by Jane Etarie
Oh I'll be around, he says to me, I'll be around plenty. Robbie said you wouldn't mind if I crashed on the couch for a while until I find a new place.
How the world is
I screamed at him for like two hours straight. I couldn't answer the phone at work the next day I lost my voice. What the fuck do you think you're doing telling Dean he can stay at MY PLACE?
Uh-uh. No way. This was not going to happen. This was so not going to happen. And I wasn't going to be the fucking bad guy about it either. Fucking Robert has no spine. He has no balls. He can't just for once sack up and tell his scumball friend to fuck off. I mean, the idiot texted a breakup to me, I should have known.
I was having my doubts. Serious fucking doubts. I don't mind supporting the father of my child but there was no way in fucking hell that I was going to let that pedophile stay at our home. He was not going to take advantage of our generosity. Like put up some internet feed of our baby while he babysat. Like inappropriate shit. Stroke his finger on its belly. Replace the soother with his toe. Spray whip cream on the baby's nipples. Carefully place a shoe in the crib. I don't know. I don't watch that kind of shit.
Things were going to change around here, I told him.
My hooks were in. I could jerk him around however I wanted now. He was stunned. He just sat there taking it. He just sat there like a child, with his head down, listening and taking it.
And he was all like, I don't know, he's my friend. I've known him since high school. He just needed a place to stay.
And then I school him. I fucking tell him how it is. How the world is. How things are going to be from now on. I'm like, Dean is not your friend. Dean was never your friend. Dean is a loser. He is a fucking leech who hangs off your tit and sucks you dry and then laughs about you behind your back. And I don't want that pedophile anywhere near our fucking child.
And Robert interrupts me, says I shouldn't talk about our baby that way, that he doesn't like me swearing and yelling so much. I hiss at him. I tell him that the baby needs a strong male presence, that a negative influence like Dean in the first year would raise its chances of becoming a homosexual or sexual deviant by seventy-eight percent. It would raise it's chances of developing some kind of mental illness or childhood disease by like fifty, maybe sixty percent, I wasn't sure.
Do you want to see the magazine? I ask him. It's all there. It's all there and more. The whole fucking twenty-five year study. I'll find it for you.
And I can't stop, I'm all like, Do you want your little queer to torture small animals? Bite his teachers? Shit his pants until he's ten? Put on my make up and suck dicks afterschool? It'll happen— You'll see, it'll happen. I swear to fucking god it will happen, Robert. This is like... scientific fact, this is not bullshit. You just wait and see what happens when you let idiots like Dean hang around and confuse our child. Warp his poor mind. No way. Fuck that. I won't let it happen. I won't. I'll take our fucking kid and you'll never know him or find him, if that's what you want. You'll never see him— we'll live in Siberia...
And then I like turn all red and start bawling and cover my face with my hands.
I'm like no psychologist. I've talked to plenty— I know. But I do know people. And I knew I had Robert right where I wanted him. So he's like apologizing. He's sorry. He was just trying to help everyone. He wasn't thinking. Didn't think I would mind so much. Says he'll fix everything. Doesn't want to upset me and the baby. He's sorry, it won't happen again.
And I stop crying as fast as I started and I tell him— I tell him that it's for the best. That when I make a decision from now on, it's what's best for our baby, what's best for our family. Like, for us. And that I don't need all the drama and stress. All the bullshit. That I just want to give us a healthy baby. And that if he did that ever again, I was scared I might like miscarry or some shit. I didn't know what would happen.
Moving
Hey, you wanna grab the other end?
The couch was huge. Like one of those ratty old monsters that would never fit around a corner. Like they built the room around it. You'd have to like twist it five times, turn it on its end, turn it on its side, and scratch the hell out of every wall to move it anywhere. It for sure wasn't going to fit in the elevator
He could drag it by himself for all I cared. The fucking retard's like moving with two other dudes and he can't wait until they're back from their load? It was the first thing Dean had said to me all day. He must have known I didn't want him moving in with us. Whatever. I didn't give a shit. I liked it better that he kept his stupid mouth shut. Kept his snaggleteeth to himself.
And it was all good. My awesome mood wasn't just the drugs. I was almost done with Dean. Like I'd never see him again. And if I did, I hoped it would be in the news. Like the obituaries. Or maybe some tragic page five story— like his asshole got flesh eating disease. Like it crawled right up his shithole from that gross couch. And after a miracle operation and a painful recovery, he winds up as the half boy. The half boy who pushes his assless, legless self around on a skateboard, inspiring some and disgusting others.
Hell, I'd be happy if he'd just trip down the stairs and bust his scrawny neck. Become like a Superman cripple. Shit in his diaper and piss in a collostomy bag for the rest of his life. Become an inspiration.
So I was all like, Ya... Ya I'll help you Dean... which end?
Alien
I feel the heat
From my shit—
My shit
In the bowl.
Invading
My ass
Space.
Once with—
in me, now
Alien—
Against me.
I recoil from the
Coil.
Flush.
— Musings on shit vi
I never realized how talented Robert was. I mean, I knew he was artistic and stuff, but I didn't really know just how much until after he moved in and I started looking through all his stuff.
He has like spiral notebooks filled with shit. Drawings. Poetry. Stories. Music. Robert's kind of like a sensitive guy. It's one of the reasons I'm fascinated with him. He never likes to admit it though. He's got his sort of featherweight/lightweight cage fighter image going on. I mean, he doesn't actually fight, but he looks it. And I love UFC which is another reason I'm so fascinated with him.
There once was a man who when he shit, he shit sideways.
He ate too many hamburgers, and the next day it came out so big and dry it hurt and nearly ripped his asshole.
Ew ew ew! he yelped.
Plop!
The man flushed. The shit clogged the toilet. Water and piss and shit rose up and kissed his balls.
No No No! he screeched and jiggled the flusher.
But it was too late. There was water and piss and shit all over the cracked linoleum.
He went to his room and lay on his bed, face down, for the rest of the day.
And tried to forget about the gun locker in his closet and the mess on the floor.
That one was pretty new. There was a lot of shit stories. But I liked his writing, and if he ever wrote a book, I'd want to buy it— I'd want to buy it and read it even.
And I know that when he was in high school, he played bass guitar in his Uncle Grant's church band, Cross Country. They were like the house band for The Ministry of Light: International Alliance of Christ Church. It was one of those Mega-churches. Only Boo was never really religious. And after he was arrested for possession of marijuana, or for trafficking or some shit, his Uncle Grant sat him down. He sat him down and told him that he had to make a decision. Was he going to choose Cross Country, The Ministry of Light: International Alliance of Christ Church, and accept Jesus Christ into his life as his Lord and Personal Savior? Or was he going to run around? Run around and live in sin, with the booze and the drugs, the girls and parties?
After that he mostly played in like metal or punk bands. Yoda's Wiener, PigSlit, ChrisTRapeR. He's got this one cd here— Elo
quent Negro. He plays guitar on it. It's heavy and you can't really understand the singer. There's not that many songs, but they're all kind of gross.
The Need to Rape
Peachgrinder
Sewn-shut Anus
Sodomy Island
Down Syndrome Girlfriend
Masticated Penis
Bukkake Suicide
I listened to it a few times. It's not really my music, but it's good, I think. The Need to Rape would be catchy if they got someone like, regular, to sing it.
He also has this folder with pencil drawings in it. It's got Portfolio written on it and has an application for some tv art school.
There's a picture of a tiger, like sitting on his belly. He's sort of looking off all lazy to the side, like he's happy. Content maybe. Like, I'm a tiger, what are you going to do about it? There's a mangled arm and a half gnawed face in a puddle of blood by his paws. It would make a great t-shirt. And a there's an illustration of Supertank, which looks like a Corvette or Trans Am or some shit— I don't know— but with like tank tracks and lots of guns on it. There's also like a portrait of an important looking Indian, holding a cigarette. The smoke looks so real.
A million dogs
I didn't mean to hurt him.
I mean, it wasn't my fault that Dean sucked so bad at moving. That he was so shitty at lifting things. That he was so weak. Dean sucked at carrying things. He really did.
Like seriously, he struggled. The doorway was tricky. A bit of pushing and twisting, not so much lifting. But once we got the couch into the hallway, it wasn't so bad. It wasn't that heavy. But Dean weighs like maybe a buck twenty. And he's wheezing and breathing all loud, and he's got like sweat beading on his forehead and dripping down his nose. It's gross. He looked like he was going to have a jammer, and we haven't even gotten to the stairwell yet.
And he's all like, Christ in fucking hell, hey, can you slow down a bit? I'm losing my grip... shit... it's digging into my hands... hold up a bit... let me adjust...
And I must've been like rolling my eyes, but I didn't say anything and I probably walked faster. When we got to the stairwell, Dean insisted that we stop for a minute. To like, you know, give me a rest, and so that he can adjust. And I ask him if he wants to switch sides, and suddenly the break's over.
We got down the first flight ok. I was on top and he was at the bottom. He was concerned for me again, and sweating like a hog and wheezing like some old man with one of those oxygen tanks. Hahhhhhh... Hahhhhhh... Hahhhhhh. He sucked at carrying things. He really did. But he was an angel, like a real dear, with all his concern for me.
He only got down maybe two steps on the second flight, I hadn't even moved, and he was all like, Wait, slow down... shit... hang on a sec... wait... wait, for fucksakes... stop a sec, let me get a grip...
For real, I couldn't hang onto the couch. Poor Dean. The thing just rolled over him like he was some bug. I think he was dragged underneath it for a bit, I couldn't really tell. When it was all done, the couch had slid into the corner, and Dean rolled into it. He looked all crooked on the stairs. All bent and twisted like he shouldn't be, like he had new extra joints. There was blood all over his face. His mouth was open, and it looked like his chipped teeth had been knocked out. His eyes were rolled up into the back of his head, like he was sleeping. Only he looked dead.
I nearly burst out laughing— I was so close— but I held it back. It was really hard. So I was all like, Dean?... Dean?... You ok?... Dean? He didn't move or blink or twitch. I called 911. There was probably a lawsuit in this for him.
About a week later when he was stabilized, we visited Dean in the hospital. With all his casts and elevated limbs he looked like one of those marionettes, or like he was all wrapped up and caught in some spider's web. We brought him a box of Ritz crackers, Nestle Quik, black licorish and pickled eggs. I don't think he could eat any of it. Not that I really cared. I got him some kind of stuffed rat or weasel with buck teeth from the gift shop. Maybe like a possum? I don't know, it looked like him. Robert got him some pervy get well card, with like a retarded joke and a naked chick in it or some shit.
He couldn't remember what happened. He was on way too much Demerol and morphine. And I couldn't help but think this was the perfect life for Dean. Like being taken care of by others and given free drugs. And I sort of felt like, even though it was totally an accident, I kind of helped do something good.
Dean wanted to know if we could go the pharmacy for him. Get him a heated donut pillow. And a couple of those bracelets— like an ionic bracelet and a magnetic one. He said his nurse was wearing one of them. I volunteered right away— I was so fucking bored— and left him and Robert.
On the way there, the weirdest thing happened. Like the cosmos or kismet or goddess unfolded. It was kind of like a faery tale, like a spell. Like I was carried on a magic carpet. Snake charmed and led by pipes. Or like I was following my magical dog— the dog that I didn't know was magical— to a cave of a million children and a million dogs, like in that story. I mean, I was just kind of wandering around, I didn't know where the hell I was or where I was going, and then like some sort of dream, I wind up in the baby viewing area.
The babies slept. And I watched them. Transfixed. So tiny. So helpless. It was like looking at the puppies or kittens in the window of the pet store. Not quite as cute, but almost. And I was like hypnotized. I'm sure I was smiling. Like I couldn't stop it. Like I couldn't help it. I was filled with like so much joy about my future, like at all the possibilities, at the wide open world and everything good in it.
I'm sure I probably could have looked for hours, but then somebody, I don't know, like a doctor, a nurse, security? asks me something. Like am I a patient? Am I waiting for someone? Which one was mine? I'm not sure, I really didn't hear. But then I glance at him and I'm all like, Oh, sorry, no. I'm just like visiting a friend. Well, my boyfriend's friend. I'm just looking... I'm pregnant myself. I'm just getting excited is all... they're so small and beautiful...
And I'm still looking at the babies and the voice goes to me, Are you seeing a doctor, a specialist here, Miss...?
And I'm kind of caught off guard and I'm all like, Uhhh, Bradshaw..... Carrie Bradshaw. Ya. No.... I mean, not yet. Just like, you know, my family doctor and holistic practitioner right now. But ya, I'm gonna. I'm gonna for sure. Soon. Third trimester in like a month.
And the spell's broken and the room is brighter and I can hear the hospital around me and I glance at who I'm talking to. Security. I tell him that I'd better get going. My boyfriend's waiting. And I walk away and look back, once again at the babies, and once again at the security guard who is like writing something into his notepad.
Perogy burger
This girl from work, Kameljit Guptha, invited me for lunch today. I don't really know her, but I understand that being pregnant makes me a little more popular around the office. I get it. It's like everybody wants a piece of the pregnant girl. And I don't know, maybe it was like tradition or good karma in India to buy shit for pregnant girls. Like it would make you more fertile, or you wouldn't have a baby girl or some shit.
Anyways, I like free lunch as much as the next bitch. And I figured that if Angie Jolie and Octosulumom could like, find the time to help filthy third world bums and beggars while raising twenty children, the least I could do was make time for lunch.
So Kameljit grabbed me at my desk a bit after noon and drove us to lunch. She has a silver Toyota Carolla. It's like really nice, new. There was a Kleenex box above the back seat that had like a golden Kleenex box holder over it. I really wanted one, and I asked her where she got it from. She said that she wasn't sure, that her mother had given it to her. I looked around some more, peeked in the glovebox. Nothing unusual.
There was like an air freshener— or maybe it was just a picture— of some blue Indian woman wearing orange, green and gold hanging from the rearview. One hand was up in the air, like she was going why not?, and the other hand was up in front of her tits,
like she was going ok. And she wouldn't take her wild eyes off me. They were intense.
Me and Kameljit talked on the way. We talked about how nice the weather was a couple of times. How we couldn't believe that summer was already over. We talked about work. Like who annoyed me and shit. I told her how much I liked Slumdog Millionaire. I actually didn't mind talking to her. I could understand her, like her accent wasn't too bad. And she just nodded and agreed with everything I said. I told her that I liked the music. She tried to tell me the name of it like three times, but I couldn't understand. She said it was very popular right now. Good to dance to.
After a few minutes we pulled into a small parking lot, and she does this like twelve point turn and parks. We are here, she says. I'm looking around at the— I don't know, plaza?— and there's like a bunch of these little businesses with like Persian or Chinese or Indian writing. I can see words like Travel and Insurance and Dry Cleaners in English. The only spot that looks like it serves food is called Dheli Donuts. The faded sign on the corner says Dheli Donuts... Pork Torta Sub... Noodle Soup... Schezuan Fast Food... Best Coffee... Stop the Lies...
And I was like, Uh... no. Uh-uh. I can't. I can't do it. I'm not going to eat here.
I couldn't do it. I couldn't eat there. It was just too ugly. I imagined the ugly food and the ugly people and I didn't want to be any part of that. It looked like the kind of place that Vietnamese or Korean teens would shoot each at after Karaoke. Or get into machete fights in the parking lot. But Kameljit tells me the food is terrific— like the fried chicken, the donuts, the salmon burger. But maybe do not order the potatoed items, she says, whatever the hell that means. Everything except the potatoed items.
I didn't care. I tell her that I don't want to eat their potatoed items, or any of their food. So I give her the directions to Sean White's and tell her to go there. You're going to love it Kameljit, I tell her.