“I’m not sure,” I replied.
“Your flat is nice.”
“Thanks.”
“You must do very well.”
“I do okay.”
“I have no particular interest in working,” she said.
“You don’t want to be one of those housewives with kids?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. They’re under the impression that the suburbs go on forever.”
“They’re high.”
“No actually, that’s the problem.” She took a hit and passed the pipe to me.
“Mmmh.” I lit it and inhaled. Exhaled. The heat burned my throat—and numbed it.
“Cannabis is magickal,” she said. I could hear the “k” in it.
“Yeah? It’s just brain chemistry.”
“Do you think? I take it you don’t believe in magick then.”
“I said no to religion in favor of … I dunno … logic?”
“Eh, no. While’s true that Western religions contradict science, right, that’s just competition. For how people think. They are of the same category. Religion’s actually a perverse attempt to apply reason to a chaotic world—attempt—an attempt to quantify mystery through laws and rules. Would you like to see magick?” Her vaguely European accent—so hot. She gestures through the formless smoke. “Vanishing trick. Ready?”
“Uhm. Sure, whatever, twinkie.”
“The present moment. It’s gone. Where’d it go?”
“Very funny.”
“Mock all you want. Even nothingness is alive. Have you read any quantum physics?”
“Of course. I went to Harvard, didn’t I?”
“Quantum particles zip in and out of existence constantly. That’s magick if I’ve ever heard it. Unfortunately, particles don’t have morality, so that doesn’t give me hope for love. Unfortunately.”
“Love?” I became impatient. “Hell no. Nature isn’t moral. Don’t talk to me about nature. I grew up hearing all about the bullshit greatness of nature. And spirits. The only spirits I saw around that place were rum and whiskey. Fuck it. Come on, they charged you to participate in the sun dance. It wasn’t a ritual, more like a flesh carnival about as a deep as a punk’s penis piercing.”
“At least it’s balanced. Nature has balance. Humans don’t fit into that anymore.”
“Whatever. Nature doesn’t give a fuck. Remember that little tsunami that hit Japan? A comet could swing by tomorrow and wipe this whole planet out, leaving not a measly remnant. No art, no life, no summer, no rocks, endangered species, organic food, hybrid vehicles, no crust, core, anything. All gone. Call it Chukwa if you want, not going to make it any more spiritual.”
“Well, lovely. But even so. You have no idea what happens outside of time. Dead. What if you … you could observe the existence of every single being from the very dawn of life to the extinction, watch every sunset, every thunderstorm, you could experience every single one.”
“Uhm. That’s a nice fantasy and so not scientifically rational. I’ve seen everything I believe in.” I took another hit from the pipe. “I never like getting high alone.”
“Why?”
“Because it reminds me of what it’s like to be old.”
“So why do you do it?”
“Because I want to be reminded of what it’s like to be old.”
“No wonder you’re so bloody depressed.” She came over by my side and touched my hand.
“I’m sick of talking.”
I walked down the narrow alley toward where my chance encounter with mister homeless guy had taken place. Two dumpsters on the left, hulking metal things, gave off bad energy, extrusions of cruelty. I came to the end where another alley crossed, and a car pulled past me into a parking space.
The sun fell. Shadows remained behind, burned into the brick like nuclear wraiths haunting the walls. What was hidden on the other side? The petty lives of all these people.
There he was, crouched against a building. I went over to him, ready to run if need be.
“You gave me something yesterday,” I said. “What was it?” He didn’t reply. I repeated myself.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“You gave me something. Do you recognize me?”
“It’s all one day, man.”
“Why are you here?”
“I’m a jagoff, man. So I fucked up. I’m a jagoff. Everyone makes mistakes. I’m a jagoff.”
“Do you have any more of that stuff?”
He got up, rocking side to side, and rushed down the alley, limbs flailing. “I don’t have anything, man. Don’t hurt me. It’s all poison, man. I don’t need a job. It’s poison.”
“I’m not going to hurt you,” I called after him. But I let him go.
I was gripped by fear and remorse at what had happened. And I wanted it to happen again. I had to do it again. I had to get out of there.
“Images fall like snowflakes.”
I spun around but saw no one. I stood in the alley listening. Silence. No, not silence. A humming sound that I had been hearing all along unfolded into my awareness like the revelation of a camouflaged chameleon. The sound was coming from a wall of identical air conditioner units projecting from the windows of an apartment complex, all humming the same sound. Why were air conditioners running in December? I felt dizzy and sat down against the wall. Closed my eyes. Opened them, and I was looking at my face in the bathroom mirror again.
I decided that I had been looking at myself so I continued to do so. Was this what I looked like? Was this really me? My face was a clump of parts that seemed to disagree. My cheekbones protruded more than usual; my eyes, noticeably sunken, startled me. Vivid blue—too much irritation—framed by red, forked lighting. I blinked. Dark stubble dressed my square jaw. I rubbed my chin across three, four, ten times. It felt like an irritated asshole. My nose, finished straight per my surgeon, now seemed to accuse me: I had stolen something from it. Thick straight black hair—inheritance from good ol’ Dad—longer than I’m used to, covering half my ears. Looked like I was going native. I looked off. I looked scary. The bitches wouldn’t be so hot for this look. Too much. I peered into my eyes and couldn’t figure out who was looking back. I rubbed my nose from side to side, and it made a clicking sound. Felt out of joint. My forehead was—
scuttling movement to my right, on the sink—a spider?
I checked all around the pedestal. Nothing. Shook my head. Whoa. Deep breath. Just my peripheral vision acting up. Likely remnants of that … drug. Did that actually happen? I couldn’t see how. I checked my pocket: my finger jabbed stickiness. Still some left. Hadn’t known that. I pulled it out. It was different somehow. A black mass. A little flattened. I pressed it back into a lozenge shape. It seemed big, as big as the original piece he had given me. Hadn’t I eaten half? It was squished, hard to tell. I returned it to my pocket and tossed back a couple Vicodin from the medicine cabinet.
I woke up in my new suit jacket. It seemed to be holding me together so I left it on.
“You don’t look like yourself tonight. You look like ass.”
When I last saw her … when was that? “Oh, thanks. Just what I wanna hear.” I laughed, but it sounded hollow.
“You sound scared.”
“Scared? Of what? That’s ridiculous. Tired, maybe. You know. Work. It’s a constant struggle. Sure, it has rewards, but I work my ass off. I tell you what, I succeed at whatever I put my mind to. But sometimes I feel like … I sabotage myself. I know this. I’m my own worst enemy. You know? I make myself miserable … when I should just appreciate what I have. You ever feel like … sometimes I hold on to my cell or a fork or anything, could be anything, and I feel like I’m not holding it. Or I’m completely oblivious to actually holding it. Or you catch yourself looking at someone, and you know you’re not seeing them? Maybe I’m seeing myself seeing them. Or I fuck someone and don’t feel like I’m fucking at all. I’m sure you can relate. No matter how hard I hold on or focus or fuck, it always slips away.”<
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“Bollocks,” Sasha sneered. “Page two of your existentialist drama should relate a kick in the teeth. Babylon knocking at your door. All those pretty uniforms. You’ll know what tired is when you find yourself on the wrong list. I saw les flicks with clubs wade into a Pride Parade in Jamaica. You’re just like Cobain—a self-indulgent tosser who couldn’t focus outside his small mind for a change.”
“Hey, Hamlet had that problem, too.”
“Another bloody loser. Fuck Hamlet. Just another man who wanted to hear himself talk.”
“So I guess you blame the penis.”
“Uggh. Men are dicks with legs. Genetic defects. The Y chromosome is a crippled X.”
“Well, we’re agreed. Pussies are much nicer.”
“Entrance and exit. Intriguing and inviting and mysterious and hidden—that’s erotic. The deferral of pleasure. While penises are water balloons aimed at me, about to pop. Outness is all they are, surface, sameness. Penises are all there.”
“Now I understand you.”
“No actually, that’s the problem. You think you understand everything. Men are—you could say—juggernaut. Living in the land of conquest. They erase history books and print money on the pages. Drag most women by the hair with them. Women—so gullible to fall for the male lies. Brainwashed into believing it. What we need is, you see … we just need all the women one day to all just refuse to do it, to refuse to have babies. No sex. All of a sudden—you men would have to give up. Surrender. Dismantle the war machine. Capitalism. The whole fucking system. They’d have to give it up. Of course, men can fall back on rape … to break us. Rape camps. Which is why every woman needs to have a gun. If every woman had a gun, they’d have to kill us to win, which would defeat them. Catch that 22.”
“Oh, please. It’s just as likely men would stop having sex as women. Women probably need to reproduce more than men. And consume the same rewards. It’s primal. You can’t beat that. And what about gay men?”
“Sure, step in the right direction. But the percentages. Too many breeders. Freud had a lot to say about primal urges. The superego exists to overcome the id. That’s how society survives. Otherwise we’d live like pack animals in the wild or whatever. He called it the Reality Principle. Unfortunately, he got it wrong. It’s an unreality principle. We’re working hard to destroy our species, and it’s all perfectly logical, based on the logic of capitalism. The need to survive as individuals, as cogs in a system which is destroying itself.”
“I’m sick of talking. Let’s fuck.”
She paused. “Did you just—is that how you want this to go?”
“What, I just figured …”
“I have no problem at this point. I can turn you into a machine like that. Fuck if I care. You disappoint me.”
“I’m just kidding.”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, I’m sorry. I won’t bring it up again.”
“Yeah, that’s fine.”
I followed her to the door; she took her parka off the hook.
“Right, right.”
She was gone.
A truck drove by—it said, MURDER ONE FAMILY MEMBER. That can’t be right; I looked back. NUMBER ONE FAMILY MOVER.
The fumes were making me nauseous. I can’t go to work today. Wait, what day is today? Sasha. Something was not quite right about that conversation, but what was it? That was not right. A guy looked at me, drool down his greasy chin, watery eyeballs, no one else around, I’ll ask him, he’s trying to talk to me at the same time.
“Excuse me, what time is it?”
Gun-colored khakis, where’d he come from? “What the hell are you saying, dude? Can’t understand what you’re babbling, get your hand the fuck off my arm.”
Where did I put my keys?
I felt untethered, dislodged.
Vertigo hit. “Hi, I’m—” She turned her back on me.
Wetness on my chin. I yawned with terror. I was unsure … I saw movement … I tasted starch … a line before me … don’t get too close … don’t cross the line
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The uniform walked toward me. He could smell my shit-stink heart. I casually put my hands into my pockets and felt the lozenge. Brought it to my face, hiding it behind my hand. Uniform approached … too close. I would go home. The uniform walked past me. Stopped. Stood. Turned.
“Hey! You.”
I stuck the black goo in my mouth and swallowed. I turned and looked at his collar. It was dark blue, and the points dog-eared in opposite directions.
“Everything okay? You got a problem?”
Yessir. Nosir.
I looked up at his face and all I could see: two round mirrors. I saw two of me split and morphed like a funhouse reflection. My nose was exceptionally large. My face was projected forward, nostrils gouged out. My hair rose up in clumps looming like vultures. Back, far back, were tiny ears. I clutched at my stubbly chin, which was receding off my face into oblivion. My shadowy cave mouth had a glistening silver chain dangling across it, sealing it.
His tufted knuckles were in front of my eyes, blocking my reflection. He flicked his fingers twice, and I heard a clicking sound.
“What? Listen, buddy, your jacket—that’s a nice jacket, it’s all ripped up here.” He fingered my shoulder and went through to the bone.
“Whoa, you smell real bad there, buddy. Whudaya doing on the platform?”
I’m going to work.
“I can’t hear you. Maybe you should just head home and clean off a bit.”
I’m sick. I’m going to the doctor.
“You’re sick? That what you said? Can I see some I.D.?”
I tried to get my wallet out of my pocket, but there was nothing there.
“Here. I’ll give you a hand.” He checked my pockets, patted me down. Pulled out an object, held it up in front of me.
“What’s this? Some toy? This doesn’t work as I.D., pal. Howerya gonna see a doctor without I.D.?”
I’m sick. Going to Northwestern … Hospital. I’m a VP … they’ve got my healthnsurance.
“Hmmh.” His box squawked, and he lifted it to his mouth. “Ten four. Awright there, bud. I go
tta go. Here’s your train now. You gonna make it? You better get off on the right stop. Exit Chicago. You got it?”
I’ll be ok.
Mind the gap.
The silver serpent pulled up, and the uniform was gone. I slipped between its scales and sat in its throat. Clatter clatter clank. The harsh glare vanished as we slouched roughly into the intestines of Chicago. Dark and swaying, jittering from side to side. Sparks and squeals. I couldn’t get comfortable. It was bony inside on the seat. I kept readjusting—frustrated and irritated bone to bone. A feather tickled my cheek. Chills. I turned and looked back, a circle of light receding. I closed my eyes. I opened my eyes; it was dark. I closed my eyes. Feet shuffled around me, followed by material crumpling and crinkling. It was pitch black. I closed my eyes. Up from my gorge a sensation of fright thrashing side to side hurling between my knees on my pants the burning rushing milk searing my throat, sticking in my teeth. I opened my eyes. I noticed his black boat shoes and a lugubrious black dog with matted hair resting its chin on his shoe. Dog in a harness. Old man with a stick. He sat facing me, frozen, eyes hidden behind big black square sunglasses, his stick thin and long. A thick, salt-and-pepper beard and mustache. He pulled back his lips in a smile or grimace or both, and gold glinted in his mouth.
“Yo, brother. You okay? Not looking so good, all twitchy ’n shit.”
I turned to my left. Was a dark man with a knit winter cap tight on his head.
“You’re pale as a ghost, brother.” He looked at me. His face was clean and round. “You look like you need to chill. You’ve got sick all over you. I will not preach to you, but I highly suggest you need to get off whatever shit you’re on, whatever it is. I’m not judging you. I used to be on the shit too, man. But I got off. Selling Streetwise now, gonna move out of the shelter. Soon. Yeah, in the meantime, I’m working the tunnel. Never see the light of day. Stand around with my Streetwise. I don’t solicit. But I gotta be careful. Can’t trust anyone. Underground cops. I get AFBB, you know? Arrested For Being Black. That joke’s only funny because it’s true. All you can do is keep your head down, keep moving. None of it makes sense. Just roll with it, right? Keep an eye out for your brother. I’m getting my feet back under me, man. Shit, you’re still young. Anyway, it’s none of my fucking business, I know.
A Greater Monster Page 3