In the City of Shy Hunters

by Tom Spanbauer

  I lay down next to her. My forearms when she folded herself into me. My arm under her neck, my hand in her hair. Her head on my chest. Her hair in my mouth.

  The hair of her crotch against my leg.

  My heart, the broken pieces scraping up against my chest.

  My breath. There was no air.

  I sat up quick, grabbed my tobacco, the papers, rolled a cigarette, one for Fiona, one for me, lit hers, mine.

  Only silence.

  Fiona pulled her legs into her, wrapped her arms around her legs. Her foot tapped against my hip. Her white white fingers pulled tobacco from her teeth.

  Men got it rough, Fiona said. All that macho stuff they got to live up to. Prowess, achievement, all that I-came-I-saw-I-conquered shit. Plus, you don’t get to talk about it.

  Men in the eighties are like women in the fifties, Fiona said, Isolated, unaware of the social construct keeping them isolated. Each man thinking his problems are only his.

  Fiona’s big toe slow between the futon and my ass, into the crack of my ass.

  Plus, Fiona said, A man’s life source—the nipple, his food, his sustenance and source of ecstasy—has been dependent on a woman. On his mother most of his life. Then one day—no rite of passage, no help from his family or his culture—all at once he’s got to go out and be this stud.

  Way uncool, Fiona said.

  And this size thing . . .

  Fiona’s whole foot between my ass cheeks, her toes up and down, up and down, on the back of my balls.

  . . . I really think it’s a guy thing. I mean, Fiona said, Just imagine yourself a woman being chased by some big ape with this huge hard reptilian schlong he wants to shove up inside your body.

  Not tonight, motherfucker! Fiona said.

  In the broken-green-dish ashtray, I stubbed out my cigarette. Fiona stubbed out hers. I pulled the sheet over us. We curled into a ball, my back to Fiona. Fiona’s hands on my back, on my shoulders, on my ass.

  Lips at my ear.

  Nothing’s as sexy as vulnerability, Fiona said, Men or women. I can understand why people get into children. I mean I’d never do that, Fiona said, Too blatant a power trip. But openness and innocence is definitely a turn-on.

  The light had changed. The light was just gray. New York gray. I uncurled, rolled over, looked into Fiona’s blue eyes. Her roman nose. Her scar.

  And you? I said. Do you like feeling vulnerable?

  Hate it, Fiona said.

  Fiona sat up and pulled the sheet off. She reached down and put her hand around my cock, cupping my balls.

  Fiona was looking at my cock, saying things to it, the way you talk to children or animals. Behind her, on the wall, the drawing of Daniel’s beer-can dick and the lime-green Heineken can.

  Will, darling, Fiona said, What’s wrong with you? This here’s no little cock. This here’s the cutest hunk of man meat I ever saw.

  Fiona flipped my cock side to side.

  Too much bigger and you can’t do anything with it, Fiona said.

  Shower not a grower, I said.

  Believe me, Fiona said, I’ve handled some cocks in my time, and this cock is just the right size. It’s just fine.

  Look, Fiona said, The crown is spectacular.

  Fiona leaned down and kissed the tip of my cock.

  Perfect, Fiona said, Just perfect.

  SOME CALL IT a vagina, Bobbie said, Some call it a pussy, I like to call it my Deep Flower, Bobbie said, But when I’m feeling especially horny, I call it my poon.

  When a woman gets hot, Bobbie said, Her poon gets wet, and inside her poon is the most wonderful place on a woman’s body, and that place is called the clitoris.

  I am behind. My arms drape over her shoulders, my hands curl under her forearms and pull them back. My long legs drape over her legs, her ass crack pushed up against my cock, my feet curled under her calves, with my legs I pull her legs back.

  All of us all one thing.

  My hands down the front of her, her breasts, I look down over her shoulder like they are my breasts; my hand on her stomach, my stomach; my hand on her hair, my hair; into her hair to Deep Flower, my flower.

  Deep Flower petals folded back, my fingers warm and wet on either side of her clit, pressing my fingers, crushing the bloom, my bloom, my reach into hair and flesh to the bone. Soft. She stretched her neck back, let her hair hang down my back, my right ear against her left ear, my face marble next to Fiona’s white marble, chipped lip, Michelangelo’s David and Venus de Milo, I can fuck you blind and keep it simple.

  My Art Family our voyeurs.

  Her nipples are hard, my nipples, sweat on her neck; I am making her make strange sounds and rock the boat and push her hips up to the sky. My tongue into her ear, perfect, just perfect, slow the way my hand moves slow, deep inside Fiona, inside me, Deep Flower the way Bobbie liked it.

  Long deep breaths, her diamond nips could cut glass, a little scream in her throat, the little scream that gives it all away, Fiona pushes her nice wet poon against my hand, my fingers up and down, up and down, my hand grasping at and pulling the flower like a cow’s tit, I take my tongue from her ear, lower my head down, kiss Fiona’s long long neck.

  Fiona’s scar is lifting, her smile never a smile.

  When she comes it looks like pain, sounds like pain.

  Fiona falls from me like old skin, curls on the futon into a ball, her forehead on her knees, her arms around herself.

  Outside, the city is just waking up. The light through the windows, Edward Hopper windows. Gray light onto Fiona, blue-black hair, blue-white skin, Sleeping Beauty, breath deep and slow. I roll a cigarette, light it. Sit and listen to Fiona breathe. In the kitchen, my Art Family a frozen moment, huddled, five little shadows onto the floor.

  After who knows how long, I get up out of bed, walk over into my Art Family, touch them the way Fiona did. A salty taste on my tongue before I cry. For some time, who knows how long, I stand with them all around me, and I smoke.

  Then, out of the blue, Fiona’s talking.

  There’s this film, Fiona said, A Bergman film called Autumn Sonata. Ingrid Bergman’s the mother and Liv Ullmann is the daughter. There is this other daughter that Liv Ullmann is taking care of who is some kind of metaphor about crippling and the lack of love in a person’s life. One day, Liv Ullmann gets totally pissed off and tells Ingrid Bergman what a shit mother she’s been. Then Ingrid Bergman says this wonderful thing. A talent for reality, she says. Ingrid Bergman says she lacks a talent for reality. And what a talent for reality is, is being present in the moments of your life and remembering them.

  Ingmar Bergman? I said.

  Ingrid’s the mother, Fiona said.

  Mothers always catch it, Fiona said, It’s always Mom’s fault. Dad’s always gone and it’s always Mom’s fault.

  Fiona stretched and turned over on her side.

  The blue of her eyes all the way across the room.

  Do you ever get hard? Fiona said. I mean, maybe you could see a doctor.

  Just like that I had to take a wicked leak. I walked naked into the bathroom. I pissed, then stood for a while and looked at my whanged-out body in the mirror.

  You are the mess, I said to the mirror. I am the mess, I said.

  When I walked back into the room, my hands kept trying to cover up my crotch.

  Strong piss flow, Fiona said. Shows good muscle tone.

  What? I said.

  I heard you pissing all the way in here, she said. Could you bring me a glass of water?

  I walked back into the kitchen, filled a glass with water. When I walked back to the futon, I was holding the glass in front of my cock.

  It gets easier, Fiona said. If you do it enough times you get used to it.

  What? I said.

  Being naked in front of someone, Fiona said.

  Fiona drank the water one big gulp.

  I knelt down, Japanese style, pulled my balls up, my cock.

  I get hard, I said. Just don’t get hard with anyo
ne.

  Shy, Fiona said.

  Social terror, I said.

  You’re obviously not a virgin, Fiona said. Right?

  I’m not a virgin, I said.

  Both women and men? Fiona said.

  Both, I said.

  When you’re on a Green Date, Fiona said, Do you think about both? Or do you think about men? Or do you think about women?

  Charlie, I said. I think about Charlie 2Moons.

  JUST BEFORE WE fell asleep, Fiona’s back to my back, Fifth Street was a loud garbage truck. I was staring at the cracked white dish.

  Then: White-trash tartar sauce, Fiona said. The color of the walls. Ketchup mixed with mayonnaise.

  More ketchup in the front room, Fiona said, Less and less ketchup as you go into the kitchen. In the bathroom streaks of ketchup and streaks of mayonnaise.

  Bottom of the paint bucket, I said.

  Then: William of Heaven?

  Yeah?

  You know you got to find him, Fiona said. This Charlie 2Moons guy. He’s your soul brother. You got to find him.

  Everything I know, you’ll know.

  Everything you know, I’II know.

  I know, I said.

  THE NEXT MORNING—I mean afternoon—Mrs. Lupino opened her door just as Fiona kissed me good-bye in the hallway.

  With my fuck-you finger, I scratched my eye.

  I stood barefoot on the stoop. The sun was bright and I covered my eyes. Fiona’s butt down the stairs. I put my fingers to my nose. The unmistakable smell.

  Fiona put her hand on the newel post and swung herself down onto the sidewalk, and then she stopped dead in her tracks.

  You’re going this way and then shit happens and then you’re going that way.

  Will! Fiona screamed. Come down here!

  Two leaps and I was down the stairs.

  What?

  Fiona was standing two steps down, leaning her arms against the door with the poster STRANDED BEINGS SEARCHING FOR GOD.

  The first Polaroid: Woman Being Possessed by the Devil.

  The second Polaroid: Woman Being Healed by the Word of the Lord.

  The third Polaroid: Woman Healed by the Word of the Lord! Alleluia Alleluia!

  The big red FOR LEASE sign in the window.

  Fiona said, What’s your landlord’s name?

  Zigman, I said. David Zigman Realty.

  Three days later Fiona had the space rented. The storefront half under me and half under Mrs. Lupino: Fiona’s own performance space.

  STRANDED BEINGS SEARCHING FOR GOD.

  Cool name, Fiona said.

  ROSE UPSTAIRS.

  Fiona down.

  * * *

  RUBY’S VOICE ON my red answering machine was a raw, swollen throat. They gave me one call, Ruby said, So I called you. Dear William of Heaven, what am I going to do with you? How is my old friend, anyway? It’s been a long time, buddy. You on the planet yet?

  On the tape, the sound of people walking in a hallway, talking, a door opened and closed.

  So, Ruby said, Looks like I’m going to do this treatment, maybe this time it’ll work. Turn me into a Republican and I can vote for Ronbo.

  I’ll be out in three months, Ruby said, And you and I and True Shot can go to Sardi’s and look at our pitchas on the walls.

  On the tape, around and around, Ruby coughing coughing.

  Then: You know, MacNeil/Lehrer isn’t the news, Ruby said, It’s AT&T’s presentation of the news.

  All we are is who we think we are, Ruby said, And most of us think we are who we are because somebody like AT&T told us. Noam Chomsky is not talking about ABC, CBS, NBC, or CNN, Ruby said, He’s talking about U and I. He’s talking about G-O-D. He’s talking about who it is we’re listening to, and how we’ll listen to most any goddamn thing we’re told because we’re so afraid. Afraid to tell our own version, Ruby said.

  When Ruby spoke again, his voice was so quiet I could barely hear.

  I’m afraid, Ruby said, and sucked in smoke.

  Around and around, on the tape, people walking, the door opened, someone hollered something, the door closed.

  Then: Because we each have the eyes we have, Ruby said, The world looks the way it looks.

  I could hear Ruby smile.

  See ya when I get outta here in three months, buddy, Ruby said. Don’t let the fucking pharisees get you down.

  SUMMER 1985, THREE months later, and True Shot and I were driving in Door of the Dead van, not-looking for Charlie 2Moons, not-looking for Ruby Prestigiacomo.

  True Shot shifted into second.

  So Ruby got out today, I said.

  Yesterday, True Shot said. He said he’d meet us here tonight, eleven o’clock.

  In the meat-packing district? I said. Why?

  Ruby likes it, True Shot said. He had an old friend he used to hang out with down here.

  How we going to find him? I said.

  Life Café, True Shot said. Travel mode’s the key.

  Outside my window, sun-baked night wind off the sidewalks and streets, the buildings. The van’s always-on heater frying my feet.

  True Shot was wearing his hair in pigtails. The beaded necklace around his neck, the buckskin bag. Big pits on his chambray shirt.

  True Shot, beautiful according to Chief Joseph.

  Door of the Dead van drove around the block again. At the comer, just like that, True Shot banged the palm of his hand against the steering wheel.

  I swear! True Shot said. Ruby looked so good when I picked him up yesterday. He’s gained weight, and there’s color back in his face, plus he’s shaved his head! He’s a fucking skinhead!

  True Shot looked his mirrors over at me. On the surface of his mirrors, I was a sweat-drowned rat, big circus nose, hair on my lip, a yellow-stained T-shirt.

  And check this out, True Shot said. Ruby Prestigiacomo has got him a full-moon tattoo above each fucking eyebrow! I told him, Ruby, I said, You ain’t gonna get no Madison Avenue job with them moon tattoos, and Ruby just smiled. You know how Ruby can smile. God, it was great to see Ruby smile again.

  I gave him his old room back, True Shot said. And we bought groceries. Last night we watched Jeopardy! and he went to bed at ten o’clock.

  Ruby’s gonna be fine, True Shot said. If anyone can make it, Ruby Prestigiacomo will.

  What about the purple bumps? I said. Does he still have the purple bumps?

  True Shot’s mirrors were straight ahead. He reached and turned the Sioux tape on, shifted down into second.

  Little West Twelfth, Gansevoort, Horatio, Jane, Bethune. Narrow streets, cement loading docks, shed overhangs. At night, sometimes half a block between lightbulbs. The city is old here, before the grid. No stoops, no front doors to six-story walk-ups. No doormen, no shiny steel and glass to the sky. Cobblestone streets made for horses, streets going every which way.

  During the day, the meat was beef, pork, lamb, chicken. During the night, human.

  The cement of the sidewalks and curbs, the cobblestones, the asphalt, blood-soaked in a century of meat death.

  A black Mercedes, a yellow convertible Saab, a bronze Cadillac, two Chevy Novas gray and red, a white Cadillac, and a Dodge van, Door of the Dead van, circling circling, Gansevoort, Horatio, Greenwich, Jane, West Twelfth, Bank, to Hudson, headlights pushing the night into shadows up against warehouse walls. Now and then, on the loading docks, on the comers, under a shed roof, bits of light—sequins, rhinestones, cut-glass beads, rings, bracelets, necklaces, silky gowns, tiaras, high heels, glitter eyelids, belts, bracelets, fingernail polish—anything that shines, adorns the body, anything that shimmers, catches light.

  The moon, reflected light.

  Then: Where do you think that Wolf Swamp spring is, I said, Where the family of wolves guards the mouth of the cave?

  True Shot’s silver rings on every finger tapped a beat on the steering wheel. His mirrors. True Shot raised his hand, touched the buckskin bag hanging from the beaded necklace.

  Where do you suppo
se? True Shot said.

  Spring Street? I said. It’s right next to Prince.

  Under True Shot’s mirrors his eyes were smiling. How about Maiden Lane? True Shot said.

  Is Maiden Lane close to Spring and Prince? I said.

  Nah, True Shot said. World Trade Center.

  Cultures always build their monuments on top of an older culture’s monument, True Shot said. What better place for the entrance to the underworld than under the World Trade Center?

  My arm in the window, the sun-baked night air blew against my arm and neck.

  What about here, though? I said. There’s something here, don’t you think?

  You mean the meat district? True Shot said.

  The smell, I said.

  Meat and blood, True Shot said. Like that.

  West Fourteenth Street, right on Hudson; True Shot shifted down from third to second, double-clutched to first, put on the brakes.

  You see that basement door there? True Shot said.

  It’s an S&M Club, True Shot said. Used to be called Hell, now they call it the Phoenix.

  The building was a triangular brick building. It was painted white-trash tartar sauce.

  In the mercury-vapor light, above the basement door, the word PHOENIX.

  The entrance to Hell.

  Centuries of meat death.

  On the south corner of the pink triangular building, a woman in a tight red dress and black stiletto heels, seams in her nylons, stepped out into the van’s headlights. She pulled her dress up, and her black lace codpiece was not a woman’s, and the guy who was not a woman bent over and showed us his smooth ass. The guy pulled the black butt floss over and stuck his index up his ass and wiggled it around and then stood up and turned, struck a pose, put his index in his mouth, and sucked it.

  The women, I mean the men, with the guy who stuck his index up his ass, all laughed loud and hard and made chirping noises at us with their lips.

  The guy in the red dress, his glitter eyes stared right at us, not a blink. Out of a history book, his face. Craggy, high cheekbones, big full lips. Chin pushed out; even from inside the van you could see each one of his bottom teeth, framed within the red red lips.