by Steve Finbow
The Observed
…look at the man, said,
“This isn’t my mother.”
He looked at a clipboard as if taking roll call, taking inventory, smiled with his tight mouth not his beady eyes, said,
“I can assure you, miss, that it is.”
“Has my father seen her? It?”
“Yes, he was here yesterday when your mother arrived.”
“That,” I said pointing at the body in the dark wood casket resting on the glowing fabric, “is not my mother. My mother has…” And then I realized I couldn’t remember. I remembered what she did, not who she was. I remembered her actions not her features. Her verbs not her nouns. No adjectives, no adverbs. Definitely no possessives. All parentheses. My father kept no photographs of her, no videos. Like the generals and politicians disappeared from Soviet history, whitewashed, Photoshopped out of all documents. Just like Clementis ever absent from Gottwald’s side, Gottwald, wearing Clementis’s fur hat, now all alone on a balcony overlooking Old Town Square, Prague 1948. Did she have blonde hair, or brown, or red, or black? Did she have any beauty spots or scars? What color were her eyes? The last time I’d seen her, I was ten, two men dressed all in white carrying her through the house on a stretcher. And I’d shouted at them to stop, thinking they were angels taking her to heaven. Not that I believe in heaven. Or hell. X believes hell is a slow accumulation of regret. X would quote Wilde, “One’s real life is often the life that one does not lead.” In that case, if that were true, heaven should be an accretion of satisfaction, of pleasure, joy, and bliss. Not so. “Who falls from all he knows of bliss, Cares little into what abyss.” My father stepped out from under the stairs, hurried them up, rushed me back into my room. My room of pink and black, of INXS and Jane’s Addiction, of preppy shoes and draws stuffed with satin thongs. He tried to explain. But how could he? Tried to stop me crying. The last time I remember doing so. He spent a week traveling between wherever my mother was and home. Between sanity and madness—whichever way around. After that time, something snapped inside me, damming the tears, holding back the memories until, after a succession of gifts and weekends away with my father and his girlfriends, I stopped thinking about my mother. Just like that. Just. Like. That. Coldness was always within me, a diamond wrapped in furs, but this is when and where it started to grow, to become colder, the many facets smoothing over into one smooth orb of indifference, a frozen core, my frigid reactor. Siberia instead of California.
Now here she was. Or wasn’t. I stared into the casket. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Skin made up to look tanned. Frown lines—markings on a badly drawn map. Small spider webs of wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and mouth. A tarantula hiding within. I just couldn’t remember. Could not. Sucked on my tongue, looked at my nails, blood and glitter.
“Thank you,” I said to the man and stepped out of the office, the building, into the street where I sat on the curb waiting for Raoul to return. Cleaners and police prowl cars my only company.
After twenty minutes, I saw the dark green Range Rover slowly turn into the street. I sat and waited for it to stop. Opened the door, got in, holding my skirt down, pressing it against my sweating thighs. Saw Raoul steal a glance. Sat knock-kneed all the way home. From that day on, Raoul was mine. A glimmer of lace, a flash of thigh, a hint of nipple. I think it’s called fetishization. Raoul had a fetish for my panties, my legs, my breasts to be; he partialized me but would never have me whole. No one would have me whole.
In the four years before I left home, I never let him touch me, not so much as a kiss. I’d wait until he was in the hallway, my father ready to pay him, and I’d climb the stairs in a mini denim skirt, a thong beneath—different days different colors of the rainbow, or I’d sunbathe by the pool while Raoul weeded and planted, my blooming and budding body glistening with oils, bikini bottoms hiked up, bikini tops hiked down. It was around that time that I first caught a glimpse of the tail, heard its slap and rattle, smelled the thing, saw the vertebral imprints on the window, in the Zen garden, on the billboards on our journeys out of town… Lillianne left about a year after my mother’s funeral, telling my father she was leaving Raoul, leaving the city, the state, the country, returning to wherever it was she was from south of the Rio Grande. That place of mystery and emptiness, of death and dereliction, of tortillas, of peyote madness. When my father had asked why, she had told him that Raoul had started drinking, abusing her, refusing to sleep in the same bed, spending his free time locked in a back room, and she had found a collection of thongs all the colors of the rainbow that certainly weren’t hers, and a silver bikini stained with suntan lotion. My father kept Raoul on out of pity and laziness. Not suspecting. In that time, Raoul killed two men for me. Let me watch. Let me savor.
I love men. I hate them. It’s not my father’s fault. I don’t blame my mother. Men excite me and then they bore me in rapid succession. Learning the tricks, Raoul lasted longer than most. I imagine him now, arthritis from all those masturbation marathons—imagining me on my knees sucking his aching cock; imagining me on my knees, my ass impaled on his bulging prick, the wafts of suntan lotion mixed with my shit, my blood; me on my knees straddling his face while he licks and flicks my pulsating clit, me gripping him hard and harder.
I stand in front of the full-length mirror applying makeup to my busted face. My jaw, swollen and bruised, a slice of eggplant. The brassknuckles a surprising touch. Cute. I layer on the concealer, feeling the slow pain beneath my fingers. I pick up my dress from the floor, snatch up my black satin thong and throw it on the bed, wondering if X has gone forever this time. I stare in the mirror, trace the smooth circular scar on my upper left arm, a full moon in a pink sky in the morning, or the beginning of a gum bubble, a palimpsest of skin over his name. X said that was it. That was the last time. That he couldn’t sleep because of the bodies piled up in his memory. Couldn’t close his eyes without seeing smashed skulls, forked eyes, swollen and bloodied knees. I gave him The Gourd’s golf bag in which to conceal the body parts, take it out of the condo, dispose of it somewhere. And X had. And I’d thought he’d gone. Then a knock on my door. I opened it and X hit me before I could say anything. Hit me again on my way down. Said,
“It’s over. Don’t follow me. And if you stick The Gourd on me, I’ll kill him, mail you his cock.”
I smiled through the pain, said, “You will never be able to leave me. Go away. You will never be able to stop. Don’t. Come back.”
“Watch me,” he said.
And through clenched teeth, I said, “I will.”
I no longer needed him. I did and I didn’t. Just kept coming back for more. Just kept coming back for less. I’d picked him out at a fundraiser. Cruel eyes burning into me. Nervous, but with desire not fear. Still, watching, following. Pressed that piece of paper into his hands—the secret combination. The thing was, the thing is, I came kind of addicted to his willingness, to his stories of how and where but never why, to the flecks of blood on his shirts—constellations of fear.
We revolved around each other, a binary system, like Charon and Pluto, orbiting a central mass made up of violence and desire. We revolve around each other.
At the time, bored, I needed to get rid of the man I was with, not just for the night, for all time. My Jewboy husband—short on schlong, long in the hardening, clumsy in the saddle, agile in the market—the ultimate goal, but I thought X might need a little practice, a few easy targets, get rid of a couple of hangers on. I’d had my fun, had my money, had my chances. But some don’t take the hint. It had taken a year but my husband had signed half of it over, the cash, the house, the cars, the paintings. I let him watch while others fucked me, him not knowing I was auditioning for potential murderers, men I could blackmail. But the new one, I didn’t much need to hustle. I gave and then I dangled. Showed and then stashed. I’d grown up a little since Raoul. I like it hard, abrasive, abusive if it’s the real thing. The first one I asked him to off was that lame duck of a politician—rundo
wn, crushed and stuck—just like our relationship. The second, an ex-lover who couldn’t take “fuck off and die” for an answer. I keep the remains of his toes in a jar, use them as oracle bones to tell my future—or his—eenie, meenie, minie, moe, I know where he’s going to go.
A small motel on the way to LA, then on to that bar for a drink. I pick up the phone, call the private detective I’ve hired to find him. To follow. Dial The Gourd’s number, say,
“It’s me. I’m in Barstow. Don’t ask. He’s left again, heading south. I’m going to the roadhouse. There’s a bar in Rancho Cucamonga, it’s called…
Slaughterhouse Revisited
…The Slaughterhouse, on road to City of Angels—devil of a place—badly need a drink. Flopped out in small motel once stayed in with Z. Magic Fingers, cable porn, club sandwich & a couple Olde English 800 40s Stolen won’t start. Jimmy window of motor behind, smash ignition tumbler, yank out some stuff, take out knife, strip ends of two wires most likely. Off, a spastic ice skater sliding all over the place until get used to car’s rock & roll. Nice. Start enjoying the ride. Am there. Already. Park car down side road—might come in handy. Look in rear-view mirror &, with tattooed fingers, comb back long dark locks. Scar above right eye twitches, run thumb along it until it is raw & shiny. Straighten inverted-cross necklace, undo button on white linen shirt. Out of car & striding towards The Slaughterhouse. Need a beer. Wondering if she’s sent anyone. Staring in mirror at her busted face while speed dialing prick of an ugly private eye she’s screwing.
The Slaughterhouse—windowless pit on sun-raked street. Some joker’s stolen the S from sign so it reads The laughterhouse. Smile. Push open door. Some guys in this place are depleted uranium—hard & dense. It’s early, it’s not even eleven, bar crowded. Men lining bar—petrified forest of frazzled drinkers. No one stirs. Point at Stella tap & behind barman to bottle of Pappy Van Winkle. Sit down at table, take paperback from back pocket of jeans—Sunset Debris… Barman—one-eyed, one-legged, one-armed, once-upon-a-time & not-very-successful bank robber, brings over drinks. Nods. Nod back. Words as useful & as rare as hummingbirds in this place. Drink beer down in one, follow it with mouthful of bourbon. Barman’s straight back with refill. Settled. Take look around.
Man stands by gangway, tattoos stretched tight over biceps showing a horse sodomizing Alice, another of an American pit-bull Cerberus with three heads & three cocks. Guy’s knocking back slammers. Could be him. Could be Z guessed. In booth to right, two guys before a checkers board; on it, twenty-four glasses, twelve filled with silver tequila & twelve with gold. Several non-entities & prospects crowd middle of bar—muggers, rapists, thieves. No doubt. Staring ahead, yet apparently in conversation, at end of bar, owners of this joint—two faggots with more muscles than Donegal Bay, self-styled daddies of sleaze, godfathers of the gratuitous.
Busting for piss, spatchcock book on table, dangle & drop huge lugie into beer, watch it float to bottom, fluorescent octopus, knock back bourbon, cross sticky floor to Gents. Last time this place saw a mop & bucket, Noah was cross-fertilizing sheep. Mirrors caked with extracted hardened snot. Aroma more brutal than Brut, more No. 2 than No. 5. Slip on dark yellow liquid. Unbutton. Urinal full of cigarette & cigar butts, swirl them around in tobacco soup. Hear door open. Shake, fold, button. Turn. Shadow falls across face, instinctively raise arm in protection. Fuck! Blow catches muscle not bone in right forearm. Brachiordialis! Gonna bruise. Gonna hurt. Whoever did it is trying to do it again. See rush of denim & corduroy, mop of ginger hair, mouth open, black-toothed where there are teeth, globs of green & purple where there aren’t, warts size of walnuts. The Gourd.
Slipping about on piss-stained floor, pull out knife & aim for rushing centre as thing he’s wielding bears down. Baseball bat? Iron bar? Hoover attachment? Dodge sideways, pull knife across, slice horizontally, hear his Van Halen T-shirt rip, feel heavy folds of flesh tear, muscles fissure. Rectus abdominis. His swing loses energy & weapon—crowbar—clangs to floor. Down holding guts that won’t be held, spilling over floor, colors of drab rainbow. Flip him over. Spit in face. Dying. Unzip his jeans—The Gourd goes commando—pull out his cock & balls. Raspy is The Gourd. Hands do a little flap as if shaking off water or singing “Mammy”—from here the sun doesn’t shine best. Pull his cock up so root is visible, cut halfway through, twist & twist, tug & tug, & it comes off—blood all over the place—throw it across toilet floor, it rolls into a corner. Cockroaches & giant silverfish stream out of nowhere, cover the thing. Watch as The Gourd’s eyes roll back into his forehead. Idea. Cut off his hairy balls. Wrinkled skin attaching them to body, thin, smells of toe-jam. Hold them gently, cradling newborn kittens (ugly fuckers others would have drowned at birth). Sit on The Gourd’s chest &, using knife, thumb & forefinger, pluck out his eyes, slip them into pocket—later mail these to Z instead of his cock. Push the testicles into The Gourd’s empty black sockets, arrange them wall-eyed. Stand up, stand back, admire handiwork. Nice. Roll The Gourd into shitter, prop him against toilet bowl, close door behind. Thirsty work.
Walk through bar, drink beer, pocket paperback. One of the owners says,
“Come back soon.”
“Oh, yes,” I say, “Yes.”
Close door to The Slaughterhouse just as “Pinhead” by The Ramones starts up on jukebox.
Dog pissing up right back wheel of motor, staring off into distance as if looking for a friend. Thing about dogs. Hate dogs. Still holding knife & while it’s primarily designed for stabbing & cutting, wonder what it’s like for throwing. Dog’s nearly finished. Don’t want to damage paintwork, so wait until he shakes & moves off. Thwump! Catch it behind right ear, blade goes in all of its six inches. Dog drops. Instant. Dead. Walk over. Blade through skull, brain, sits embedded in dog’s mouth, shiny prosthetic tongue. Dog’s eyes bulge, fur matted, fleas dance around muzzle. Fucking hate dogs.
Idea. Bugger trying to get knife out. Have to put pressure on dog’s skull with foot to extract blade. Skull a little squashed with weight but eventually get knife out & wipe it on dog’s coat. Pick up corpse, place it on backseat of car. Nice present for someone—Z & her pooches.
Something about The Gourd’s eyes. About dog’s lips. About the sea & all the things unknown there. Watch as a black tail zigzags over the hood, disappears at speed into the sky.
Dog’s death-farting. Juice up motor, open all windows. Look in mirror. Splash or dark red urine on rear window. Take a CD from bag, slip it in, flip through tracks, flick through memories…
Simulation Station
…and find “our song”—“Use Somebody” by Kings of Leon, put it on, play the opening chords, turn it off. I don’t need music to jog my memory. Memory—maybe I haven’t been completely honest with you. With myself. With others. I wanted to fuck X from the minute I saw him. I would have done it right there and then. In the toilets. In a broom closet. Under the goddamn buffet table. But I held back. Wanting him to want me. To imagine it before it happened. Simulate it in his mind, in his fantasies, project an unreal me, more perfect, less real. Three days… The time between Christ’s death and resurrection, the time he preached to the fallen angels—I heard his voice. The phone rang and I knew it was X. Listened to that voice. Knew that I’d give myself to him that night. Take his life from him. As he knew it. Give never to get back. Take never to ask. We met in a bar and had a few drinks—sweet cider for me, beer and a bourbon chaser for X. After five minutes, he said,
“I really want to kiss you.”
And I said, “That wouldn’t be a very good idea.” And I took his hand, led him out of the bar to my car, to a motel, saying nothing all the while, wouldn’t let him kiss me, let him fuck me, let him fuck me hard, let him fuck me again and again—sucked him until he cried for me to stop. Kissed him on the cheek, said,
“I have to go now.”
Saw him roll in the soiled sheets—an albino alligator death rolling in a shroud. Didn’t call. Made him wait. Gave him scraps. Gave him hope. Three days later. Agai
n. Gave him head. Gave him less. Each time. Each time he wanted more. Each time, I pulled him in, played him out. “Time,” I told him, “I don’t have time or space in my life.” He looked at me lost, what could he do, how could he make time, make space. “Take away a life,” I explained. “Kill a man.” He looked up at me from the sodden bed with the eyes of Raoul, with the eyes of all the men I’d fucked—in all the ways I’d fucked them. Problem was there was a flicker in those eyes, the glowing end of a fuse, something different from the others, more intelligent, darker, and the fuse burned straight back to his heart igniting a love I hadn’t seen before, a love that I thought had died in me the day I didn’t recognize my mother.
11:45am and the phone is ringing off the hook. Drinking pomegranate juice through a straw, my jaw bruised, a Redondo Beach sunset. I stare into the mirror, let the squawking phone ring. My eyes are grey. Has he told you that? Sometimes silver, sometimes molten lead. I suffer from astigmatism—my left eye slightly cocked as if I’m not focusing on what’s right before me but on what’s to come. The future not the present. Whereas X is all about the past, what might have been. Memories.
The phone stops ringing and then starts again. I answer not recognizing the number.
“………”
“Yes, it is.”
“………”
“No, I don’t. Sorry.”
“………”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“………”
“I’ve driven through Rancho Cucamonga but never stopped there.”