by Del Howison
I checked the counters: more than a half million visitors had gone to my site! So far, I had fifteen hundred paid subscribers—that was $150,000!—and it was sure to go up after tonight’s display. I could have quit now and suckered them, but making a profit for my incognizant Mommy—or even myself—was not the point. My meaning in life came in its disassembly.
It was now only half an hour or so before the curtain was to be drawn. I changed into my performance attire: a nice suit and a hand-painted Argentinean tie I had acquired on a trip to Buenos Aires. My fingers were uncluttered by jewelry, which would be important tonight. Running my hand through my thinning hair one last time, straightening my tie, I sat before the screen, counting down the seconds before activating the camera.
Finally, Act Two in the life of Tyler Sparrow had faded to black, and I typed, for the last time, “fade in.” My third act had begun.
By the time the webcam was switched on, there were over nine hundred thousand ravenous denizens waiting online. I hated them for their lust, their tawdry, base instincts, their witless, plotless, pointless lives, their vampiric need for my blood. But I didn’t have to like them, or even respect them. I could despise them, pander to them, and still fulfill my own destiny.
I did not speak. I did not perform. My face, hopefully expressionless, dispassionate, uninterested, stared back at me from the iMac as I took the hypodermic needle in hand, filled it with lidocaine, plunged it into the base of the little finger on my left hand, and depressed the plunger. Shooting holes all around the base of the spastic digit, I emptied the hypo and jammed my protesting finger into the bowl of ice. As I waited for the anesthetic to take full effect, I looked into the lens of the webcam, into the greedy eyes of my audience, without so much as a blink. I cleaned the cutter with alcohol and a soft cloth, and it gleamed a silver grin. My whole left hand was going numb, as dead as my heart, so it was clear the moment was near.
No words, no music. Silent drama in its purest form.
I held up my insensitive left hand, and it shook in nervous anticipation. My mouth went dry, and I couldn’t keep from repeatedly clearing the cotton from my throat. I splayed my fingers wide in front of my face and picked up the eager cutters in my right hand, which also betrayed me with nervous tremors. I swallowed, then drew the shining silver implement close and opened its rapacious maw. Perspiration besotted my brow and trickled down into my eyes, making them sting. I ignored it and drew the cutters closer. Now or never; the heat from the Foreman Grill broasted my right side.
I took a deep breath and …
Snip!
In a single cut, the shears clipped through flesh and bone, and my unappreciated left little finger plopped onto the small white satin pillow I had placed on the desk. It sat motionless in a crimson corona of my blood as the red stuff flowed mightily from the new stump at the end of my left hand.
Shock wrapped me in its shawl; there was no pain, only the dull throb of an accelerated heartbeat. Regardless, after holding it up on display for the voracious audience to prove to them that it was real, I brought it down to George’s jolly little Grill and stubbed out the bleeding with a cauterizing sizzle. I screamed reflexively and gagged on the smell of my own burning meat, gulped down a double dose of Jack Daniel’s, jammed my hand into the bowl of ice, and shut down the webcam.
* * *
I turned off the lights and sat in darkness, unable to stop the palsied shake that overtook my body. My hands shook most of all, and my heart was a rocket to the moon. Mission accomplished … its first chapter, at least. I took deep, ragged breaths, trying to bring down my pulse. Sweat broke out in a sheath over my body, cold and slippery, and I had to lie down on the couch. Still, there was no pain, though I knew it would come. Even pharmaceutically and alcoholically deadened, the thudding beat of my pulse was strong in my stump, and it felt as if it were trying to expand. So I swabbed it in antiseptic and wrapped it carefully in gauze and adhesive tape.
I lay staring at the cottage cheese ceiling, breathing deeply, not missing my useless finger, just trying to slow down my body’s panic. Calm down, fella; it’s over, it’s going to be okay, you did it, just breathe, breathe, slower, slower …
It started to work; my eyes began to regain their focus, my brain turned off the olfactory assault of my burning flesh, and my heart began to give up its sprint for a jog. One more long drink directly from Jack’s neck and I was nearing functionality again. When I was able to get to my feet, I returned to the beckoning eye of the iMac and woke it from its slumber.
Over one million six hundred thousand viewers had joined me for my little anatomical demonstration … and over two thousand of them had actually paid for the privilege! Which led to this realization: I had just been paid more to cut off my finger than I’d ever gotten for writing a script. I cogitated on that for a while, trying to put it all into perspective. That, however, proved impossible.
I had to get out of the apartment, which closed in on me, threatening to crush the life out of me. I stumbled to the carport and climbed into the Beemer, bouncing clumsily out onto the street and ultimately up Coldwater Canyon. The night atypically cool and the traffic thin. At the intersection of Coldwater and Mulholland Drive, I pulled haphazardly into the TreePeople lot and stepped out into the last expanse of nature in the center of Los Angeles. Though the park was closed, I made my way through the valley oaks and piles of dog shit until I reached an open clearing. The San Fernando Valley was laid out before me, a dying harridan choking on her final gasping breaths. The NBC Universal tower lorded over all it could see, a black obelisk of fortitude; lights twinkled and cars obliviously choked the Cahuenga Pass into Hollywood. The city lay open and exposed, an autopsy pinned wide open for me to inspect. I saw the corpse decomposing before me, and its rot was contagious. A piece of me had been removed, and the course of action to follow was laid out. I felt lightened, relieved, excused from gym class. The network piranhas had been taking bloodless bites out of me for years; my destiny was now in my own diminishing hands. The Southern California sky wrapped me in its arms and put me to sleep.
* * *
“Roger, no!”
I woke suddenly to a new dawn and a stream of hot wetness. My furry alarm was a Jack Russell terrier relieving himself all over my head, its horrified owner, two hundred fifty pounds of jogging jiggle stuffed into the finest lululemon athletic wear money could buy, screaming to wake the dead.
“No! Roger, bad dog! Get over here!”
I stood, hung over, my face dripping with Roger’s pee, and remembered where I was and what got me there.
“Oh, God, I am so sorry!” She pounded across the dirt path and chased the prankster terrier in a circle as he easily evaded her, laughing a maniacal doggie laugh. I stood, weaving, glaring through confused, bloodshot eyes as she handed me a towel from around her neck. “Roger!” She shot away in pursuit of her little urinating monster, never to return, and I wiped away its possessive piss, fully humiliated, before vomiting all over the ground.
I climbed into the Beemer and joined the sardines that choked the only artery into the Valley. Naturally there was rush hour construction on Coldwater, but again, there was no hurry to get home, was there? As it turned out, there was.
When I arrived, media trucks surrounded the Valley Vista Apartments. News crews were buzzing on Starbucks and scandal. I parked and was immediately engulfed by a ravenous cadre of cameras and slick, sexless Barbie and Ken news monkeys, each shoving their phallic microphones into my face for a multinetwork blowjob. They shouted at me, rolling tape and demanding my cooperation. I was not up for this impromptu press conference and shoved my way through them and into my apartment, locking the hollow plywood door behind me. Who had known I’d be so easily found?
This was not what I had expected.
Though I had sought the spotlight as an artist, I had grown accustomed to the relative comforts of anonymity, and resigned to being a meaningless cog in the entertainment wheel. Suddenly, the spotlight glar
ed on me, and I sought the shadows. This is what it took to get their attention? My blood? Jesus, you guys are easy!
The thin door and single-paned windows did little to muffle the roar of the needy tabloidmeisters outside, but I pulled the curtains and threw the chain bolt and retreated to the comforting glow of the iMac. It awoke with a click and showed me a list of dozens of unexpected e-mails, mostly from unfamiliar addresses, and almost none of them Viagra spam. I guess I was not so difficult to track down: my e-mail address was [email protected] after all. My answering machine blinked “full.” This lonely little hovel had suddenly overflowed with unexpected popularity. I had been elected King of the Prom! And all it took was the excision of a relatively useless digit (well, useful if you want to type A or Z or Q, but otherwise overrated).
The phone kept ringing and the knuckles rapping on my chamber door, but I blocked it all out. I disconnected the telephone, shut down the cell phone, and ignored the invaders until they at least quit knocking and shouting for me.
Muzzy-headed, with the remnants of Jack seeping out through overactive pores, I hovered over the iMac and scrolled through the messages. Most of them were from the anticipated crazies, a bunch of fundamentalist Christians spewing hateful fire and brimstone, print and website reporters looking for a quote from the Crazy Cutter, a few friends and coworkers from around the various writing tables I’d occupied over the years looking to have coffee and talk. As I had no family beyond my mother in the home, there were no outpourings of love and concern. Just more people who wanted something from me. Which is why I was where I was in the first place.
I opened my website and found a spike in the visitors. Five thousand people had now paid to see the continuing dismemberment! Tonight’s installment was an important second step. It was time to grow the audience, to bring eyeballs and open wallets to the site, to feed the chattering, nattering diners a second course to their virtual feast.
Ding!
The computer alerted me to more e-mail, and I returned to find a message on top of the new pile, with an attachment. The address caught my eye: [email protected]. Surely a kindred spirit.
I clicked it open. The attachment was a photo of a young woman, very attractive but not in the obvious Hollywood manner of TV bimbo: no blond hair, no boob job, and slightly snaggled, imperfect teeth. She had dark bobbed hair, glasses, seemingly flawless skin, and a face and body that offered hidden promises that could be missed on first appraisal. Of course, this was only a still photo, but it looked like it had been snapped privately, certainly never retouched, and had a sense of very personal outreach. Her gold eyes looked directly into the lens, as if defying me to find her irresistible.
The message was simple: I admire what you’re doing. Want to videochat? Sally.
I stared at her picture, which stared back, expressionless. There was a trace of the Mona Lisa about her. Was that hint of a smile conspiratorial, a secret bond between us, or was she mocking me? I couldn’t take ridicule right now; I was feeling very vulnerable. What was it exactly that she admired?
I looked back into her inscrutable face.
What the hell? How many attractive young women actually go to the trouble to seek me out? My life was now a deck of cards cast to the wind; there was no structure, no timeline, no appointments (at least nothing before 10:00 tonight), no anything. So I hit Reply and wrote her back:
Sure, let’s chat. Where do you live? In LA? When would you like to webcam?
Her response was immediate.
You took my breath away last night. I’m in Ojai, but I feel much closer to you. Are you by your camera now?
My heart started pounding. I reeked; I was shrouded in Jack Russell pee and Jack Daniel’s vomit.
Give me half an hour, I typed.
Ignoring the mounting streamliner of e-mails and the scarlet flash of phone messages that pulsed beseechingly, I lurched into the bathroom, and after an endless strone of relief, submerged myself under the stinging nettles of a hot shower. Revived if not refreshed, I blew myself dry and climbed into presentable attire before taking my place before the computer. Breathing deeply to slow my heartbeat, I typed in her iChat address and activated my own.
Her face filled the screen, looking directly into mine. And she was lovely.
“Tyler,” she said. “I can’t believe it’s you!”
Her voice was husky, smoky, seductive. And Jesus … she couldn’t believe it was me!
“Yeah, it’s me,” I answered. “I can’t believe it’s you.”
She smiled, and I was delivered unto her. My heart was imprisoned in her cage from that first grin.
“You’re beautiful,” she said.
“You must be looking in a mirror,” I told her. “Did you watch last night, Sally?”
“I did. You’re very brave. It was quite a performance.” She paused and bit her lower lip before she went on. “It … excited me.” It was obvious; she was breathing more heavily, and her face betrayed a sudden flush of passion. Cutting off my finger excited her? What was I getting myself into?
“I don’t know what to say to that.”
She stared right into the webcam … and my face.
“Did it excite you?” she asked.
Hmm. To be honest, I had never considered the erotic possibilities of my own dismemberment. I find no pleasure in pain, nor have I ever found rendered flesh to be any kind of sexual stimulation, even in fantasy. My arousals seem to be much more catholic than that. Suddenly I felt square and prudish, but I didn’t want to appear so to this odd young woman.
“Um,” I began wittily, “not at the time.”
She seemed disappointed, which in turn disappointed me. I didn’t want to let her down.
“Oh” was her succinct reply.
There was more pounding on the front door, but I wasn’t home.
“Are you alone?” she asked me.
“Oh, yeah.”
“Do you live by yourself?”
“I do. How about you?”
“All alone.” Another long pause, then, “Are you lonely?”
It took me by surprise. A heavy, rotting ball of isolation started to expand within my chest, and I felt myself sinking under its weight. My mouth worked, but no words came out. Embarrassed, I could feel my eyes inexplicably filling with unspilled sadness. Lonely? Was I lonely? I hadn’t noticed … until now. Her face, calm in repose, watched me without judgment, and I shrank in embarrassment under her gaze. She waited patiently for my reply, and it became clear that I could tell her the truth.
“I guess maybe I am.”
She nodded. “Me too.”
It wasn’t possible that this beautiful, soft-spoken young woman could ever be allowed loneliness, and I told her so.
“The world is crowded,” she replied, “but I don’t walk among them.”
I knew how she felt, and she did not require an answer.
“Show me your hand,” she said.
I held it up to the camera.
“Can you take off the bandage?”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Caught in her hungry gaze, suddenly and inexplicably sprouting an erection hiding beneath the desk, I slowly unwrapped my hand, where the wound gaped, red and raw. She gasped.
“Does it hurt?”
“Not so much.”
“Hold it closer.”
Her breathing went deeper, and so did mine. I could feel my blood coursing hotly through my body, pulsing with an accelerating beat. She leaned closer.
“I wish I could kiss it better.”
My throat choked with emotion, and it took a moment before I could reply, “So do I.” And I did.
More pounding on the door by my adoring public.
“Will you do it again tonight?” she asked.
I nodded. “That’s the deal. You wouldn’t believe how many people have paid for me to do it.”
“Yes, I would.”
“Are you one of them?”
She nodded and smiled, revealing a slightly crooked canine that made her even sexier … despite her bloodlust.
“I didn’t think it was real. But it was worth the gamble.”
The doorbell kept ringing and voices kept piercing the thin walls and windows of my Sherman Oaks chalet. E-mails and IMs kept filling the background of my computer screen. Even my silent cell phone kept up a vibratory boogie over on the counter. I was under siege.
“What’s all that noise?”
I sighed. “I guess I’ve become very popular since last night.”
“Is there a crowd there?”
“Just turn on your television; I seem to be all over the place.” I spotted a videocamera peering between a gap in the curtains and rushed over to pull it shut.
“I don’t have a television,” she told me.
I liked her even more. She was oblivious to the expendable fruits of my labors. She had no idea that I had settled for a grasp that far exceeded my reach.
“Well, it seems to be time for a personal crucifixion. They’re all out there begging for it.”
She started to speak, then backed off a moment.
“What?”
She hesitated again, then continued. “If you want to get away from them, you can always come here.”
As the cry for my literal blood ratcheted up in the background, I considered her generous offer.
“Really?”
“Really.”
I looked at her peaceful, welcoming visage, and realized I’d never seen anyone with gold eyes before.
* * *
I needed to hide.
It didn’t take long to ditch the hounds of journalism, and within half an hour I felt free of their slavering jaws as the Beemer sped northward up the Ventura Freeway. Fish-scale clouds domed the browning San Fernando Valley, but they had thinned into a gleaming blue by the time I’d passed through Moorpark. As I cleared the final mountain that announced the citrus farms of the Ojai Valley in a dramatic opening-act reveal, I was stunned at how a ninety-minute drive could change the world so dramatically.