Accepting my sentence, I open the door. ‘Hey babe.’
Slutskia throws her arms around me, crushing her DDs against my chest (to think she had a reduction).
‘Baybee, I lauv you.’
Hmmm.
‘U lauv me baybee? U mees me?’
Sure.
‘Baybee!?’
‘Yeah babe, I missed you.’
If nothing else, Slutskia is sex. Pure sex. Destined to be sex, condemned. She has Barbie locks, Aryan eyes, double agent skin, graphic breasts, an ass like a twelve-year-old boy—with Cracula tattooed above it. She is one long ego stroke. When The Island steals my identity, I can always bend her over, see my name in lights. That and we are both spics. Tu sabes? Oh, and she loves sames. Kissing sames, eating sames, bringing sames home for us. This last fact is often alluded to by The Fireman. This same same is into sames, we should put them together, see what happens…she thinks Slutskia’s hot, what’ya think… What do I think? I think what kind of fellow negotiates for his good friend’s same? Well, most fellows in The Island.
Arousal. It has been just long enough since our last encounter for this one to taste fresh. Similar to not drinking for a day, half day maybe. Sensing my intent, she heads for the shower.
‘Baybee, I need clean my puuussy first.’
Slutskia is forever cleaning her snatch, shaving her snatch, massaging her snatch, cultivating her snatch. She takes five showers a day, an amphibious kitten.
‘Baybee I jus git off plane. Savunteen-hour plane.’
I could care less. I don’t mind the taste of economy, peanuts.
The showerhead comes to life.
‘Hey babe?’
‘Yes baybee.’
‘My friend I told you about, The Reverend, he’s coming to stay with us next week.’
‘OK baybee.’
As she scrubs and investigates my thoughts turn to Feather. Eventually all this Dulce, Slutskia, cracking, slamming, boozing business will grow old. Everything does. Inevitably I’ll want Feather, or a Feather. When that day comes, will I be too contaminated? Will I have seen too much to relate to an actual human? Probably.
‘Baaaybeeee...’
Slutskia meets me on the couch, naked and whitewashed. Climbing on top of me we join as two wayward parasites, galloping through the hills and into our sunset.
Eleven
We ride out our second honeymoon for a few days, Slutskia and I. We see Hollywood movies, have worse conversation, go to the Russian bathhouse. We subject ourselves to dinners with Flow, The Fireman, Brazilian sames. Drink iced coffee with Aeronymous.
Having exhausted the exhaustive, nature takes its course.
‘Baybee wake up. Cracula, wake up. CRACULA!’
‘Jesus fucking Christ babe. What?’
‘Baybee, power out.’
‘What?’
‘BAYBEE FAUKING POWER OUT!’
Rolling out of bed, I hit the light switch.
Fuck.
It’s five degrees outside and I live in a one-window cavern. There is but one thing to do. I dial my landlord, knowing he won’t answer.
‘Sanjay, it’s Cracula. There’s no power in the building, I’m checking into a hotel. I’ll deduct it from next month’s rent.’ Babe, pack some shit.
Now there are many ways to take a vacation without ever leaving The Island—concerts, theater, hallucinogens, Tuesday Science section of The Times—none as pleasant as a reckless night in a hotel. A hotel far from downtown. We pack a bag and head for The Hudson.
Out of the cab, up the escalator, to the front desk we go.
‘Yes sir, how may I help you?’
‘I’d like a room please, junior suite.’
‘Certainly, may I have a credit card?’
Handing over my Commerce debit, it’s 50/50.
‘OK sir, you’re in room 609, up the elevators to your left.’
Rising to our doom, Slutskia has a brain flash. ‘Baybee, let’s make party.’
Palabra.
There are suites and there are suites. This is neither. A den of inebriation at best. Checking my crackberry, I see a text from Dulce.
What are you doing?
This is an enormous decision. Massive. A nation’s future.
Risk. Reward. Fork in the road. Dulce.
I return her text.
Hudson Hotel
Room 609
Bring yip OK 1 hr
Needing courage, we hit the bar.
Two shots of Patrón please. Room 609.
Two more shots please. 609.
Yeah, 609.
Yes.
609.
More than buzzed and in need of coke, we return to our den. Shall I give a quick poke? Or hold out, just in case?
DING DONG.
Expecting Dulce, I open the door. It’s La Yipessa. Why is she here? Had I texted her? Had Slutskia? No matter.
‘What’s up Yipessa, come in.’
She hasn’t slept, geeked beyond repair. Stuttering, blabbering, roaming—I speak her language. She sits down, presents a bag. Would we like some? Oh would we.
Couple rips here, couple rips there…whackos everywhere.
We speak of nothing. I mostly watch La Yipessa’s jaw do the Greek alphabet, I believe she’s on Omega. I keep a close watch. This particular zippiddydooda is a goddamn klepto, always pocketing rolled up bills, Snickers bars, socks. Lo que sea. I ponder her usefulness, her utility. I channel Mill.
DING DONG.
‘I got door baybee.’
Here we go.
‘Hi.’ Hello. ‘I Cracula same same, Slutskia.’ I’m Dulce.
Fuck me. ‘Hey Dulce.’ Cautious kiss-kiss. ‘You meet Slutskia?’
‘Yes,’ innocent smile. Innocent my ass.
The cards are dealt.
‘I brought this for us.’ Dulce throws five bags on the table, big bags. Shrugs her shoulders, smiles an entrapping smile. I taste her contribution, much spicier than La Yipessa’s.
Slutskia meets Dulce’s eyes, revealing her intentions. A true thesbian. She glances at me, accusing. Blind. I glance at Yipessa and tune a hymn in my head. One of these pieces is not like the other. What shall we do?
‘Sames?’
Yes.
‘Would you like to play a game?’
Sure.
‘OK. Well first everyone do a line.’ No arm-twisting needed. ‘Now, I’ll spin the bottle. When it stops, you do whatever I say.’
Ha ha. OK. Sure.
‘Great, it landed on stop. Slutskia, Dulce, take your shirts off.’
La Yipessa recites the Armenian alphabet. Says she’s moving to Lost Aimless with her husband and we should all come visit. Sure. She moves on to Swahili as Dulce and Slutskia remove tops, giggle. Slutskia’s suspicion is only surpassed by her arousal. We all do a line, Yipessa steals the remote.
As luck would have it, the bottle stops again. They kiss. Yipessa answers her phone, it didn’t ring.
We polish off bags, vodka.
On the road to destruction or creation, I’m not sure. I have that teenage sensation of receiving fellatio with your mom in the next room. So far so good, but there could be tears any minute.
Thus far, Dulce is sticking to the tacit script. We spin on. Yipessa speaks to Japanese imperialists.
Slutskia and Dulce now in their panties—kissing, groping, fondling. Yipessa speaks Latin, steals my gum.
I am an early warning volcano telegram.
With another spin of the bottle Yipessa will be extraneous. I tell her there’s an English lesson downstairs, room 86.
Panties off, inevitability unfolds. I sit back and wait my turn. My same and mistress play Lewis and Clark for awhile, explore the unknown.
Vesuvius warning signs posted.
They alternate pleasing each other, themselves, me. I steal glances and back arcs—careful to keep at least one eye on Slutskia. Waiting for Father Time to catch up with me.
Those in the Mount St. Helens region are told it’s
too late.
Squaring up with Dulce’s eyes and my namesake, I move in. Careful not to disrupt an already set rhythm, the flow of nature, or melt anyone just yet. Steady. Picking up the pace now and again, I yield when fishhook is reached—wanting to keep all the troops involved.
An artificial pacemaker.
Staring at my name, I thrust Slutskia—make love to Dulce. They are a one-headed rendezvous. I tell myself I love Dulce. Did I mouth it?
Another fishhook and our first impasse is reached.
The sames change position—a moment of truth. Slutskia’s soul meets mine, meets Dulce’s head.
As I enter Candyland, Slutskia’s eyes roll. Dulces’s tongue straightens them out. Progressing, I attempt to manage the precarious balance floating in the air, keep my foot off the third rail. Alternating glances down toward the task at hand and empathetic shots at Slutskia, I am Kofi Annan. I shall move Dulce in with us, make this my daily chore.
We carry on.
Reaching the finish line, I break into a sprint. Alarms are sounded. Tropical storms. Tornado alerts.
Mount St. Cracula blown.
What will be the repercussions? Have I buried myself?
I disengage, leave my two Juliets to their own devices.
Admiring my work, I blast another line, six. My ego about to explode. Small talk strictly avoided, we continue. Nothing stops progress. Drinking. Ripping. Blasting. Eyeing. Approaching my favorite mistake.
It must be pointed out, Slutskia and I are no virgins in the land of third party sames. Within that land is kosher and non-kosher dining. I have thus far adhered to a strict diet.
Properly loaded, Slutskia and Dulce lie on the bed and please themselves, stare at each other—to my left, to my right. Having so far respected the laws of the land, I’ve now two choices. Why does it feel like I’m at a Greek diner? I know the correct selection, the ménage a trois PC choice.
Fortunately, I’m surfing the yip.
I rise. Skeed up, gacked. Throw Dulce’s legs over my shoulders.
This could go sour. Beginning work on Dulce, Slutskia’s face turns south. Masturbates. Stroking along, I’ve yet to walk off the cliff, publicly renounce the queen or burn the flag. Making eye contact with Dulce, I go there.
Grabbing her face, I lean in, administer a meaningful kiss. Goddamn it
Convicted, I take a seat.
(crackberry ring)
‘Fireman, what’s up?’
‘You’ll never believe the same I met tonight.’
Yeah?
‘This new Brazilian. What lips, ass, perfect little breasts. I was at my place and she walks in, the whole club stopped and she just stared right at me. I know she wants me.’
Did you talk?
‘Well it was hard, she was with her mom. She can’t be a day over 14, but really mature. You know when you can just tell?’
Not really.
‘The body of a sixteen year-old. The way she shook her ass! Oh my god. She couldn’t take her eyes off me. I know she wants me bad. That other Brazilian was there too, you know the one from Miami? She was staring at the fourteen year-old staring at me, which made her want me even more…’ Sound travels 700 mph, mach 1. Light travels 670 million mph, mach 900,000 (from Charles de Gaulle to LAX in 1/20 of a second). Cell phones exist in a speed-of-light world, which means I’m being subjected to The Fireman’s masturbation before the sames on either side of him! Oh the suffering ‘…on top of that, there was a new one, an older one. Maybe eighteen. She came right up to me and told me she wants me. And there was a whole table of Brazilians sitting across from us, and guess what? They stared at me all night! That made the entire club want me. I’m heading home now with a couple Brazilians. I would invite you over, but they want me too bad. What are you up to?’
‘I got this Slutskia/Dulce thing doing.’
‘Yeah? Where? I’m coming over.’
Goodbye.
(crackberry ring)
‘Aeronymous, what’s up?’
‘Chillin son, just leaving Lame Lame. What’re you doin?’
‘Curing cancer.’
‘Word. You wannna hit Desperanto’s, grab a coffee?’
‘I’m good.’
‘These two slammin sames are gonna meet me there son.’
Sure.
‘And they’re down son. They wanna get slammed son.’
‘I’ll call you back.’
Crackberry again, It’s Noddy.
‘What up Noddy?’
Silence.
‘Yo Noddy, what’s up?’
Silence.
‘Noddy?’
Silence. His phone drops.
Slave calls. Ignore.
Treimee, no doubt with Slave, sends a text.
I’m soooo drunk call us
Peace.
Tambourine calls. Ignore. She follows with a text.
Cracula, I’m sure you dialed me by accident, but Dim and I r trying 2 sleep. This is not a very thpiritual hour to have ur phone ring. If you’d like 2 speak at a more appropriate hour, I’m here 4 u in ur time of need. Thpiritually urs Tambourine
Oh lord. I hold back vomit, laughter. Why couldn’t Feather send a text? Satan? God? Fuck it, let’s order turkey clubs and Corona.
Slutskia and Dulce continue to occupy themselves. I’m spent, over it. Roaming. Should I hit Noddy’s? Slam some D? Could Lousifer get?
Lous what up?
Lark sends a text.
Hello love
R u in the mood to get naughty?
Feeling naughtied out, I tell him I’ll call later. Lousifer responds.
What’s good son?
Chillin U?
I rack up two more lines, make myself a fresh vodka. Could these two get a fucking room? The Fireman sends three more texts.
WHERE ARE YOU!
?
Call me
Lark
Zippity doo da zippity day
Lousifer
Getting twisto u?
Even Flow’s still up.
Where u at?
I hit Lousifer back.
Got any D?
Dumping out more gack, Dulce and Slutskia come up for air. They are in the middle of what appears to be a conversation. Imagining the depths and revelations…
Lousifer hits me back.
No but I can get
Word.
Meet me at my place in 1 hr?
Lousifer
No doubt
The two charlatans quit talking, resume.
Ducking sharpshooters, helicopters, heat-seeking missiles, poisonous clowns, midget ninjas, tarantulas—I get dressed. Scooping up most of the yack, I tell the lovers I’ll be right back.
My next obstacle is escaping the well-lit Hudson for the cover of an Island night. Stepping into the blinding hall I’m visually assaulted by two security guards, no doubt investigating the racket coming from room 609. Did they recognize my face? Had I been photographed at the desk?
I do a 180 and head toward the stairwell. They keep a healthy distance, too healthy. Must be police. I feel them slowing the pace, pushing something. Making the mistake of turning around, I see they have acquired a food cart to throw me off.
Sure they have shotguns under the white tablecloth, I begin a full sprint to the stairs—too late for stealth maneuvers.
Reaching the stairwell, I turn around and see them knocking on room 609.
‘Room service.’
Remembering I ordered turkey clubs and Corona, I try and calm myself. Nevertheless, I take the stairs, end up in the storage room, come up the service elevator to street level and hail a cab.
‘109 Spring please.’
The cabbie plays talk radio. Paranoia grows. Dumping on my freckle, I down another blast. The Fireman sends a text.
Call me, I met some more Brazilians…they want me!
Aeronymous
Son, should I wait for you at desperantos? The sames r down
Slutskia
Baybee wer u go
/>
Lousifer
Where u at son?
Flying down Seventh Avenue we bust a left on Spring, pass Rim’s pizza, Dying A, Fusion, Doom, Gac Cosmetics, and stop opposite Evolution—109 Spring. I give the cabbie a rolled up ten.
‘What up Lous?’
‘What up son? You good?’
We climb the stairs and enter 3N, power back on.
‘How was your night?’
‘All good son. Made some money, fucked some dude up.’
Word. Word.
Of all the tangled webs I’ve weaved, Lousifer and I have managed to avoid each other’s. We sit spider to spider. In many ways, he is the only real man I know. Speaks his mind, does what he says, has no ulterior motives. I dump out the coke, he rolls up a 100.
Blast. Off.
‘I hit up Lame Lame with Aeronymous, same shit, same sames. You?’
‘Just hung out with Slutskia, saw Dulce for a minute.’
‘Word?’
Yeah.
‘So what’s up with Dulce now that Slutskia’s back? You gonna peace that out?’
Actually, I’m gonna move her in. Have two sames, go Mormon. ‘Yeah, guess I have to.’
‘Word. Yo I wanted to talk to you about something, and be straight with me. No matter what, be straight up with me nigga. Cool?’
Sure.
‘If you’re done with that, I wanna take her out.’
Come again?
‘But yo, only if you’re cool with it son. If not, then I won’t even go there. You’re my boy, I’m coming to you before I even think about it. If you mind, let me know.’
Did I mind?
Did the queen of England mind handing over the crown jewels? Would surfers give up the moon? Would any of my friends do this for me?
‘Nah, I don’t mind.’
What was I going to do? Say no?
Goddamn it!
At least he came to me, asked. Is there any other Islander that would have? The gods of timing must be pissing themselves.
‘You sure?’
‘Yeah I’m sure. You got that H?’
Lousifer hands me a vile of smack. Relocating to the couch, I dump the entirety over my freckle. Kill it.
Holding the empty vile in my left hand, I notice the warning label for the first time.
If you have been: up for days, consuming gallons of alcohol, sniffing miles of coke, or all of the above; IT IS NOT RECCOMENDED THAT YOU INHALE THIS ENTIRE VILE OF HEROIN.
The Island got quiet. The voices shut off.
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