It's Only Temporary

by Eric Shapiro

  Before Selma took it upon herself to remove her clothes and underclothes and let Brian become the second person to penetrate her body, I was half-aware that they knew each other. I vaguely recall Brian cornering her in the dining hall and muttering something about Movie Night in the student center. I also recall Selma smiling, but that could be imaginative license. In any case, whenever the seeds were planted, they sure ended up growing. Tall. Into thick, sharp weeds of despair. The situation was so ugly that it even got me thinking in gardening metaphors.

  Her version: “I’m so sorry, Sean. You have every reason to hate me. I’m so stupid for drinking that much. I wasn’t myself. It meant nothing. I love you so much. I’m so afraid of losing you.”

  His version: “Hey, man.” (Said to me in passing on a sunny spring day in the park. His gleaming smile would have looked nice with a golf club slammed through it.)

  My take: “Selma, if it meant nothing, then I must mean nothing, right? I must mean absolutely nothing!”

  I was more of an existentialist back in those days.

  We stopped talking. Less than a month to go before graduation. She left me voicemails, wrote messages on my dry-erase board. I retreated into the thicket of my anger. Walked around sneering.

  Frowned my way through finals. Made out with this girl Rachel at some boring party. (The make-out session did little to alleviate the boredom.) I bitched to my friends about how bad the love hurt, how all I wanted was to shake the love out of my system. “It never goes away,” we all agreed.

  I told my mother the whole sordid story. She had met Selma several times; on move-in days, move-out days, during winter and summer breaks. The two of them had liked each other. But not anymore. After the incident, my mother freely referred to her as a little slut. She even claimed to have had Selma’s number from the beginning: “She was too loose, that one,” Mom would say. “She shouldn’t have been kissing you in front of your mother.”

  I wanted to agree. When Mom tore into Selma, I wanted to become all juiced-up with dark adrenaline. High on my own sense of justice: “Fuck Selma,” I wanted to say and think. “Just a useless, dirty slut.” But I couldn’t get into it. My head was packed with too many heightened, blissful memories.

  Every year, Selma got the flu. One year, she was in bed for a week. I was so attracted to her while she was in that state: tired, drowsy, dizzy, delirious. Babbling incoherently. Groaning with discomfort. It was the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen. I couldn’t stay away from her. We fucked in her bed, and within the week I was blowing my nose and drinking orange juice. And you know what?

  It was worth it.

  Selma, Selma, Selma. Where did she come from? What the hell kind of magic had she worked on me?

  Two days before graduation, I was drunk in my room. Wandering around and sipping from a silver flask was key to my despair phase. I preferred brandy, but anything hard did the trick. Anyway, I was shitfaced and talking to the mirror. Trying to figure out what the hell was behind all that hard bone and tight flesh. Tapping my reflection with my fingertip, leaving smudges on the glass. Despising all human life, myself very much included. Before long, I stuck my flask down the front of my jeans and stomped into the hallway. I kept my head down; didn’t want anyone knowing I was fucked up. (In hindsight, it was probably obvious. If I remember correctly, I was muttering curses to myself.)

  I walked down two flights of stairs to Selma’s floor. Pounded on her door hard enough to leave dents. Scribbled nonsense all over her dry-erase board while waiting for her to answer. When she did so, she smiled. A layer of moisture gave a shine to her eyes. (I remember reading somewhere that if a girl’s eyes are moist when she looks at you, it means that she’s attracted to you. The subtle tear-duct activity is indicative of low-grade emotion. The same of course goes for guys’ eyes.)

  “Sean,” she said, “I’m so sorry. I can’t even tell you.”

  I shoved past her and sat on her bed, said, “Oh, I think you can tell me.”

  Selma knelt before me. “I would do anything to make this right.”

  “It’s all wrong, Selma. All wrong.”

  That’s when she realized I was drunk. She put her hand on my knee. I became turned on and loathed myself. Her mint breath touched me. I stood up and paced, concealing my hard-on by putting my hands in my pockets and opening them wide.

  “What is it about me, Selma?”

  “It wasn’t you.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. You can say that, but at some subconscious level: This Is About Me.”

  I pointed at my chest like Tom Cruise did during monologues. (I truly wish I’d spent my life living rather than watching movies.)

  Selma stood and touched my wrists. She tried to remove my hands from my pockets, but that was inadmissible. She settled for removing the flask from my pants and placing it on her desk. Her manner brought to mind a teacher removing a slingshot from a student’s hands: “I’ll have this.”

  “Tell me, Selma. I’m not leaving till you do.”

  The truth is, I really did feel like leaving. I had a swelling urge to run back up to my room and angrily undo my erection. But, in the interest of being a man of my word, I stood right there.

  Selma bit her lower lip. “I’m not gonna make something up, Sean.”

  “That’s good to know. ’Cause I want the truth.”

  “I love you.”

  “But you want to fuck Brian.”

  “I don’t want to do that.”

  “Oh, sorry. Correction: You wanted to.”

  “I was drunk. Just like you are now.”

  “Wow. Yay! Nice job, Selma. You Political Science majors really know how to argue don’t you? Well, you happen to be right. I am drunk. But you know what? Guess what? My fucking clothes are still on!”

  “Ssshh! People can probably hear.”

  “Good! Thank God. At least someone’s listening. You never did.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I had no clue what that was supposed to mean, so I veered the conversation back on course: “A reason, Selma. If you say you didn’t have a motive, then fine, I believe you. So just come up with a reason. There must be something so inherently terrible and disgusting about me that you would piss away two years of a relationship.”

  “Shut up. I don’t like that. ‘Piss away.’”

  “Oh, right. Sorry. You don’t like piss. Only come. Brian’s come, my come. Whatever you can get your mouth on.”

  There were hands in my face at that point. Slapping me, pinching me, trying to tear my eyebrows off. Selma was growling; her teeth were actually bare. Amid the slaps and growls, I caught her answer: “Because you’re a self-absorbed egomaniac, okay? Everyone knows that.”

  I passed by Selma at graduation. She smiled and said, “Congratulations.” Her arms were horizontal. I told her to go to hell and kept on walking.

  26

  Shortly after I take the exit to Selma’s neighborhood, I hear something crunch beneath The Wolf’s front left tire. I hit a rabbit once back in high school, and this crunch sounds an awful lot like that one. The Wolf and I ask each other, “What was that?”

  Curiosity is a bitch. Morbid curiosity is an even nastier bitch. The sun is dropping and civilization is crumbling, yet I’m pulling over to see what the hell I’ve hit. The Wolf wishes me luck as I step outside. “Don’t worry about me,” I tell her. Seeing as I’ve handled human corpses recently, I don’t think the sight of a dead squirrel or bunny will do me in.

  My guts do a little dance. I puke warm soda all over the ground, charring the back of my throat.

  It’s a little hand. Dark, cracked, flattened against the road. Looks like it belonged to a female. Hundreds of ants have a field day with it. I expect a one-handed woman to leap from the woods. I’m back inside The Wolf before the image fully materializes.

  “Let’s go, Wolfie.”

  She kicks into gear.

  “What did you find, Sean?”

  “Something not go
od.”

  27

  I’m 99 percent sure that that hand didn’t belong to Selma. After all, I’m closely acquainted with Selma’s hands. I’ve had them on my face, in my mouth, around my manhood. The hand I saw was smaller than Selma’s (not to mention flatter). It also had shorter fingernails (unless Selma cut hers recently, but that’s doubtful; she’s too feminine). Despite my relative certainty, I pull over at the gas station payphone ten blocks from Selma’s house. This choice will go down as the worst one I ever made.

  Something’s wrong with the air. I can’t put my finger on it. I’m not sure if I smell something, or if the temperature’s weird, or … I … don’t … know. Maybe the approaching rock is messing with the Earth’s field of gravity. But none of the news reports said anything about that, and I know absolutely nothing about astronomy, so that theory isn’t worth mulling over. Perhaps my nerves are just fucked and my perception is off. Anything’s possible. I stick a quarter in the slot and dial Selma’s number.

  Selma is screaming:

  “Sean?”

  “Yeah. Selma?”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. I’m—”

  “You took forever. Where are you?”

  “I’m at the gas station near your—”

  “Sean! Get over here now!”

  “What’s the—?”

  “You’re on a payphone?”

  “Y—”

  “Shit! Get in your car and come straight here.”

  “What is it? Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, we’re okay. We’ve got walls around us. Get the fuck in your car this second.”

  “I—”

  “Now! Don’t think! Now!”

  Selma slams her phone down.

  I hear a crack somewhere behind me. My hands shake so badly that I can’t return the phone to its cradle. It drops, bungees, and swings like a pendulum. The payphone’s blurred steel gives me no useful reflections.

  I wish The Wolf would say what’s behind me.

  Another loud crack. This one sharper.

  I look over my shoulder. Behind me, strolling along the sidewalk some fifty feet away, is a man with a curly black mustache and tidy black hair. His bright smile punches a hole through the dusk. He wears a loud red jacket and drags a snaky whip.

  For some foolish reason, my brain plays the rhythm of a poem I wrote back in grade school. I can’t quite piece the words together, but if I could they’d go like this:

  There was a really scary man,

  With a scary monster face.

  And when I saw that scary man,

  My heart began to race.

  But it’s not really the man who’s scary. It’s the two giant cats walking alongside him. I believe lions is the technical term.

  He smashes his leather whip against the ground.

  28

  Lions lick chops.

  Red-stained beards.

  Pink teeth.

  Whip cracks.

  Lions run at me.

  I run at Wolf.

  (Wolf cries.)

  Lions run.

  I run.

  Lions.

  Me.

  Lions.

  Me.

  Sneakers untied. Sweaty face.

  Sun dropping.

  Lions.

  Me.

  Lions.

  Fast.

  Muscle.

  Manes.

  Blood drips.

  Whip.

  Sun drops.

  (Man in red.)

  I’m in The Wolf. Vinyl beneath me. Keys in wet hand. Aim at ignition.

  Growls.

  Lion’s snout sticks through my door.

  Close it! Close!

  Growling.

  Nostril breath on me.

  (Baby Selma stares.)

  Closing-door-with-all-my-might.

  Whip cracks, hisses.

  “Fuck!”

  Lion’s face close. In closing door. Nose tickles me.

  Tongue.

  Tongue.

  Tongue.

  Rat-a-tat-tat: my heart.

  Saliva on me.

  Other lion licks passenger window. Crashes head through window.

  Key not in slot.

  Hand of stone.

  (Wolf’s last words: “Move now!”)

  Key slides.

  Left lion licks thigh.

  Holding door with adrenal reserves.

  Lions’ eyes shine.

  Right lion licks ear.

  Foot on gas.

  Red jacket in rearview.

  Pedal on carpet.

  Tires squeal-spin.

  Two lions fall down.

  Driver’s door shut.

  And then I’m gone.

  29

  The Wolf has never run so fast. She cannot bear to speak. That’s just as well; my own innards have hardened and I wouldn’t be able to reply. We roar (Don’t think about roaring.) toward Selma’s house. Less than eight blocks. Keep your eye on the prize. Maybe you were only dreaming.

  Go, go.

  I feel the lion’s spit on my jeans and know I was awake.

  Go, go, go.

  This is what happens near the end. Civilization descends to the rules of the jungle. And we all know who’s king of the jungle. Via one trainer’s madness, these lions have emerged to reclaim the throne.

  Go, go, go, go.

  Selma’s town looks different. I’ve seen these trees and houses and porches and lawns and swing-sets and baby pools a million times before, but never with a veil of doom over them. Everything is gray, and I can’t find a glow or a shine.

  We hang a sharp right, then go crunch.

  The windshield shatters.

  Beige hair fills my sight. Short beige hair, no mane. The lion we hit is a female.

  Its back gets sliced on the windshield. It lets out a sad, anguished bark. The Wolf goes into a spin. No more road beneath us. Something softer. Grass. My jaw hits the top rim of the steering wheel when we stop.

  How many lions are there? My mind splits open. I envision lions in my trunk. Lions in my backseat. Lions on my lap. Lion DNA in my body.

  I exit The Wolf, don’t bother to look at the beast on my hood. According to my peripheral vision, she’s a dead slab of hair. I leave one of my shoes behind as I run across an anonymous front lawn. Up the porch steps. Grip the handle. Front door open. Step inside. Spin lock behind me.

  Lots of chatter in the kitchen. Fervor. Passion. Declaration. Debate.

  I see a lion traipsing down the staircase. Two blinks make it vanish.

  From the kitchen, a man’s voice: “I’m telling you, Larry, I’ve done research. It’s all right here.”

  I hear pages turning. A book hitting a tabletop.

  Another man, presumably Larry, says, “I know you have, Joel. But I still think we should stay behind closed doors. It’s not worth it.”

  Joel comes back with, “Of course it’s worth it. Didn’t you ever want to do anything with your life?”

  “I already have,” says Larry.

  Lots of chatter. Fifteen, sixteen voices. Men, women. I hear bustling on the stovetop: pots, pans, sizzling, broiling.

  I make my way toward the kitchen. Its light is the only one visible.

  Joel says, “We’ve got the backyard covered in gasoline. All we need is one of two things: a dead lion or a great deal of human blood.”

  An uproar of chatter. I step into the kitchen expecting to see a session of Parliament.

  Instead, I see over a dozen senior citizens, barking at each other in a haze of cigar smoke. The men have their shirtsleeves rolled up. The women rest their chins on their palms. Eyes roll and tongues click.

  Larry speaks again, and I pick him out: dyed black hair, frowning lips, a plump nose you wanna reach out and squeeze. “I’d rather be killed by a meteorite than in the jaws of a lion. But that’s just me.”

  A woman with too much lipstick chimes in, “I don’t understand you men. Right up till the end, you’re bickeri
ng and bullshitting. Who cares about the dumb lions? We should all be talking about God right now.”

  I can’t decide which is more shocking: the animals in the street or the scholars in this kitchen. They’re ostensibly having the same debate Paula and I had, pitting forceful resistance against peaceful resistance. I don’t much care for the lipstick woman’s male stereotyping. Somebody should tell her what cowards we are.

  A tiny gentleman rises from his seat. His hair is white and compact, his face taut from plastic surgery. I’ve never seen eyes as blue as his. This can only be Joel. When he speaks, he confirms my guess. He stares down the lipstick woman and says, “Katherine, I’ve never stopped being a man since I was fourteen, and I don’t intend to stop now.”

  A shot goes through me. Fourteen? The only thing I cared about at that age was who I’d invite to sleep over on Friday night.

  Katherine shakes her head. “I don’t see anything manly about fighting wild animals. It’s silly is what it is.”

  Joel slams his palm down on the kitchen table and says, “On pure principle, Katherine, I will not allow some nutcase to terrorize us just because our time is up. To allow that would be to let go of my humanity, just like all those goddamn suicides!”

  That line gets lots of nods. Few among the living respect the suicides.

  Joel clears his throat and goes on, “Now, according to this book,” he taps the glossy page of an encyclopedia, “they’re drawn to the scent of either blood or each other. So we either get a lion corpse in the backyard or start cutting ourselves open.” Joel rolls up his sleeves as high as they’ll go. “I for one am prepared to do either.”

  The room ignites with talk.

  “You’ve lost it, Joel,” a fat man says.

  “I would feel comfortable if we all just prayed,” Katherine laments.

  Two women whisper to each other and giggle. A man with messy hair shuffles a deck of cards and begins a game of solitaire. Larry gets up and exits, presumably to use the bathroom.

  Scratch what I said about male cowardice. Joel somehow got to me. Though I only half-trust the feeling, something in my gut is telling me it’s time to use force.