The Cleanup

by John Skipp; Craig Spector

  His thoughts, stunned and chagrined, were still for a moment.

  When the picture of Mona came back, he was in it, and Dave was gone.

  And when he opened his eyes, Billy saw himself reflected in the windowpane: Grampa Moses, with the 50,000-year-old beard. It occurred to him, for what seemed like the first time, that he hadn't really seen his face since 1974, and that most of the people he was close to now had never even seen it at all.

  "Mona," he said, very softly, to himself. "I'm gonna get you back, baby. If it's a new man you need, I will become that man. For you."

  The next phase was clear.

  And the cleanup was only beginning.

  FOURTEEN

  LOVE AND WAR

  They had just finished hearing about how girls just want to have fun when Mona started hooting from the living room. Paula glanced up from her storyboards with customary contempt. Lisa smiled, recognizing the reason for the hooting at once.

  "Come on," she said to Paula, who sat beside her on the bed. "I want you to see this."

  Paula Levin reluctantly rose from the mattress. She looked like she'd been carved out of cinder blocks by a pissed-off Nazi neorealist: chunky figure, ashen complexion. Her broadest smile was a tiny curl at one end of two profoundly-tightened lips. She was not smiling now.

  The two of them moved into the living room, where Mona sat cross-legged in the middle of the floor. MTV was firing through Manhattan Cable and into the Sylvania, which then pumped it into the room. Dave Hart and the Brakes were providing the sound.

  And Mona was dancing across the screen.

  "That's you," Paula said. Mona nodded, grinning, eyes glued to the tube. On the screen, her long black hair had been teased into an ebony storm cloud that whooshed and billowed around her face. Her metallic-blue eyelids were flown at half-mast, partially veiling the dark eyes that fired hunger at the camera lens. She wore a black satin gown that clung desperately to her curves, yet flew liquidly up her thighs at the coaxing of a hand.

  Lisa, as always, gaped while she watched Mona dance. There was something so exquisitely sensual about it, a fairytale perfection that the eye could scarcely believe. In motion, Mona was magic, and Lisa was constantly under her spell.

  Paula, on the other hand, was less than enchanted. She was virtually glowering now. It was almost enough to wipe the smile from Lisa's face. But not quite.

  Mona disappeared from the screen, and Dave replaced her. Lisa had to admit that he looked gorgeous, too, in a rock star kind of way. The band was behind him, and he copped an el serioso stance as he began to sing:

  "Given all the time you'd need,

  Could you offer more than you'd receive?"

  Cut to a living room scene, where a grittier Dave sat on a threadbare couch with a blonde who was cute, but rather plain by comparison to Mona. The blue light of a TV screen flickered on their faces as, off-screen, Dave's singing voice continued:

  "Given all that you'd require,

  Could you find that object of desire?"

  And Mona was there, on the TV within the TV, provocatively bopping to the sound. The camera focused on her wickedly-smiling lips, her moist tongue's seductive flicking.

  Paula grunted and stomped her foot. It was not meant to be in time with the music.

  "What?" Lisa said, glancing sharply over at Paula, who was puffing herself up like the Goodyear Blimp of wrath.

  "This is repulsive," Paula asserted, then turned somewhat contemptuously toward Mona and said, "How does it feel to be an 'object of desire'?"

  "Slightly better than being the object of contempt," Mona countered. She was smiling.

  "You don't think the men who produced this video hold you in contempt?"

  "No. I think they respect me enough to employ me . . ."

  "As a slut."

  ". . . as an actress who's portraying an object of desire," Mona threw back steamily. "And I think you've got a wise fucking mouth."

  Lisa winced. This had turned ugly with remarkable speed. She tried to think of some way to get Paula out of there, but it was too late. The battle was engaged. Her attention retreated to MTV, where Dave was singing:

  "You want something for nothing

  With nothing that's taken away."

  On the screen Dave was kneeling in front of his TV in a gesture of supplication. The blonde came into the picture with a fresh beer for him. He kissed her perfunctorily, took the beer, and continued to stare at the tube.

  "Do you have any idea what this song is about?" Mona was saying. She was mad, but she was also enjoying herself. Lisa tried to wipe the smile of her face and failed. The encounter was fascinating. She watched.

  "Of course!" Paula began.

  "I doubt it," Mona cut in. She took a deep breath and continued. "It's about this guy who's got a perfectly wonderful girlfriend, but . . ."

  "He treats her like chattel—"

  ". . . he's got fantasies about the perfect woman who will be forever young and forever beautiful, and who will fuck his brains out day and night."

  "And you're her!" Paula crowed triumphantly. "You're the woman who will put herself out there and feed their twisted fantasies!"

  "I assume you don't have fantasies."

  "They don't involve the subjugation of women."

  "No, they involve the subjugation of men. I guess that's a whole lot better."

  "Men are pigs. And when you play into their hands like that, you become the swill on which they feed. You degrade all women with your behavior."

  "And you," Mona said, "are a belligerent cunt. That's a more positive role model, I assume."

  For a long, crackling second, it looked like Mona was going to get hit. The thought made Lisa very nervous. Mona was tough and agile and strong, but she depended on her looks for her livelihood. A black eye would not do.

  The doorbell rang. "I'll get it," Lisa said, grateful for the interruption. Don't kill each other while I'm gone, she was tempted to say, but the words wouldn't come. She blasted toward the door, thinking about the nature of the conflict, wondering who she disagreed with more.

  Bottom line: she didn't like men much more than Paula did. She'd learned a healthy distrust for most of them as early as junior high, when the hooting and the hitting-on grew in tandem with her breasts. And then, years later, the rape had confirmed it. Men were pigs, by and large: even the best of them would toss you down and prong you, given half a chance. They automatically assumed superiority, the right of possession. They didn't seem to understand that women were people, too.

  But what Paula didn't understand was that Mona wasn't doing it for the men. She was doing it for herself. She was using what she had to make her way in the world. Despite a billion ugly experiences of her own, Mona was still turned on by men; and she wasn't above sleeping with them if she thought it might get her where she wanted to go. She used them as much as they used her. It was parity. And if she could handle it, more power to her.

  Because Mona was as much of a feminist as anyone. She believed in equal opportunity and equal pay. She believed that women should be allowed to develop into full human beings, not squeezed into an empty-headed and exclusively nurturing role. She held those truths to be self-evident, and took them in the same stride that she took her beauty. The only time they came up was when confronted by a power-tripping Neanderthal male, at which point she fought as hard as Paula or anybody.

  So, yeah, Paula was a bit of a jerk sometimes (but only on days that ended with the letter Y). On the other hand, she was a film director of unquestionable power and daring. Between Our Thighs was a blistering attack on male supremacy, and had probably caused more screaming matches than any other film in the history of feminist cinema. Lisa was honored to be editing the next Paula Levin film. It was worth the occasional grating unpleasantness.

  So long as they don't kill each other, she silently concluded. Then the doorbell rang again, and she pushed the buzzer that unlocked the downstairs doors. She held it, the nasal BRAZZZZZZ droning in h
er ears, until the inner door closed and the footsteps started up the stairs. Then she let go of the buzzer, opened the apartment door, and looked to see who was coming.

  The guy was short and thin, with a Mick Jagger haircut and the kind of multilayered, vaguely Road Warrioresque clothing that had become all the rage. There was something vaguely familiar about his handsome, clean-cut face, but she couldn't put her finger on it.

  "Hello?" she said, skrinching up her own face scrutinously.

  Then he smiled, and the shock of recognition hit with such sudden, swift intensity that she staggered for a moment, breathless. A huge smile of her own bloomed over her face, and she started to call his name.

  "Shhhhh," he hissed, bringing one finger to his lips and winking.

  The video was almost over, but it didn't really matter, anymore. She'd seen it before, and she'd see it again; whereas a good fight with Paula Levin didn't happen every day.

  "See, that's just the point," she was saying. "I'm not against pornography. I don't think the evidence backs you up. I mean, rape was going on in the days of Attila the Hun! You think that the hordes were all sitting around reading Hustler magazine? Come on!"

  Paula sneered. "That's such an infantile argument. Pornography doesn't make men vile. Men are already vile. Pornography just encourages them, and gives them the means to control and dehumanize women."

  "It dehumanizes men, too! Can't you see that? Christ, you talk as if men were completely happy with the way things are, when most of 'em are actually pretty miserable—at least as miserable as the women they're supposed to be oppressing. "

  "And here's living proof," called a male voice from Lisa's bedroom. Oh, Jesus. Billy, Mona thought, all the wind going out of her sails. She felt suddenly queasy, and her eyes were riveted on the curtain as she waited for the moment of truth.

  But the guy who came into the room wasn't Billy. He was the same size and shape, but his hair was stylish and his face was clean-shaven and his clothes weren't filthy or ragged or—

  "Omigod." All one word, barely audible above the music. "Omigod." She just stared. She couldn't stop.

  Billy did a little wiggling sashay, threw up his hands, and froze. "TA-DAH!!!" he announced, beaming obscenely.

  "Mona, I've got someone I'd like you to meet," Lisa said, coming up beside Billy. She was smiling, too. It was threatening to be contagious.

  Fortunately, Paula was not. It was nice to have a sobering influence in the room. For one brief flickering moment, Mona almost liked Paula. Then it went away, and she returned her gaze to Billy.

  "Wuh," she said. It was the only thing she could think of.

  "A new primitive form of greeting," Billy muttered to Lisa, who nodded sagely.

  "Wuh . . . what happened?" Mona elaborated.

  "I mugged a student at the Fashion Institute and stole his clothes."

  "And his hair," Lisa added.

  "Yeah, it's terrible. There's this naked, hairless kid lying unconscious in the stairwell—"

  "That's not funny," Paula interjected.

  "Oh, yes it is," Billy begged to differ. "You should see him."

  "Billy!" Mona was exasperated now. The shock was mellowing into a more rational utter confusion. "I don't understand. I—" She gave up, stood there shaking her head with a pained and pleading expression.

  "Well, to tell you the truth, ma'am," he drawled, "I heard you might be auditioning for a new boyfriend, and I wanted to try out for the part." He gave her a frank, disarming grin, and shrugged. "That's basically it."

  "He slipped me a ten-spot," Lisa said, addressing Paula, "in hope that we could go work at the Commons for a while."

  "Ve vant to be alone," Billy purred. Then he cast a questioning glance at Mona and squeaked the word, "Okay?"

  Mona didn't know what to do. The weird thing was, there was no anger in her. It had all taken a nap or something, gone off for a week at Club Med. The only things left were awe and a giddy excitement.

  Billy looked great: that was the marvelous, terrifying thing. It was hard to believe that it was actually him. He looked easily ten years younger, and he was absolutely radiant with confidence.

  There was no way she could say no to him, although she couldn't say yes either. She couldn't speak. Her head gave a little teensy nod, eyes baby-doll wide.

  "Terrific," Billy said, then turned to face Paula. "And who are you?" he asked, extending his hand. "I don't believe we've met."

  "Paula Levin," she said, taking his hand and squeezing it to the threshold of pain. Billy squeezed back with equal strength, grinning hugely.

  "Oh, you're kidding!" he enthused. "I sat through Between Our Thighs twice! It was a fantastic movie!"

  Paula looked skeptical. "Why are you saying this?" she finally asked.

  "Cause it's true! I really enjoyed the movie. I dragged as many male friends as I could to see it. You should have seen their faces. They were furious."

  "And you?" Paula wanted to know. "Were you furious, too?"

  "Absolutely. But I loved it. There's something about getting kicked in the nuts for an hour and a half—it really makes you think about where you stand."

  "And how," Lisa contributed.

  "But you didn't agree with it," Paula probed.

  "I agree with a lot of it. A lot of it is over the edge, but that's okay. I'm a firm believer in overkill." Paula snorted. Billy continued. "It doesn't make for good philosophy, but it's great for entertainment."

  "You ready to go?" Lisa asked Paula, who was starting to seethe.

  "Where?"

  "The Chelsea Commons. It's this great little bar on the corner. Good food and drink, terrific atmosphere, peaceful enough to work in. You'll love it," Lisa winked and gestured.

  Paula turned—reluctantly, it seemed—and followed Lisa out of the room. Lisa waved bye. Paula didn't.

  "Maybe we'll come down later and argue some more!" Billy called after them. Mona laughed despite herself. He turned to her and mimicked a Paula-glower. It looked like a shaved and none-too-bright gorilla.

  "Now you stop that!' Mona cried. The laughter was painful. He couldn't resist one last slack-jawed grimace. 'You're incorrigible," she added.

  "Yep, that's me," he said.

  The apartment door slammed shut. They heard footsteps descending the stairs. The laughter vanished in a puff of thin air. Mona was overwhelmingly aware of the fact that she was alone with Billy, something that she'd told herself would never happen again. But this—this was Billy and not Billy. It was very hard to deal with. She was very much off-balance.

  Billy sensed his advantage, and it almost annoyed her. The only thing was that he had earned his confidence; if she hadn't broken up with him, if things hadn't gotten so crazy already, her immediate and total reaction would have been one of pride and joy. It was the suddenness of it, the both terribly-bad and terribly-apt timing of it, that left her floundering in the violent sea of her own emotions.

  "Can you talk with me now?" he asked her. The clown was gone. The man she loved was back.

  For the first time in ages, she mused. Goddam it. "Okay. I'll give it a whirl."

  "Thank you." He smiled, cautious now, and motioned to the floor beside her. "May I sit down?"

  "Sure."

  He sat. He did not touch her.

  "Let me start," he said.

  She nodded.

  "I'm gonna try and make this quick, so we can go back and forth for a while. Damn, it's hard." He sighed and wiped a little genuine sweat from his forehead. Then he nailed her with his eyes.

  "You see, it's like this. I was sinking. You were watching me sink. You tried to help. You couldn't. You were rising while I was sinking, and we couldn't reach each other's hands."

  Tears were starting to form in Mona's eyes. She wished them away. It didn't work. She turned, for a moment, to look at the TV Something For Nothing was just about to end. She was dancing away from Dave and going out the door as the little letters flashed that said: Dave Hart and the Brakes, "Something
For Nothing," SOMETHING FOR NOTHING, Griffin Records. The moment was so poignant, so absurdly appropriate, that she let the tears stream down her face without lifting a finger to stop them.

  "Oh, baby," Billy said. He reached out to wipe the wet trails from her cheeks. She flinched for a second, but didn't stop him. His fingers came up wet. He brought them to his lips and licked them clean,

  "Turn the TV off," Mona sighed.

  "Good idea." Billy reached over with his newly clean fingers and twiddled the knob. The screen went blank. Silence draped itself over the room like a cool satin sheet.

  "The man you loved wasn't sinking," he said. "The man you loved had his shit together. He wasn't a star, but he wasn't a failure. He still had his pride. He was striving for something . . ."

  "The man I loved was you," she gasped. The tears were really pouring now. It wasn't so bad. It was a pain she could appreciate.

  "Yeah, well, I'm back," he said. "And I'm not going down for the count again. I swear to God, Mona."

  "I love it when you say my name."

  "Mona . . . Mona." He smiled. She smiled. He took her hair in his hands. It felt incredible. He massaged the sides of her head. She almost died.

  "Billy Rowe," she said.

  "I want to be your man. I want to be a man. I'll do anything in the fucking world to keep you. Do you believe me?"

  "I want to."

  "That's good enough for me."

  He was starting to cry now, too. She leaned forward suddenly and licked the tears from his face. He licked her back. The conversation ceased.

  The floor was uncarpeted. For now, it didn't matter. There was no way on Earth that Mona would break the action for any reason. They settled back down into a prone position, he slightly on top. They kissed, almost frantically.

  Billy pulled away for a second and then started again, gently this time. There was the wonderful experience of time standing absolutely still. His hands were on her face. Her hands were on his back. Slowly, she brought one of her hands around and dragged it lightly down his chest, his belly, to the final resting place at his crotch.