by Lucy Ives
When they first met, during a sophomore-year honors course in feminist world literature at Oswego, they were the only males in the room. Harry kept to himself, deflated in a one-arm desk. Loudermilk pursued a lipstick lesbian, intermittently flicking things at her. Matters would have continued so, had it not been for the instructor’s decision to turn to poetry, since, as she maintained, “You aren’t doing the reading.” Poems were, the professor mused, pinching her chin, mercifully short world-literary items—though it turned out she knew breathtakingly little about them. This was where Harry came in. Or, rather, where Harry’s vastly solitary childhood did, since during one awkward pause he retrieved a line of Dickinson from memory before he knew what he was doing.
People stared.
Harry’s pitch was a little off but not out-and-out alarming. Which is to say, better than usual. Still, he promptly shut up.
After class, Loudermilk lingered. “Loudermilk,” he informed Harry with pastel gentleness, though Harry was already very much aware who Loudermilk was. “What was that stuff?”
Harry, vibrating in place, managed to shrug. Together they went outdoors. Loudermilk didn’t seem to mind doing all the talking.
This unshy individual thus handily obtained the distinction of becoming Harry’s first and only friend. It’s not entirely arbitrary. Like Harry, his pal’s a very, very only child. Loudermilk has, at this point, but one parent, and back at Oswego he talked about this impressive person a lot. Loudermilk the Elder is, as the myth goes, known to his face as Pops and, more frequently, as well as behind his back, as The Cleaner. He’s an ex-military man who made good in the late 1960s and early ’70s providing infrastructural triage in locales the United States had not explicitly invaded but, you know. As his business diversified, The Cleaner found it convenient to return to the States, where he headquartered himself first in Delaware, then in the wilds of Upstate New York. His retreat to the outskirts of Ithaca when Loudermilk Jr. had attained the age of four was precipitated by the desertion of the boy’s mother, a member of the Israeli secret service who (Loudermilk implies) had satisfied herself and her superiors as to The Cleaner’s general corruption but lack of any real influence or intel. She decamped, leaving a brief note to the effect that it would be preferable if her son might one day learn basic hand-to-hand fighting skills as well as the use and care of a semiautomatic weapon but that the role of mother was not one she was inclined to pursue. The Cleaner, realizing at once his single-parent status and his son’s previously unknown Jewishness, went into a tailspin that was only somewhat alleviated by the impulse purchase of a 150-acre ranch encompassing three lakes, a decrepit agricultural enterprise, and one small gorge. He packed his offspring up, delegated judiciously, and entered early semiretirement, a state that did not, however, prevent him from becoming alarmingly wealthy during Bill Clinton’s second term.
The Cleaner of the 1990s and early ’00s, having transitioned from coups to disasters, served as handmaiden to the federal government where hurricanes made land, oil tankers foundered, parking garages exploded, and, in a moment of superlative patriotic assistance, airplanes entered office buildings. The Cleaner believed in vague neoliberal tenets, which is to say that he believed that he was immune to every ideology, save that of the general goodness of goodness, a pure identity rather than a suspect value, and had seen fit to begin his son’s education at a local Montessori school (unlicensed but self-professing allegiance to the movement) where he thought that Loudermilk the Younger would gain an atheistic affection for the phenomenal world unsullied by history or the more exploitative aspects of contemporary capitalism. The Cleaner was not exactly wrong on either count, though Loudermilk the Younger seems to have been more his mother’s son than The Cleaner was initially willing to allow. While Loudermilk the Elder occupied himself with maintenance of a growing sideline in bird-dog breeding, Loudermilk the Younger made friends with the sons of members of the local militia and roamed the countryside, fully convinced of the unalienable rights afforded him by his American birth.
After the tree-planting ceremony that indicated the conclusion of local schooling, Loudermilk the Younger consented to continue his education at the nearest state school, more to escape his father’s constant juice cleanses, plus the string of Ukrainian mail-order fiancées, all of whom were returned unwed, than because he sought deeper knowledge. Loudermilk the Younger was no fool, but he didn’t really care to be book smart. The world was his preferred teacher, action his rhetoric and surrogate mother. And though Loudermilk the Younger was outstandingly, one might say willfully, ignorant of the ways in which money functioned, he had always had plenty of it, even as The Cleaner was perpetually offering more.
Loudermilk the Younger, at last free of unwanted parental context and thus simply “Loudermilk,” and known to Harry via sophomoric Weltliteratur, was lucky, liberated, and on some sort of mission to amaze the world. His unsinkable poise and insatiable appetite for indelible deeds (strolling across campus at high noon wearing only a blue sock; running a competitive campaign for student-body president on a golden retriever, edibles, and Lara Croft–based platform, aka, “GRELC NOW!”; insisting on being allowed to rush several sororities, one of which offered him membership) fascinated and enraged just about everyone. Harry preferred to hover. He was at the center of things but invisible due to his friend’s outsized shine. Fast-forward through eighteen months of sustained Bildung and by senior year Harry and Loudermilk were inseparable, which, of a crisp October morning, was when Loudermilk remarked, apropos of what seemed like nothing, that this was it, the last straw, that he absolutely could not and would not do it anymore, that The Cleaner had really crossed a line this time and now it was time to tee up for some hardball.
Harry wasn’t exactly sure what this or, for that matter, it meant, given the mixing of sports metaphors, but inferred that The Cleaner had probably offered to pay for the rest of Loudermilk’s life as a graduation gift. Loudermilk, who hadn’t worked a day of his twenty-one-year existence and whose grades were only saved from complete and utter turpitude by the pronounced mediocrity of the school, fell into a deep depression the reality of which he attested to by locking himself into a room and refusing sex or recreational drugs for approximately 2.5 days. His fast concluded, Loudermilk reemerged. He was accosted on his way to debauch himself by Greg, the floater and creative writing major they’d picked up in exchange for a penthouse suite. Greg was lyrically inclined and as per usual was requesting an audience for his latest poem.
Loudermilk bowed politely. He must have been in an altered state, an odd mood brought on by his prolonged detoxifying time away from customary pursuits, because he actually lay down on the common-room floor. He shut his eyes. “Honor us, Greg,” he said.
“All right, you guys.” Greg stood in a doorway. He shrugged off his yellow hoodie. His hair had recently been re-dyed black and his narrow face held misty eyes over which bluish lids fluttered. “I’m going to read you a poem.”
Harry loitered in his own doorway. He gazed down at the prostrate Loudermilk.
Greg took a step. “OK.” He brought a paper to his nose. “The name of my poem is”—he stared up into the ceiling tiles—“‘One Mind.’” This safely accomplished, Greg coughed. “The first word is crossed out, so I can’t read it to you.”
Loudermilk raised his head. “Who crossed it out?”
“I did.” Greg blinked. “I am the author.”
“Is it totally crossed out? Can you not tell us what it is?”
“If you want to know what the word is, I’ll have to give you a copy of the poem.”
“Can you email it to me?”
Harry stepped a little way into the common room and made like he was going to kick Loudermilk in the head.
Loudermilk seized Harry’s ankle, hobbling him momentarily. “He’s emailing it to me,” Loudermilk hissed.
And so it began.
Greg started bringing home a case of Natural Light on the weekly and told Harry an
d Loudermilk about his advanced poetry workshop. He showed them his best poems and what he considered the best poems written by other members of his class. He loaned them his dog-eared copies of The Best American Poetry of 2001 and ’02.
Loudermilk put the copies of The Best American Poetry on Harry’s desk.
Loudermilk said, “Do you have any idea how many people are into this? Somebody could totally run this scene.”
Harry thanked Loudermilk for the note. On the evening in question, Greg had passed out on the floor of Harry’s room, so the two of them retired to a more agreeable setting.
In a take-out-container-strewn common zone, Loudermilk explained that Harry needed to listen up. He said what he was getting at was partly financial. He said there was a lot more to this whole poetry thing, that he himself had looked into some of the writing programs Greg was applying to for after college and there was significantly more lucre there than you would think in terms of fellowships and grants and waived fees and unexploited resources and what-have-you. He said that it would be stupid easy to get in and get out. He said that he had found some pretty great advocates among Oswego’s older male professors who, even if he’d never exactly done proficiently in their courses, enjoyed his stunts plus his willingness to shake hands with them after their most recent meandering lecture, and he thought that he, Loudermilk, would be able to put together some pretty unimpeachable letters of rec, especially given all he’d been through with that crazy anthro chick. There was a lot of goodwill being beamed in his general direction, Loudermilk just knew it. He said all he needed now was a few poems. He said, “I mean, honestly, dude, have you even thought about what you’re gonna to do after graduation?”
Harry did think. The prospect of living without Loudermilk terrified him. He pondered the hideous cover of 2001’s The Best American Poetry, depicting what appeared, incredibly, to be a sloe-eyed contemporary odalisque. He muttered something disingenuous to the effect that he hoped Loudermilk wasn’t saying he should apply, too.
Loudermilk cracked a fresh beer and handed it over. “That’s exactly what I am saying, dude. You and me, as me.”
Seven
Settling
They are headed up an artery named Van Veldt. Dilapidated mansions bake on brownish lawns.
Loudermilk appears happy as the proverbial clam. He keeps his eyes peeled for bunnies. He says, “This is a stellar district.”
Two very blond things in white miniskirts cross a lawn. Loudermilk accords them a tiny salute.
Loudermilk pauses mid-lope. Set back from the sidewalk some fifty feet is a bungalow. It leans slightly to the east. “Yes.” Loudermilk consults a scrap of paper. “Yes.” He turns up the front walk.
There is an overwhelming onion reek rising from thick grass. Near the bungalow’s entry is an orange plastic sled with a hole melted into its pilot’s seat, and the rotting remains of what must once have been a woodpile. Loudermilk raps on the doorframe.
Harry says something about how maybe he’ll just head back to the car.
Loudermilk mutters, “Maybe, dude.” He tugs at the door.
“Hello? Hello? Wait for me, please?”
There is someone speed-walking up the path from the street. It is a female person with a wide-brimmed summer hat, dark glasses. Sizable breasts chug along on her slight frame.
Loudermilk stops what he is doing in order to inspect the boobs.
As the person comes into their midst and apologizes for her tardiness, as she is laying her dry palm into theirs and calling herself Evelyn, it gradually emerges that she is middle-aged. Her hair is long, the color of sand. It additionally becomes clear that she loves sunflowers, that her husband is her third. On occasion she acts as slumlord.
“How about we go inside?” Evelyn, glancing at Loudermilk’s pink hat along with its interesting exhortation, indicates that she is ready to bring pleasantries to a close.
The kitchen has a bar. There is a main open area. At one time, a wall must have surrounded what appears to be a working bathroom. Only a faint rectangular outline on the floor remains. A toilet and a footed tub grace the center of the space.
“It doesn’t have a basement, I want you to know that,” says Evelyn.
“This seems like a very bona fide spot!” Loudermilk tests the flush on the toilet.
Evelyn wheels on one gardening clog. “Take it easy!” she shouts.
There is a hideous sucking sound as all the water is evacuated from the bowl. Something slithers. There is a clank, a hiss, a choked sigh. The shower comes on. The stream lands brownish.
Evelyn claps her hands. She is looking joyfully over the side of the tub. “He did fix it! That man is a genius!”
Loudermilk is wearing his 1950s corporate-circumspection face. “How’s that?”
Evelyn is brisk. “Let me just show you the other two rooms.”
Then, and it’s not exactly clear why this happens, they end up telling Evelyn that they like the place. A lot.
Loudermilk says, “But, Evelyn, we have to be on the same page about the bathroom.”
Evelyn has driven them back to her split-level. There is a plate of saltines on the table. They have Diet Coke and rum with crushed ice.
“The radical bath,” Loudermilk repeats. “The lack of a room.”
“You just tell everybody to leave!” Evelyn takes a tug on her straw and sucks her molars. She sits there like she is waiting for them to say something.
“What would you offer?” Loudermilk puts it this way.
“For rent? Oh, that’s fixed. That’s been fixed for a long time.” Evelyn wrinkles her nose.
“What would you be asking?” Loudermilk causes his face to fall open into a tender mask.
“Five hundred is only fair.”
Loudermilk is masticating a saltine, and he uses the presence of this snack in the vicinity of his epiglottis to initiate a spirited choking routine. He struggles to his feet and hacks the item up onto Evelyn’s kitchen floor.
Evelyn takes this in stride, telling Loudermilk where he can find a wet rag.
Tears stream from the corners of Loudermilk’s eyes. “We’ll give you two-fifty,” he croaks. He squats and scoops up the regurgitated cracker.
“Honey, I’m afraid that’s an insult.” Evelyn jiggles her ice.
“Fine. Three. But throw in a shower curtain.”
Evelyn chews ice. “Ha!” she says. “Done. Wash your hands. I’ll get the lease.”
When she is gone, Harry tells Loudermilk that he needs to ask about the onion smell.
“You ask about the onion smell.”
“I’m not the one who wants to live there.”
“How about, dude, I don’t know what smell you’re referring to?”
“It’s wild garlic,” Evelyn calls from the other room. She comes back. “Try digging it up sometime!” She drops the lease on the table and brings her chair closer to Harry’s. “You always do that to your face?”
Eight
Neighbors
Another night has expired. Crete is born muggily anew. It’s a dim day, a morning for murders. Harry is on the lawn outside their newly acquired crumbling Cretan abode. He was brought out of bed and shack by sounds of life across the street—expletives, howls—and now he is pretending to putter around the lawn. He and Loudermilk are receiving someone’s nationalist tabloid, The Sentinel. Harry scoops it up. Across the way are shirtless people. They throw beanbags into a hole in a box, their upper arms sleek with baby fat that has lately offered itself up for fraternity brands. It’s 10:00 a.m.
Harry’s impressed by the enthusiasm of the shirtless for beer at this hour. A person comes out of the house behind them with a BB gun. It has a bright orange muzzle and is instantly trained on everyone. “Liquor run!” the gunman bellows. He points the rifle at one person, then another, then a third. Target number 3 flinches. The barrel drops, and there is a clapping sound as its mechanism is discharged in the direction of feet in massage sandals.
“Goddamn
!” the target squeals, hopping back. He’s wearing a white visor and attempts to tug it down, in order that it serve as a makeshift face shield. “Goddamn it!” The visor wearer tumbles awkwardly as the gunman marches purposefully down the lawn and takes aim once more.
“It’s time for a liquor run,” the gunman intones.
Other beanbag participants are getting out of the way, forming a handy chorus. One of them obligingly chants, “Lick or run! Lick or run!”
“Everybody get ready,” the gunman announces.
“Nooooo,” the visor moans. “C’mon guys!” His breasts jiggle.
“Everybody get set,” the gunman continues. “You have a count of five on my signal, bitch.”
The visor gulps and moans once more, but he orients his body in the proper direction.
“Now,” quoth the gunman, “GO!”
The visor takes off, rubber soles slapping desperately against the pavement. Those on the lawn begin a count: “ONE, TWO, THREE.” Here the running boy’s hands are lowered to cradle his balls. “FOUR.” The gunman hops into the street, plants his feet, squares his shoulders: “FIVE!”
There is a popping noise, a keening yowl. The visor hobbles on. The gunman is furiously pumping his weapon. When he takes aim again Harry sees the gunman’s chest heaving, from exertion or excitement, Harry is not sure which, and the visor drops, windmilling like someone on ice.
“Got him in his thigh,” the gunman judges, lowering his weapon. He moves down the street toward the wounded boy, rifle slung carelessly over one shoulder, a hunter spent.
The crew on the lawn descends. They approach the trembling, desperately self-examining form in the road.
The gunman says, “Someone get him in the house. I’ll take my truck.” The gunman tousles the hair of the injured party, whom others bear away. The gunman crosses the street, now scratching his shoulder blades with the inverted gun barrel.