Night Train

by Thom Jones

  Well, I had to pass through this war zone before I got to my neighborhood. It was early fall and I took a little shortcut through some abandoned projects. Anyhow, I’m going along wondering where in the fuck is my Higher Power? Why is life so goddamned hard? Why was I born? You dig? Why wasn’t I consulted? I’m having thoughts of this nature when I see a light on in a window. There’s no electricity but when I get near there I look inside and see a guy sitting at the table reading the Big Blue Book by a gas lantern. He was a skinny guy in a grungy singlet. Just kicked off a pair of greasy boots. Holes in his socks. Like me, just off work. I see they got a big kerosene heater in there. A woman who looked like she just woke up was cooking over a propane stove. She was frying eggs, Spam, and potatoes. I saw a jar of Tabasco sauce on the table. Lightweight fare but it caught my interest. I just stood there on the sidewalk and watched. The guy lit an Old Gold and closed the Blue Book. His arms were covered in tattoos and I could see track marks over his veins. The woman, who was stabbing at the eggs with a spatula, didn’t look like a user to me. She could have been, I don’t know. The man got up and poured himself a cup of coffee. He had a fresh heart-shaped tattoo on his left deltoid that read BOBBY AND LAURA, ETERNAL LOVE. As Laura (?) was dishing out the food, Bobby got up, scratching his balls. He walked over to Laura and kissed her on the back of the neck, giving her a little pat on the butt. Then he flipped on a little black-and-white TV that was hooked up to a DieHard battery. A condemned building, at least one ex-junkie, and both of them were carrying some hard miles but you could also tell they loved each other. What an unlikely but well-ordered love nest they had fabricated! When I passed the building in the light of day their apartment showed no signs of life whatever. There was a padlock on the door. I wondered if I had dreamed it all. Crossing through those projects was like taking a trip through Chernobyl after the meltdown. It was the site of utter desolation, but the next night at two in the morning I saw the light again and looked in on another compelling domestic scene. Bobby had got his boots off again, and sat at the table eating his Spam and eggs. For the first time I noticed a little red-and-white-checkered oilcloth on the table. A single candle burned in an empty Chianti bottle. Bob had his left hand on the Big Book and was reading an uplifting passage to his eternal love, Laura, who sat right at his side smoking a cigarette. He looked up from the book and said something in addendum that made her laugh. Then she reached over and patted his forearm. There I was, the loneliest guy on the planet, just standing there watching them. I realized that I was pulling for them so hard that my heart was near to bursting. And just like that I found myself sobbing. I haven’t cried since I was eight years old. I guess I was feeling sorry for myself because I wanted what they had and also I was feeling sorry for every miserable creature in the world, thinking that if they might be laughing now, riding high or whatever, it will all turn to shit in the end. I appealed to the God of Rock and Roll but I got no hour-long shit session this time. I got no consolation. I got zip. I looked up in the sky, railing at heaven, “Jimbo! Morrison! Hey, man, check it out. We are all working the program down here. They got the Big Book out. How about a little help for your boy, Louis?” Nothing. I made a choking sound and Bobby got up and looked out the window. I quickly made off. Why couldn’t I find a woman who loved me like that? Why did it always go so bad? I know I’m half nuts but you would think there would be someone out there. It had been five years since I found Judith standing in the rain waiting for the bus. But for all of it, I only knew Judith those first few moments when I offered her my umbrella. Now at Vito’s I found myself desperate to reconnect with her. I’m all jacked up feeling impossible notions roiling up from deep down inside me and I can’t turn them off. I can’t shut them down. Cannot exercise a reasonable amount of disaster containment. Talk about your volcano from hell! What kind of low-self-esteem asshole pulls the sort of shit I do? How can I see myself truly one moment in a light-year and then “through a glass darkly” forever after? One bright flash of insight and then a century of blackness. Why does nothing float up from the depths other than bad? Why can’t we reach the Truth as the crow flyeth? Why must I traverse the underworld roaming in such a wilderness of pain, Jimbo, how about a little help?

  The Gang of Four came out to greet me and Judith. “Long time, no see. How very good to have you back. What a delight! Whatever you want is on the house, Mr. Marzuki.” After all, Louis Marzuki was pretty much legend, come to think of it.

  Suddenly all my bad thoughts vanished. It was as if I had been invited back into the brotherhood of mankind. They were just some Chinese waiters but it didn’t matter, I espied visions of glory. Wow! Snap your fingers. It can happen that fast. Sir Edmund Marzuki. I slipped into the men’s room and coated my throat with a little olive oil I purloined from Vito’s. When the waiter brought our food, not only the Gang of Four but a good many patrons hovered nearby to see me patiently savor the palate-blistering goodness of the No. 5 Szechuan Chicken.

  “Heut enough, Mr. Marzuki?” the manager inquired.

  “Fair,” I said, pulling a bottle of Mongolian Fire Oil from my jacket. I shook a copious quantity on a spring roll and devoured it in two bites.

  Hard-as-nails Judith thought some sort of fakery was going on and asked for a sample bite. She barely got it down before she dropped her chopsticks and violently cocked her head to the side as her fingers reached up for her neck. I heard something pop like she broke her collarbone or cervical spine. She seemed frozen in this posture, looking like a woman dangling from the gallows in a hanging gone awry. “Wah!” she goes, like Jackie Gleason in some skit from The Honeymooners. Another volcano from hell! Ah ha ha ha!

  “Louie, you ain’t taking your lithium,” she says in a gasp. And then she’s out in a Szechuan stupor.

  Before we carried her out to the car I saw a glimmer of recognition in her eyes that acknowledged, yes, I was a Marzuki through and through and that the entree was, in fact, the No. 5 Szechuan. It was an unguarded look of real affection and I’m delighted to report that Judith has subsequently made a complete recovery. Also, I might add, to this day I have not heard a single cross word from this woman. It’s been a day shy of a week and nary a peep. In the medical world that’s pretty much considered a complete and total cure. Tra la. Heh heh. I got the world on a string. Seven times is a charm.

  A Merry Little Christmas

  from: tj34

  to: CC14

  date sent: December 23, 1998

  subject: Re: Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas!

  Feliz Navidad and just what in the fuck are you trying to pull here? Christ! Calling me at my house?!!! Drunk on your ass?!!! Two in the morning?!!! Right after the bars close?!!! What were you thinking? What can I do after someone pulls a number like that except change the phone number and sever all contact? Crazy-ass bitch. Goddamn it, I don’t care how fucking drunk you get, that’s something you just do not do ever no matter what happens. Never! Ever! It’s not permissible. I was fucking ready to fucking kill you. Now I have to memorize two new phone numbers, and for this old dog new tricks come hard. So tell me, are you proud of yourself? Did you actually think you could win me back with a caper like that? Stupid fucking psycho bitch. If I was lovesick no matter how bad, I would never do what you did. There are rules. I’m not going to wreck your marriage, suck marriage though it may be. This is absolutely my last contact with you. This is absolute and unequivocal. I’m closing your ignominious file today; it’s over!

  You must realize that after that drunken-ass screaming insane bullshit phone call waking up everyone in the fucking house, I can never trust you again—you crossed the line. I do like you and think of you fondly—it’s just over. Anyhow, the whole affair was bullshit. I was really going after your pal, Lisa, the psychiatrist. She was the one I was chasing and you kind of interjected yourself. I really hate it, the way you did that and then got all fucking clingy dependent. How was I going to come on to Lisa after that?

  Your whole insecure jealo
usy thing is virtual paranoia. You should take Thorazine or something. I’m serious. So long, pretty baby—and Feliz Navidad. Have a holly jolly Christmas,

  As always, I remain your sweet potato,

  Xxxxs

  Maximilian Schell

  P.S. Please delete this email message immediately.

  to: CC14

  re: Lisa Knows About Your Tawdry Unnatural Desires

  date sent: December 26, 1998

  I can’t believe you told Lisa I was hot for her. Shit! Why did she break up with that asshole? Don’t tell me. What else did she tell you? I want to savor every detail. I’m in Oxford, MS. Staying in Faulkner’s well-preserved house. Wm. never was much of a screenwriter and I don’t know a soul who’s read his books. Overrated, doncha think?

  Love,

  Uncle Ho

  to: CC14

  re: Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas!

  date sent: December 31, 1998

  Look, perhaps I did go too far, but you have to stop making these crazy threats. And calling up Lisa was not a good move. True, I did kiss her, but it was just one of those one-time things. Maybe you should tell her how you called me up at 2 A.M.: “Motherfucker! I hate you, you fucking cocksucker! I don’t care if I wake up the whole fucking house—I hate you. You ruined my life!” Tell Lisa that. Tell how you stormed and raged like a fucking maniac. You don’t think people in bed next to someone can’t hear screaming over a telephone? Jesus! Talk about uncalled for.

  Nonetheless I’m slightly sorry. I do have a measure of empathy and compassion. But you knew what I was when you got into it with me. You were forewarned. Now you say you’re dicking Seth Holmes, that cornball anesthesiologist? You better watch out. You’ll get caught and Bob will slap divorce papers on your ass before you can pull your panties back on. Really. You’re a fucking amateur, babe. You don’t want a divorce, believe me. So cool your jets. Okay? And don’t try to track me down again through the studio. My agent informed them never to disclose my whereabouts. Chill! You’ll be fine,

  Sonny Barger

  to: CC14

  re: Oh Yeah! Well, You Can Kiss My Ass!

  date sent: January 26, 1999

  Hey, babe, calm the fuck down. I didn’t say you were insane per se. It’s just a figure of speech. Screwing a new guy? You’re playing with fire. Didn’t I tell you to watch your ass? Of course Bob suspects something. You changed your look. You are never home. That “on call” bullshit only goes so far. You are violating your pattern and you don’t know how obvious it is even to the unthinking dullards of the world. You wanna know something else? The way they really can tell you’re fucking somebody? Sex is different, that’s how. You can keep the same schedule and so on but it’s different. That’s the giveaway beyond. But it’s not conclusive eleventh-hour Perry Mason courtroom testimony. Bob doesn’t want to believe it. It’s your job to allay his fears. Whatever you do, admit to nothing. Deny it! He isn’t going to go anywhere. He’s just blowing off steam. It will pass. Just play it cool, okay?

  Yours,

  Dr. Zarkov

  to: CC14

  re: Ace, Man, You Are One Stupid Asshole!

  date sent: January 29, 1999

  Look, if the little Bobcat interrogates you, gets a little rowdy, and smashes some furniture, a few priceless antiques—it only means that he loves you. Whatever you do, don’t confess and don’t knuckle under. I know you’re guilty, feel like Hester Prynne and all of that, but don’t let it show. For Christ’s sake. Just tell him to go fuck himself. He hasn’t got aerial photography. It’s all paranoid conjecture. The green-eyed monster has got Bobby-boy in its clutches, but cool out. He’s a dependent personality. He won’t leave you. Guaranteed. You can take that one to the bank.

  Hang in,

  Xxxxs

  Ace

  to: CC14

  re: He Did It! He Packed the Samsonite and Blew Town!

  date sent: February 2, 1999

  Hey, babe, so sue me, I was wrong. But he’ll be back. Three days max. And this is your story: You were having a late snack with a colleague after a long shift. That’s all it was. Perfectly innocent. Give Bob shit for following you. What kind of crap is that, anyhow? Who is this new guy, anyhow? You said he was a resident. How old is he? Is he hot?

  Zarkov

  to: CC14

  re: One-Night Stand

  date sent: February 4, 1999

  A one-night stand. Right! Well, I told you that you would get caught if you weren’t careful—but here’s the good news: You weren’t really caught! How many times do I have to tell you this? It’s like talking to a brick wall. You deny everything. All you were seen doing is having a snack. You weren’t holding hands in the restaurant, were you? No. You’re just sitting there with stars in your eyes. Well, that’s not getting caught, baby. Is this new one a surgeon? How tall is he?

  James Douglas Morrison

  to: CC14

  re: Jealous

  date sent: February 7, 1999

  No, I am not jealous, and if that’s what is motivating this bullshit hanky-panky, you can forget it! What does Lisa think? Are you giving her the blow-by-blow? What kind of shit-for-brains shrink is she, anyhow? Use that high-priced intellect of yours. Be logical.

  Meanwhile, I’ve been getting back into my novel these last few weeks. Novel? Sonnets? Corporate advertisements?—all of these things are preferable to scriptwriting.

  Ming of Mongo

  to: CC14

  re re re: Happy Valentine’s Day!

  date sent: February 14, 1999

  Baby, this is ridiculous. I couldn’t read all your emails. You just hit me with the whole Library of Congress! I didn’t write back not because you are pathetic but because each time I write back, you fucking flip.

  Yours truly,

  Captain Torch

  P.S. Do not scan photos and send them to me. It’s obvious that your new look is an attempt to transform yourself into a second Lisa. You’re not her. You looked fine the old way. This new look is pathetic. I mean (LOL)—it’s not you. Dig? Assemble your senses and quit pulling crap.

  to: CC14

  re: Malicious Slander

  date sent: February 16, 1999

  In no way, shape, or form do you appear in the book, I swear! And Lisa neither. Jesus, baby! How crass do you think I am?

  Xxxs

  A.

  to: CC14

  re: Touching Reunion

  date sent: February 17, 1999

  I told you Bob would come back and I also told you you would despise him if he did. But look at it like this—you were totally freaked when he walked—a fucking basket case. I don’t know how you can be so cool in the ER and such a hysteric in real life. You should take a lesson from Benjamin Franklin and eradicate jealousy from your list of emotions. If you can do that, great deeds await you, babe. As for this resident you’re dicking—it’s simple infatuation and it will pass. The only way for two people to live happily ever after is for them to get killed in a car crash on their third date. I mean, name the happy couples you know—you can probably count them on one hand. Falling in love is extremely hazardous. Just don’t expect anything from people and enjoy them while it lasts. As for Bob—fuck Bob. He’s a loser. Divorce him.

  Hey, last night I fucked a blond lawyer. Harvard grad. Patrician. Not bad for a greaseball, huh?

  Yrs,

  Da Fonz

  to: CC14

  re: Nice Reviews, Tiger

  date sent: February 22, 1999

  Yeah: Time, Newsweek, People, USA Today, Boston Globe—all raves. Nielsens are good. Another Emmy? Well, don’t be surprised, I won’t be. Anyhow, thank you, my dear. One irksome development: Did you see the LA Times review? The script got trashed. Reviewers? Some asshole who wants to be a scriptwriter and can’t hack it, pissed off at the whole world. Well, fuck him! I just might go look up the cocksucker and inject a little terror in his life. Or hire some thugs to do it for me.

  Yrs,

  Wild Bill


  to: CC14

  re: Now What Do I Do?

  date sent: February 28, 1999

  Jesus, not another one! Well, don’t let the resident know. You have to keep your victims isolated. Remember: You are the center of the universe and they are mere satellites. Isolate him. Magnetic Seth and the fresh resident must never meet. And yes, it is a wicked web, but you’re an energetic little spider. Go out there and repair that web on a daily basis. Keep the victims isolated and keep that net in good repair. Fun, isn’t it? I’m proud of you. Just watch out for space debris—comets, meteor dust, and the rusting hulks of Citroën Deux Chevaux.