Sketchtasy

by Mattilda Bernstein Sycamore

  No, but I’ve thought it.

  Joey thought you were Asian.

  I told him I was Asian. Can I take off your pants?

  Let’s do it at the same time. Okay, first the button. Now, unzip. Now, start to pull down. Okay, bend your knees. Slowly. Okay, let your pants fall to the floor. Kiss me. Step forward. Yes, we did it.

  What about underwear?

  Let’s switch. Turn around. Okay, hand me yours and I’ll hand you mine. Turn around again.

  You look good in briefs.

  You look good in boxer briefs.

  I feel fat.

  You’re not fat. You’re really hot. Can I put my hands in your underwear?

  Can I put my hands in yours? I mean mine. Can I hold you from behind? I remember you liked that last time. See. Your breathing. That’s the first thing. And then you lean back. I could hold you like this forever. I just want to keep holding you.

  Let’s go in my room. Here, hold my hand. Oh, let me pull the curtains shut. We don’t want everyone to see.

  I want everyone to see.

  That’s hot. That’s really hot.

  Except.

  I know. Don’t worry. The curtains are shut. Should we turn the light on?

  Yes. I want to see you. Lie down. I want to give you a massage. Oh, this comforter is so soft.

  I know. But should we pull it back? And get under the covers?

  Here. You lean back. You lean back, and I’ll sit on top of you.

  You want me to lean back? Can I tell you something?

  Sure.

  I think I’m getting hard.

  I don’t think I’m going to get hard. I’m too high.

  That’s okay. I just wanted you to know. We don’t have to do anything.

  I want to. I really want to. Let me sit on your lap. Can I sit on your lap?

  Can I tell you something?

  What?

  I really want to fuck you.

  Oh.

  I don’t have to. I don’t have to fuck you.

  How did you get so hard? How did you get so hard on X?

  It’s because of you. It’s because you’re so hot.

  Do you think you’ll stay hard? I mean do you think you’ll stay hard in a condom? I get nervous. I get nervous because.

  Because what?

  I don’t want to ruin it.

  You won’t. You can’t. You can’t ruin it. Kiss me. Kiss me again.

  I get nervous because of my father. Do you know what I mean?

  I know what you mean.

  Are you sure?

  Joey told me. Joey told me about your father. It’s okay.

  What time is it?

  Ten thirty. Ten thirty in the morning. Is your clock right?

  It’s thirty-two minutes fast.

  Then we have an extra thirty-two minutes. Do you want to take a shower? Or maybe a bath. Should we take a shower or a bath?

  We took a bath earlier.

  Was that today?

  Do you want to smoke pot first?

  Oh, yes, pot. You’re turning into a pothead. Wait—we can’t open the blinds because it’s light out. We can’t smoke with the windows closed. Should we wait until we get to Joey’s? Or, okay—how about this? We can blow the smoke into the washing machine, and then before it comes out, we’ll run the laundry. Do you think that would work? Or, never mind—let’s just smoke in Nate’s office in back, but make sure you lean your head all the way out the window, okay?

  Okay. I just need a little bit. I might be crashing.

  Don’t say that.

  What?

  Don’t say you might be crashing. Let’s smoke some pot, and then you’ll be fine.

  Do you have any coke?

  I don’t want coke right now, do you?

  I was just thinking about it, because I’m always thinking about it.

  Always?

  I don’t know.

  Do you do a lot of coke?

  The same as you. Or Joey.

  Joey does a lot more than me. I do coke every day, but not a lot. Except when I’m with Joey.

  Me too. Like coffee. Maybe a gram a day. Except when I’m with Joey.

  A gram a day? That’s a lot.

  Do you think so?

  I don’t know. Let’s take a shower. Here, you go first, you look cold. I’ll call Joey, and tell her we’re running late.

  I’ll miss you.

  I’ll miss you too.

  Can I ask you something?

  What is it?

  Can I borrow a shirt? Mine’s all sweaty.

  Oh, yes, let me pick something out for you. How about a sweater? Something soft. Something really soft.

  When we finally get to Joey’s, she opens the door with a kazoo in her mouth. Happy birthday, happy birthday, happy birthday—me, she says, and she looks totally crazed. ABBA’s playing in the background. Oh, oh, Joey says—I forgot. Alexa’s here. I forgot. And she rushes over to the stereo before I have time to say it’s okay, it’s your birthday, I can deal with ABBA, but then she switches it to something so good it makes the whole room vibrate. What is this?

  Richie, she says, Richie Rich. The one and only. Sure, we all know about the one in New York with bleached hair and roller skates but that cunt doesn’t have those fabulous cheeks. Our Richie has those cheeks. She’s cheeky and she can spin. Boston’s one and only.

  Girls, Joey says, take off your coats. Make yourselves comfortable. A lot has happened since you’ve been gone. A lot. Has. Happened. First of all, another hit. Another hit of ecstasy. Ecstasy you know me as—sextasy. Oh—who has a bigger cock? Tell me, who has a bigger cock? Wait—wait—don’t tell me, Miss Alexa. I have a ruler. I have a ruler here. Somewhere. I want to know. Everyone wants to know. The whole world wants to know. Who. Has. A. Bigger. Cock. Hold on—I need to vomit my guts out. I need to vomit my guts out again. I’ll be right back.

  Avery reaches for my hand. Joey’s clothes are piled up on the floor, suitcases on the sofa. Where do we sit? Joey comes back from the bathroom.

  Much better. Much, much better. I shouldn’t have eaten that pizza. Now, where was I? Right—which one’s the man, and which one’s the woman? Wait, wait, let me guess—all you did was bump pussies. Scratch and sniff. Go ahead—say it. The world is waiting. National Enquirer. Star. National Lampoon’s Vacation. Pussy Tourette says, “He drives a Karmann Ghia,” but I say the world can’t wait for pussy. Whose snatch smells like donuts, and whose snatch smells like skunk? Never mind. You’re both bottoms. Come in the bedroom. On the left table, Marge Simpson’s ketamine connection. On the right table, cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs old-school blow school. Blow, bitches it’s time to blow—it’s time to blow your fucking hearts out. It’s my birthday, and I’ll cry if I want to. I’ll cry if I fucking want to. Go ahead—sing it, sing it, sing it! Sing it, bitches, sing it for Miss Joey Severe. Joey Severina. Joey Sever Vivinia. Congratulations—Miss Alexa, don’t play coy with me. You did the deed. How was it? Wait—wait. Don’t tell me—don’t tell me. First I need another line. No, really, I’m happy for you. I’m happy for you both. You’re too smart for your own good, and he’s too stupid. I’m sorry. I’m getting out of hand. I’m getting out of arm. I’m getting out of chest. I’m getting out of tits. I’m getting out of tits and ass. I’m getting out of sass. I’m getting out of grass. Grass. That’s what’s missing—did you bring the grass? Why didn’t you say something before? You two take a walk down lovers’ lane, and I will pause for a moment to catch my breath.

  Avery does a line of coke, and when she looks at me she looks like Avery again, and I don’t know what I mean exactly I mean maybe I’m just being mean.

  And you? And you, Miss Alexa? What will it be? Cat tranquilizer, or Colombian couscous? Don’t tell me you need to sleep—it’s my birthday. You can’t leave me. You can’t leave me, yet.

  I do a line of coke, and as soon as it hits my head I think shit, I just fucked up my high. So then I do some K. Better to balance it out. Avery’s right behind me. Yo
ur turn, I say, and this time I like watching her eyes change.

  We smoke pot. Joey gets a little calmer. The music is really good.

  What’s going on, Avery says.

  What’s going on, Joey says. What’s. Going. On? Let me take you in the other room and show you.

  Joey leads us into the kitchen. The whole table is filled with vials—this really is a drugstore.

  Okay, Joey says. Everything is set up. I counted it. Ninety-four vials. Thirty quarters. Forty-three halves. Twenty-one—no, twenty-two grams. That makes ninety-four. A hundred and twenty-five vials total. Thirty-one are empty. I bet you didn’t know I was good at math. Do you see how I have it all arranged? Before, when all the vials were the same size, I had to go in the bathroom and take them out of my pocket to look. Now I can just feel with my fingers. That’s what you’ll do, you’ll just feel with your fingers.

  Alexacunt, Avarice, please pay attention. Pretend this is Masterpiece Theatre. The Twilight Zone. You are about to enter … Xanadu. The City of Lost Children. Pee-wee’s Playhouse. My name is Dawn Davenport. And I’m a shitkicker. And a thief. Or is it a thief and a shitkicker? Only John Waters knows. But back to business. Listen to my directions. Ask questions later. Wait, I’ll be right back. I need another line.

  Avery leans over and kisses me, just like that, the bitter taste in his mouth and I’m starting to feel the X again, or maybe it’s the K, and then Joey comes back in.

  Oh. I caught you. I caught you in the act. Did I mention I love it? Love. It. But, back to business. I’m a shitkicker and a thief. Ask questions later.

  My name is Dawn Davenport, Avery giggles.

  No, my name is Dawn Davenport. Okay, I explained the vials. Step two: this is my pager. You know how to work it, work it, work it you know I know you know you know how to work it. It’s still in my name. Contract on the table. Pay with a money order, and no one will know. Same thing with the apartment. No one knows I’m leaving. Here are the spare keys. What else? What else? You’ve seen all the gadgets. Waist belt, ankle, shoulder, in case you want to hide anything. If you don’t, you can use this one as a headband. Or a cock ring. If it’s really big. What else? What else? Oh—how it works. You know that little cabinet door by the entrance, I know you thought that was for munchkins. But actually it leads right to the cabinet in my entryway—it was sealed when I moved in, but I fixed that. There’s a bag of cat litter inside. Meow. Let me show you. See? Better than coffee grounds, someone might want coffee. You buzz them in downstairs, they replace that cat litter with the new cat litter. Oh—oh—you leave the money in the old one. Obviously, the drugs are in the new one. I mean the same one—you don’t need to change it, unless you get a cat. You just open the door, and the drugs will be in a little bag inside the big bag. You never even see each other. I can’t tell you whose idea it was, but it’s flawless. Fabulous. Fierce. So I’m leaving you the business. It’s a lot of money. A lot. Of money.

  Questions, Joey is saying, questions—does anyone have questions?

  Avery says are you telling us you don’t want to sell anymore?

  Ten points, ten points for my biggest customer.

  And you want us to take over the business?

  Ten points—tens across the board. Keep going, keep going.

  But why?

  Oh—a stumper. Let’s go back in the bedroom. I need another line. Let’s celebrate. It’s my birthday. I’m two hundred and one. I’m making cocktails. I know you like orange juice. Does anyone want a cocktail? No, no—the real question: Does anyone need a cocktail?

  We go in the kitchen—there’s something buzzing, or is it my head. Joey says oh, oh—I have to flip the tape. Let’s go in the other room. And she grabs her bottle of Absolut and takes a swig. Sorry, ladies, she says, I hope you don’t mind backwash.

  We follow Joey into the bedroom and she does another line of coke. I’m dying, she says.

  You’re not dying.

  No, she says, that’s where you’re wrong, Miss Alexa. You’re not usually wrong. For example, I am a racist, you were right about that. And I hate women. Most of the time. Except Traci Lords. And Betty White. And CeCe Peniston. This room is a mess. Let’s go back in the kitchen and sit down. I’ll make cocktails. What was I saying? Oh—I’m a liar. But I’m not lying right now. I have five T cells. That’s right—five. You know what that means, Alexa—you’re the activist. And Mother Teresa doesn’t have a bed big enough for this bitch. I’m going home tomorrow. My parents are picking me up. But you both look so serious—I didn’t mean to fuck up the party.

  BETWEEN YOUR HEART AND THE FABRIC

  I would never have imagined reading this book with Nate, but he came home one night and I was sitting at the dining room table, sobbing. No, I’d already stopped sobbing—I was just looking at the wall. Or, not at the wall really, but in that direction—you know how you can look right at something, but you don’t see it.

  I was thinking about when I first heard about AIDS, maybe I was twelve and it was Rock Hudson in the Enquirer and I didn’t even know who that was, a famous actor my mother said and the headline told me he died of AIDS.

  Liberace too—pictures of him really scared me, I didn’t know what to do with those pictures. I just knew that I was going to die, if anyone knew, knew about me, and they did know, so I knew I was going to die.

  In The Gifts of the Body, the narrator is a home care worker for people dying of AIDS, and when I opened it up the first time I got scared because the writing was so simple and I wondered if all these deaths had changed Rebecca Brown’s writing. When Nate asked what was wrong, I handed him the book and he said we should read it together.

  So now I’m already crying again on page 2, which is numbered 4—the narrator’s talking about leaving little surprises under the pillow of the person she’s taking care of. Or rearranging his toys so the toys are kissing. “Rick loved surprises,” Rebecca Brown writes.

  And then, on the next page, Rick is on the floor, or no, I guess it’s not the floor it’s the futon in the living room where he’s curled up in fetal position, writhing in pain. The narrator says to Rick: “I’m sorry you hurt so much,” and I’m thinking about how much I hurt. How much everyone I’ve ever known hurts, or everyone I’ve ever known who’s meant something to me, and what about the ones who act like they don’t hurt, like nothing’s affecting them at all, like Joey, look what happened to Joey.

  And then the narrator does something that I can hardly believe. She gets on the futon with Rick. She gets on the futon and lies on her side and puts her arms around him as he’s sweating and in pain.

  I’m kind of relieved that I can still cry like this, in spite of the coke cure. I’m only on page 7, and this book already means so much to me. The home care worker is cleaning the apartment while Rick is in the hospital—she wants Rick to come home to a place that’s soothing. She avoids the kitchen table, there’s something she saw there and when we find out what it is, when I find out what it is, that’s where I’m crying again.

  Rick had gone out to get cinnamon rolls like he used to, after his lover died but before he’d also gotten sick. He’d gone out to choose the softest rolls, one for himself and one for the home care worker. And now he’s in the hospital. The narrator closes her eyes and lowers her head toward the table and I’m thinking of tears, tears at this table with Nate and how he’s still not looking up, which helps me not try to change anything and I wonder if he knows that.

  “There’s something about no one else knowing someone is taking care of you,” Rebecca Brown writes—if Mrs. Lindstrom pretends the attendant is just there on a visit, on a visit saying hi, maybe if she just pretends, all this can become pretend. I look at Nate again, and I wonder what we’re pretending. Ever since I told him about Joey, he says he’s not in the mood for sex so I cook dinner because Nate says he’s trying to get healthy, though I’m sure he’s eating bacon and eggs for breakfast, and a hamburger for lunch, but it’s almost cute how he asks all these questions abou
t my cooking and forgets everything I say. We sit down and talk like husband and wife or father and son or maybe just friends, that’s the best part, when it actually feels like we’re friends. Every now and then, Nate wants me to give him a massage, and then when I get hard he says oh, let me see that, and then he jerks me off until I come on his chest. And then I hate him again.

  I should be reading this book with Avery, but he doesn’t like reading, and anyway he said he didn’t want to read a book about AIDS. But what about Joey, I asked, don’t you want to think about Joey?

  Joey’s gone, Avery said—Joey’s gone, and he’s not coming back—what’s there to think about now?

  It’s so surprising, when you cry and when you don’t. The narrator tells Ed that he can check into the hospice and then leave if he wants to, even though she’s never seen anyone leave. Is this an act of kindness? The narrator is so caring and detached, she feels so deeply for these people she only knows through their illness, and I wonder if this is what community means.

  Ed turns down the hospice. He’s enraged, making contradictory demands. He’s a child, and an adult. He wants to have a garage sale. He wants the option to leave his house again on his own. The chapter is called “The Gift of Tears.”

  I’m getting used to the light of this chandelier. Nate is behind me, placing another cocktail to my right, thank you. I wonder if I want him to touch my shoulder, but then he doesn’t.

  I’m thinking about the way death brings you closer to childhood, does that mean into or away from pain? The way the narrator washes Carlos’s hands, arms, armpits, feet. His innocence at experiencing touch, with and without its implications. And then the fear—that’s the childhood I remember. Can there ever be innocence with so much fear?

  Mrs. Lindstrom, who asks the attendant to call her Connie—she seroconverted from a blood transfusion when she had a mastectomy. Before blood was tested for HIV. She has a gay son, Joe, who feels guilty because he thinks he should be the one dying—his mother never did anything wrong.

  I’m thinking about this shame we all carry, the shame that means we deserve to die.

  Connie, holding onto her routine and hoping that if she doesn’t mention she can’t eat, maybe she’ll be able to. Ed says: “There won’t be anyone left to remember us when we all die.” And I wonder if that’s already true. How Avery has taken Joey’s place at the clubs with all the different-sized vials, and no one even asks, no one even asks about Joey. We sit in his apartment, and it’s like we’re ghosts.