA JUICE over and over and it’s just not good enough so I stab her again in the buttocks and in the calf and when that’s not good enough I toss the tiny knife aside, lift myself up onto the table, on m
y knees, and I grab her reddened, bleeding thigh, and yank it toward me, sinking my teeth in, feeling that gratifying PUNCTURE and a sudden gush of warmth into my mouth, an experience I now understand I’ve always longed for. As I’m gnashing away at her thigh and nipping at her buttocks, she keeps screaming BANANA JUICE and I just keep biting and nipping and yanking on her until the hook in the ceiling finally gives way and she slams down onto the table, breaking it, sending us both spilling to the floor and she’s squirming and yelling BANANA JUICE GODDAMMIT, and the rope binding her ankles to her wrists has given way, but I’m still grabbing at her on the floor, yanking her toward me, biting at a kicking foot which nearly knocks out an incisor and sends a pleasant warm pulsing sensation along the left half of my mouth, and I’m pulling her under me, the red slip gone from my waist, and I’m biting her shoulder and I ejaculate all over the backs of her thighs at the precise moment a large fist collides with the side of my face and sends me sprawling off of Katharine and sliding across the floor.

  “What the fuck, Ian!” Shirley yells, the ropes having given way completely now, the blindfold and choke chain dangling loose around her neck. She pulls herself up into a seated position against the wall, crosses her arms over her bare, barely touched breasts.

  I have no time to regret leaving them unmarked, however, because I’m being pummeled over and over again by a large black man in a baggy suit. I feel something crack in my jaw. With that quick kick, I’m pretty sure a rib just moved out of place. Then he kicks me in my penis (like he was aiming for it, the sicko!) and once more in the testicles. I’m asking him to stop—crying, even; asking him what I did wrong. “Asshole!” is his only response. In his large hand, he palms the back of my head and bangs it into the hard, black floor. I think I hear Shirley say, “Terry, that’s enough. Enough, OK,” but Terry’s not listening, and somehow, while fire fills the space between hairline fractures and blood vessels burst in my eyes, on my left cheekbone, and in my legs where he’s kicking me, I get it. From down here, on the floor, I notice, for the first time, the security camera nestled in the upper corner near the entrance. No one here cares that they could be seen behind these curtains by peeping Toms such as myself because they already know they’re being watched. And what’s to hide here, anyway? All of this is probably burned to DVD and rented to poor souls not brave enough to venture down here themselves. Or maybe it’s all being broadcast live on the internet.

  This Terry’s a bouncer and I bet he sits in that room at the end of the hall watching these dens of delight until he has to earn his keep by smacking around poor little men like me. And “banana juice” must be the safe word. Of course.

  For a moment I thought I was enjoying this beating, but as I cough up a viscous violet ribbon and spit out a shattered tooth, I know for a fact that I am not. I’m crying, asking what I did wrong. I’m pleading, saying, “Madelyn, help! Madelyn! Why are you letting this happen?”

  But she’s not listening. She’s not interested.

  They always turn their back on you in the end.

  Then the avalanche of kicks and punches halts and someone’s yelling, “Terry, man! Back off! Back the fuck off!” and when the cobwebs clear I see this giant figure called Terry being pulled off of me and away. It takes a moment, but I see it’s the leather-masked man, Harold. But… Harold has legs. It’s a miracle!

  He’s helping me to my feet. My legs wobble so he throws my arm around his shoulder and puts his arm around my waste to support me. He reaches down, picks up my underwear and pants, and hands them to me, which I gingerly slip into. Next, he gives me my shoes and that takes some balancing and concentration and patience and everyone in the room yells at me to hurry up. This all happens painfully slow before the masked man can walk me toward the exit.

  “Madelyn!” I shout. “I mean, Katharine… I mean… Sheryl—god… mom, I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” I whimper, my eyes puffy and closing up, darkening my vision. My lips swollen, my tongue bitten. I’m also pretty sure a tuft of thinning hair is missing from the top of my head.

  “It’s uh… it’s OK, Ian. Just… it’s OK. Just get out of here,” Sheryl, that saint of a woman says, though I’m still not sure what I’m being forgiven for.

  “Get that fucking piece of shit out of here!” Terry says, pointing a finger in my face while yelling into the leather-masked face of the gentleman offering me assistance.

  Just then he takes off the leather mask, revealing the sweaty, flustered face of Ben!

  “I am. We’re going. We’re going. Just back off. Back off!” Ben orders. We slip out of the room where another bouncer appears ready to… bounce. Mickey and Jimmy are also standing at the top of the stairs leading out of this dungeon, a few random customers behind them peeking down into the basement, curious about the commotion.

  Mickey and Jimmy ask Terry if they should call the cops and he just waves them off.

  “Benoit, man… that guy,” Mickey says, pointing at me, no longer smiling. “Your friend—he’s no longer welcome here, man. Eighty-six his ass, man.”

  “Eighty-six me? Eighty-six me???” I complain through my broken mouth. “You can’t! Where will I go? Mom! Mom! Tell them I’m under house arrest. Tell them I can’t leave!”

  “Shut up, goddammit,” Ben says and next thing I know we’re up the stairs and out onto the darkened streets of Uptown. It’s crawling with its usual cadre of lepers and zombies, all their movements broken, disjointed, jerky.

  Ben has hailed a cab and he’s gently putting me in it.

  “Thank you. Thank you, Noel—I mean, Ben. Of course I mean Ben. Of course. Thank you so much. You’re my savior. My hero.” I grab his hand and try to give it a good squeeze but he yanks it away then leans into the open window of the cab, looks at me, and shakes his head.

  “Ian, never come back here.” He then tells the cabbie our address on Pine Grove in Lakeview and smacks the roof of the taxi and I’m off, hauled into exile from Fisters, the only place I’ve ever received decent mental health care.

  CHAPTER 27.

  “Noel!” I blurt out, answering my iPhone, excited that he’s called because I just can’t wait to hear what news he has to offer. Having not moved my mouth at all to speak since last night’s rather rude beating, my jaw immediately smarts. I ignore the glorious pain and rush over to my Bose stereo system on the entertainment center to make Mr. Phil Collins quiet down.

  And I just remembered I left my Robert Palmer CD in Sheryl’s room! I wonder if they’ll mail it to me. I’m sure they will. Ben probably gave them the address.

  “Ian…” Noel says, and silence follows.

  I wait with baited breath until I can no longer contain myself.

  “Well? What happened? I mean, what’s up, baby brother?”

  “Ian…” he says again, and I hear his breathing get a little louder, a little faster. Then, more silence.

  “Yeah?” I say, absent-mindedly patting my swollen mouth and eyes.

  “Ian… were you in my….” He stops, scoffs. “No, that’s just—even for you that’s just too insane.”

  “What? What were you going to say?”

  “No. Never mind. I didn’t even call to talk about that.”

  He sounds a million miles away. I almost feel sorry for him that his house is just a pile of cinders. Also that he’s missing his pegleg. Almost.

  It just occurs to me that missing a leg could make you a really big draw in the underground sex scene. I’m putting that idea in my back pocket in case Noel ever loses his job or I decide to amputate my own leg as penance for all my naughty badness.

  “Tell me!” I chirp, giddy at the thought of him asking whether I burned his house down and me giving him the concerned brother act, which in turn would make him feel so guilty for the accusation!

  “Annie’s dead,” he says in a faint whisper that cracks and fades out.

  “What?”

  “Annie… our poor, sweet little… oh god….” He’s sobbing and my heart fills with so much blood and pu
mps so freaking fast I think I’m having a heart attack. A watery weight floods my chest and my stomach twists and turns over. I’m drowning.

  “What? No. No no no. No, Annie’s not dead, Noel. Come on. What are you talking about? No!” I scream into the phone but Noel answers me with more sobbing. “Noel, what happened? Was it a car accident? Did something happen on her camping trip?”

  More sobbing.

  Then silence.

  “I couldn’t…” Noel finally says.

  “What, little brother? What?”

  “I couldn’t find my leg, Ian! Oh my god. Annie… she’s gone. Our little Annie is gone, Ian!”

  “No. No, that’s not… she was camping. She was just camping, Noel!”

  “My leg. My leg, Ian!”

  “What about your leg? What is it, huh? What about your leg, little brother?”

  “It’s gone, you fucking bastard! It’s gone and now my little Annie is dead!”

  “I don’t understand. I don’t… I don’t understand. It can’t be.”

  “I… woke up to Ashley shaking me. She was all panicked. I didn’t know what was going on. Mom… goddammit! Mom got me on those damned sleeping pills she takes.”

  “She’s an addict, I know.”

  “Don’t start, Ian! Not now.”

  “OK.”

  “I didn’t know what was going on. I could barely grasp the fact that… the fact that my whole house was burning down around me.”

  “What?” I play dumb and immediately feel like complete poop for doing so.

  “My house, Ian! My house burned down.”

  “Jesus…”

  “And… and I fell out of bed and Ashley, she… she… she just couldn’t help me. I’m too heavy for her so she couldn’t get me off the floor.”

  “Jesus Christ, Noel… what happened?”

  “She left me on the floor… the whole house was burning!”

  “What happened?”

  “Ashley went to get Annie. I finally was able to grasp what was happening, but I was still so doped up! I kept trying to stand, forgetting… forgetting…”