In the City of Shy Hunters

by Tom Spanbauer

  It ain’t Omaha, Fiona said.

  Idaho, I said.

  Fuck Idaho.

  I rolled a cigarette. Fiona rolled a joint.

  Kiss?

  The DJ was standing in a box like a pulpit at the top of some stairs. All he had was a stereo hi-fi, a lot like Bobbie’s only bigger speakers, and when the song was over you had to stand and wait for the next song or go sit down.

  In the Ditch the second round, and Fiona asked me to dance. I stood right up, even though I only dance alone in my apartment, lights off, Sony Walkman on. My big long body doesn’t move the way a man’s big long body’s supposed to. At least not in Pocatello, Idaho, or Boulder, Colorado, or Bozeman, Montana, or Hope, Beyond Hope.

  Fuck ’em. Those little-town blues.

  Who cares what a bunch of assholes think? Take what’s wrong with you and make art out of it. Martha Graham meets Joe Cocker.

  So when Fiona asked me to dance I stood right up because of all the things I just told you, and because it was Fiona who asked me, and because the last time I’d danced, not counting naked alone in my room, was when I danced that night with Charlie 2Moons in the barn.

  It was a slow one. “Love and Affection,” Joan Armatrading.

  Fiona leaned her body against my body, her bushel of hair under my chin, her head against my chest, the long firm muscles of her arms, her shoulders, so white.

  Standing with Fiona, I was the boy when we danced, my hand on her hip, my other hand holding up her hand, our feet on the black-and-white checkered tiles, the venetian blinds pulled, the kitchen stove light, the smell of her body and something secret, waiting for the record to drop.

  The needle on the record, that sound, our invitation to faraway, Fiona and I dancing in somebody’s after-hours kitchen, smiling, somewhere else.

  Only your body can know another body.

  Because you see it, you think you know it. Your eyes think they know. Seeing Fiona’s body for so long, I thought I knew her body.

  I’ll tell you something, so you’ll know: It’s not the truth. Only your body can know another body.

  My hand on her back, my hand in her hand, her toes up against my toes, Fiona’s body wasn’t sections of a body my eyes had pieced together. In my arms was one long uninterrupted muscle, a body breathing life, strong and real.

  And the strangest thing, this wonder woman Susan Strong my eyes had known was the girl when we danced, following me. Where I moved, she moved.

  Fiona let go my hand and put both her arms around my waist. She leaned back and looked up at me. Her eyes clear, open. Her broken lip fuck-you.

  You smell good, I said.

  I see that you are playing at being a great dancer, Fiona said.

  To know the power of the dance, I said, Is to dance with God.

  Fiona made her face like a vampire’s and put her hands around my throat. Just who the fuck are you? Fiona said.

  Fiona’s eyes, a Spanish dancer who’s trained to use her eyes.

  First you’re some cowboy from Ohio rolling cigarettes with one hand, Fiona said.

  Idaho, I said.

  Then you tell me you can’t fuck, Fiona said, And that day—remember that day in Cauchemar?—just as you told me that, when I looked at you there was a beautiful light all around you, and I thought: Cool. This guy is being very genuine.

  Then later on you’re whining like every other sorry mother’s son, Fiona said.

  Then you’re walking out the door with Chef Som Chai under your arm, Fiona said. Then you’re Daniel’s slave interest.

  Then, at Shopping for an Honest Man, at my performance piece, I look out into the audience through the hole in the curtain and there you are male-bonding with Argwings Khodek, my Absolute Ultimate Idol.

  And now you’re Section Six, Fiona said, And I’m still fucking the dog in Sections One and Two. I ought to kick your fucking ass.

  Fiona grabbed my ass.

  And I got two brothers, Fiona said, So don’t think I can’t.

  The song stopped about then, there was a scratch at the end, then silence. Dogs barking and big shadows and smoke and sweat and kitchen-stove light. My feet on the black-and-white kitchen tile were twice the size of Fiona’s.

  Surrounded by a room full of Charlie 2Moons.

  Who am I?

  Where are your brothers? I said.

  Greenwich, Connecticut, Fiona said. Twins, both tax lawyers, both queer.

  Both? I said.

  The Hyannisport Homos, Fiona said. YUFAs, Fiona said. Young Urban Faggot Attorneys.

  Fiona hit her fists against my chest once, hard.

  Come on, Will, Fiona said, Cop to it! I asked you a question.

  I AM A white male six-foot-two one hundred and ninety pounds, thirty-one years old, brown to blond hair, hazel eyes, big butt, big legs, big nipples, should be bigger in the chest and arms. Big spirit, big body, big nose, crooked bottom teeth, little dick. Crossed-over scared stallion.

  Five people I know: Ruby, True Shot, Rose, Susan Strong, Harry. One’s a junkie, one’s a spirit schlepper, one’s a Shakespearean drag queen, one’s idiot-savant mother fucked a truck driver, one is New York’s only Irish Catholic homosexual. Two I count as friends, Rose and True Shot. One is just a voice on my answering machine, Ruby. One is attached to the other one, Harry. I cry too much. Think about Bobbie too much. I am on a journey. I have a task: Find Charlie 2Moons and ask his forgiveness.

  Nobody really knows who they are, I said. Even God don’t know.

  Cut the crap, Will! Fiona said.

  Then: Why should I tell you, I said, Who I am?

  Because I’m your friend, Fiona said.

  Fiona put her hand on my cheek, on my forehead. I took the chance and looked her straight in the eye.

  You said everything’s a performance piece, I said. Life is an art and art is a game, I said. This is all an illusion, I said. Asobase kotoba. So why not continue playing? I said, I see that you are playing at being a great Susan Strong, I said, And I’m playing at being a great Will Parker, I said. If that’s all there is, why not keep it that way, I said, And just keep dancing?

  Fiona took her hands off my body, lifted her hair off her neck, twisted her hair around, and tied her hair up in a knot. Her armpits weren’t shaved, the smell from her pits.

  I love it when you talk, Fiona said.

  Fiona put her open palms, one on my waist, the other on my open palm.

  That’s not all there is! Fiona said.

  All her face was smiling but her lip.

  Look, I’m just like everybody else, Fiona said. I have a belief and I am working myself into that belief. This is all illusion, this is all folly, and my choice is to live my life as aware of that folly as I possibly can. But that doesn’t mean it’s only folly.

  My spirit, Fiona said, Has gone to Susan Strong for an extended vacation. Your spirit has gone to Will Parker for an extended vacation. This birth. This incarnation. What’s important is the lesson. What’s important is this moment—here together now, looking at each other.

  Fiona’s eyes were special blue in the kitchen-stove telephone-booth light. She leaned back a little, her hips into my hips, so she could see me better, her hands looping her arms around my neck, her lip a life all its own.

  We need to look into every situation, Fiona said, And examine it, so we won’t be fooling ourselves. I want to make a personal discovery of reality, Fiona said, Through my own intelligence and ability.

  It’s a sense of trust, Fiona said, That when you look into a situation, you know that you will get a response, a message. Trust, Fiona said, Is knowing there will be a message.

  Fuck trust.

  Fiona undid my white waiter shirt, one, two buttons, slid her open palm against my heart.

  Your heart is beating, Fiona said. My heart is beating. What is it that is beating our hearts?

  Shit happens.

  Everything is an illusion, Fiona said. Everything. Even death is an illusion. So we must listen to our Higher
Knowing, Fiona said, And be present, because this is our life. When the vacation’s over, We go home.

  You’re sure about that? I said, Absolutely?

  Absolutely, Fiona said, If you trust hard enough, you will get a definite response, and what you know is a tiny bit bigger, and what you don’t know is a tiny bit smaller.

  Underneath it, Will, beyond the illusion, this all means something, Fiona said.

  Believe that it hath been given, Fiona said, And it shall be given unto you.

  Did Argwings Khodek say that? I said.

  No, Fiona said, It was Tarkovsky.

  Is Tarkovsky another one of your AUIs? I said.

  There’s only three, Fiona said. Argwings Khodek, Leonard Cohen, and Tarkovsky.

  And Joni Mitchell? I said.

  And Joni Mitchell, Fiona said. And John Kelly doing Joni Mitchell.

  Fiona put her hands, palms open, onto my shoulders, shook my shoulders.

  There is a deeper meaning, Fiona said. Otherwise we’d all turn into Andy Warhol and live in the world of appearance.

  Fiona’s hands smooth across my shoulders, to my neck. One finger touched my throat.

  It was Adam’s apple, Fiona said, Not Eve’s.

  Then: Come on, Will, Fiona said, We’re on vacation. Let’s have some fun!

  Fiona’s smile, her broken lip trying to smile. Fiona’s lips at my ear.

  Show me your underneath, Fiona said, And I’ll show you mine.

  The needle on the record: Stevie Wonder. Fiona put her long fingers on my eyes.

  I’m a man of many wishes, I hope my premonition misses.

  This won’t end up a performance piece somewhere? I said.

  You are so fucking beautiful! Fiona said. I love your bottom teeth.

  Most people misconstrue this for standoffishness.

  My breath in. My breath out.

  Then: My friends call me William of Heaven, I said.

  JUST BEFORE SUNRISE, the both of us pissing on Avenue C pointing uptown. The sky above us and beyond midnight blue, lighted doorways of six-story walk-ups, streetlamps on the avenues, garbage cans overturned, black plastic bags ripped open. Fiona and I walked, following Third Street across Avenue B, Avenue A, First Avenue, to Second Avenue, talking talking, past Angel’s Pizza, Dress Suits to Hire. Past the Greek restaurant on Second and Fifth Street, past Fish Bar.

  Fiona got my whole long sorry story.

  But it’s not the truth.

  I didn’t know the whole story, hadn’t remembered the whole thing yet.

  Not yet.

  On the stoop of 205 East Fifth Street just across from the rectangle of earth where I’d plant the cherry tree my arm over Fiona’s shoulders and her arm around my waist, just like that, at the same time, Fiona and I looked up.

  Morning wind in the trees. The dust-storm light of the streetlamps on the green leaves, the shadows of the green leaves on the sidewalk, curb, on the street.

  A color from another incarnation, Fiona said.

  Fiona leaned against me, her head on my shoulder, her hand on my knee. We smoked the cigarette, present with the night, with the morning wind in the trees, with the color from another incarnation, enjoying, and enjoying that we were enjoying.

  Then: He lives here? Fiona said.

  Who? I said.

  Argwings Khodek, Fiona said.

  Apartment Two-A, I said.

  Can I come in? Fiona said.

  You want to see Rose? I said.

  No, Fiona said. I want to see you.

  BEFORE I GOT the lights on, Fiona went right to the bathroom. When she flushed, I listened to the sound of someone else in my apartment flushing.

  My Art Family were all gathered around the ladder in the kitchen, looking out the window at sunrise on the city. One of them, the man with the bumps of mannequin beard on his face, was sitting on top of the ladder.

  When Fiona came out, I walked to the ladder, stood among them. This is my Art Family, I said.

  Art Family? Fiona said.

  Make it aware, make art out of it, I said.

  So this is you and Bobbie and Charlie and your mother and father? Fiona asked.

  Sometimes, I said.

  Fiona stood herself next to me by the ladder. I introduced them. Their names that day were Massimo, Grazia, Parjaner, Sophia, and Marlon. Fiona touched each one, their hands, their faces, arms, their backs, shoulders.

  Out the window, below, the pit bull, dark shadows. The E.T. guy had already phoned home.

  Kiss? Fiona said.

  Fiona’s mouth on my mouth. Not a big tongue kiss. Just lips to lips. The red onto my lips, the smell of the red.

  Fiona’s scar against my lips.

  Nearly two years in New York City and no one had been on the premises in my apartment besides me, and just like that, out of the blue—abracadabra!—there she was, Susan Strong at my kitchen window, within my Art Family, the light, a color from another incarnation coming in on her white marble skin.

  Susan Strong kissing me. I was kissing back.

  Shit-faced. That’s all it takes.

  Car alarm in my ear. Another New Yorker gone to hell.

  In my forearms first, the fear, then up my arms, through my heart, splash down into stomach, cattle prod to cock. New-shoe stiff.

  But it’s not the truth.

  It wasn’t stiff.

  The muscles in my back jumping.

  And something else.

  Something clear and smooth and beautiful. The feeling of a finger drawing a circle around my heart.

  Fiona took my shirt off. I kicked my shoes off, pulled off my socks. Fiona pulled my pants and shorts down together.

  My body all smelly dance sweat and restaurant leftover.

  Black bra and black panties under Fiona’s black dress. I pulled the bra straps down, unclasped the back of the bra. The full sway of her breasts.

  Fiona kicked off her shoes, pulled her panties down.

  Vagina, pussy, Deep Flower, poon.

  The unmistakable smell.

  How big I was next to her. My skin so pink-brown and brown-blond hairy. Fiona’s skin white marble. Black hair in her armpits, in her crotch.

  Fiona and I stood so still, just like my Art Family. Fiona put her finger on each of my nipples.

  Nice nips, Fiona said, And I love the hair on your forearms. Nice chest hair.

  Fiona rubbed her hand across the hair of my chest.

  You give great clavicle, Fiona said.

  My hands were cold my feet were cold my cock was freezing. Frozen moments in time. I was smiling. Stopped smiling.

  Beautiful skin, I said. I love this part. Under your breasts.

  Which part?

  Where it curves up, I said. It’s so soft.

  My nipples are ugly, Fiona said.

  No! I said. They’re fantastic.

  Diamond nips, Fiona said. I’m in need of areola fulfillment.

  My arms should be bigger, I said.

  No, Fiona said. Look here, she said.

  Fiona drew a line with her finger from my elbow, along my bicep, up to my shoulder.

  Perfect, she said. The arc is just perfect. And look how nicely it moves to the chest.

  Fiona’s finger up my arm down across my chest.

  I wish I were taller, Fiona said, With shoulders like yours.

  I shouldn’t be so tall, I said, So clumsy big. I love your size. I said, I’m so surprised by your strength.

  You’re shaking, Fiona said.

  My whole body like True Shot’s eyes.

  Fiona’s breath in deep, then exhale out her nose.

  Will, we don’t have to do anything—be any way, Fiona said. I just want to hold you, be held by you. I promise I won’t hurt you.

  Like Bernadette, I said.

  Like Bernadette, Fiona said. I promise.

  My hand, my index on Fiona’s lip, the scar, the map of the Known Universe.

  Tell me about your scar, I said.

  Fiona’s blue eyes got dark b
lue. The breath in her raised her diamond nips against my chest. Her tongue stuck out and licked the scar, licked my finger.

  Lletre ferit, Fiona said. Two words put together, formed by Fiona’s red lips.

  What? I said.

  It’s Spanish, Fiona said—Catalan, that is, not Castilian.

  Catalan? I said.

  Go to Barcelona, Fiona said. Stop anybody on the street and ask them about the bastard son of King Ferdinand.

  Believe me, Fiona said, They’ll tell you.

  What’s it mean? I said.

  Lletre ferit, Fiona said, Means the word that hurts.

  Fiona’s index pressed on the scar.

  You have touched me, Fiona said, Where I hurt.

  My arms on Fiona’s shoulders, my hands on her neck, under her hair. Fiona pushed her hips against my hips. Pubic hair to pubic hair.

  It’s all drag, I said.

  Fiona’s fuck-you smile that was never a smile.

  I was born with a cleft palate, Fiona said. I’ve had three operations. The first they put a roof in my mouth and then did two plastic surgeries on my lip.

  Does it look weird? Fiona asked.

  I love it, I said.

  And what about your scar? Fiona said. Where’d you get yours?

  I stepped back, turned around, and showed Fiona the scar; a half moon on my left cheek.

  AyaHuaska, I said, Charlie’s horse, bit me.

  The scar on my ass you could read like tea leaves.

  Really? Fiona said. Cool.

  Fiona put her hand on the scar.

  Nice ass, Fiona said. Just enough hair on it. I like men with hair on their ass.

  Fiona brushed the hair on my ass back and forth, back and forth.

  But I didn’t mean that scar, Fiona said.

  What scar? I said.

  Fiona’s lips at my ear. You know, Fiona said, The one on your spirit. How’d you get your heart so broken?

  Fiona’s open palm on my heart.

  Oh, that one, I said. If I told you that, I said, I’d have to tell you everything.

  THE SHEETS COULD’VE been cleaner. Glad I had two pillows. I turned off the lamp the shape of a wagon wheel with cowboys and Indians riding horses on the lampshade. Fiona lay down, her bushel of black hair on the pillow, the white of her skin the same white of the sheets, if the sheets had had a heart and veins that were blue.