I try to relax. There is color—kaleidoscope-diamond reds like a movie-theater carpet—then no color. Vaguely, I hear the muted flick of a lighter.
"Oh, Jesus,” says the doctor, “a bleeder."
A bleeder, I think. I think about how in my next life I will be a guy in a bathrobe who sits in a room of television blue and never leaves, never speaks, and how I will know for sure things that other people don't want to know—like how it's a lie, every breath of it, and how I will never marry, and how happy I will be. Maybe, I think, I will be an otter.
Carrion is above me, leaning down, cigarette inches from my face, saying, “Wake up, wake up...."
But his face changes and his voice changes and there is this light, warm as splayed hands, against my face and all at once I am so tired, so tired.
Wake up, says the first voice. The second voice says my name.
And the thing of it is this: I only have the strength to answer one of them.
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Drive Thru by Kenneth Darling
Not yet dawn. Approaching jetliners bisect the twin iron bridge struts. Maybe one hundred feet above. Or two. Life-size and loud. The fishermen standing on either side are unfazed. They catch nothing but heavy-metal exhaust. Iron. Lead. Cadmium. Settled onto their shoulders like electric talc. Styrofoam coffee cups at their feet. Cigarettes.
The donut shop is pink and orange. Spit of land zoned for nothing ever again. Salt marsh preserve beyond the parking lot. Filthy harbor across the street. Logan Airport right there. All around, airliner shadows seep like spilled ink. We queue for coffee.
Ahead, a woman screams into the menuboard mic. Compensation for sudden jet turbines. Her order is lost to decibels. The reply is lost. She tries again. Louder. Blueberry muffin. Skim latte. She repeats the order.
I ask for two coffees, pull forward. The window slides open; a kid reaches through. His arm is mottled with something. Maple glaze or ketchup. He asks for three eighty-five. We paid thirty cents less yesterday. I just give the money. He passes the coffee and leers into the car. I see this all the time. He wants to know—what's it like to fuck her?
The sun breaks, throwing blades of light. Bait buckets are made molten. Bridge rust glints as though on fire. Airplane bellies flash over a white phosphor sea. I squint through the windshield glare. She takes my hand.
An airplane banks hard above. I imagine passengers startle and shield their eyes. Press to the windows. Yearn for the earth.
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Hello Goodbye by Lavie Tidhar
/ Paul is dead now. / I miss him, miss him, miss him. /
Baptised: the wine fumes go up his nose and make him sniff, then giggle. Baptised: the dark red liquid is a pool in the desert, a wide circular lake dug in Sisyphian sand, under the banner of two red moons, two lascivious rubies.
Baptised by the Baptist, he says and giggles again, and stares up at the moons and takes a deep breath. He lies flat on his back, holding in air, and his body becomes a dirigible floating on water; he is a Phoenician sailing ship, going to Ur, a merchant of wine and souls.
Baptised by the Baptist, he says. Isn't that right, John?
Yochanan doesn't answer; his hands, his head, his erection are buried underwater, and he swims towards him with an intensity that doesn't befit a hermit.
Play us a tune, he says.
The dark presence underwater unbalances him, pulls down his trousers; a calloused thumb rubs at his Johnny. He feels himself harden.
A good hymn ... he whispers. An unseen mouth closes on him below, a man's lips, and he wants them, wants him, with an urgency that makes him breathe harder and tread water.
A good hymn for a baptism.
* * * *
You need four to form a band of brothers, the dragon says. There were four brothers in the Hebrew Haggadah, it says, shaking its great golden head above the man lying down on the rocks below. The Wise, the Innocent, The Very Bad, and One Who Asked No Questions.
Three men in a boat, the man below says. Four, if you count the dog. What's your point?
Jerzy, the dragon says, and it shakes that great head until golden scales fall and the man below jumps and curses him. You are not the second, and you are not the last. Are you wise, or very bad?
Jerzy cocks his head and looks up at the dragon, his hands on his hips (in an oddly feminine gesture, the dragon thinks) and a secret smile at the corners of his mouth, which is wide and sensual (the dragon thinks, with a desire that sometimes overwhelms it).
I can be, the man says. He looks up into the dragon's eyes, spearing him with a look. I can be if you want me to.
/The walrus is Paul./
In the pool of dead blood baptist and baptised conjoin. In the pool of red mud the walruses sing. Richie Rich, show me your rings. Richie Rich, come take a swim.
The weremaids puddle heavily on the shore. They wear heavy braids and piddle on the floor. Richie Rich, beat us a beat. Richie boy, give us a treat.
The man stands on the shore and watches the lovers in the deep, dark waters. He ignores the pleadings of the maidens. He is adding numbers somewhere in his head, then speaking them aloud. His voice is clear and carries across in the night air. One, two, three.... He seems lost then, as if trying to remember a secret, long forgotten.
Richie boy, drum us a beat.
He turns and flashes a grin at them like an ID. Pretty girls blue, he says, show us yer tits.
They are offended, and puddle away. He turns back, watches the two in the lake, adding sums. One plus one makes two. Two plus one makes three.
He thinks, I miss him.
/This is the house of Paul./
The man shouts exhalation into the rush of oncoming air, gripping the mane of the dragon in big, capable hands. His fingers dig between the scales, rub the dragon's soft spot, sending a shiver of flame into the clouds.
Are you sure this is safe? he asks.
The dragon rushes forward with a beating of giant wings. Jerzy crouches lower against the winds. His body is warm against the beast's, and the dragon falters, and another hot flame licks the sky.
The dragon says, Men are sly.
Just get us there, the man says. Can you see it?
Can you see it? The dragon looks down at the desert. Its eyes are blood-stained rubies, the moons reflecting in them like a swearword.
Can you see them?
Can he see them? It glides lower, over the desert, towards the pool of dark blood congealing under the moons. He can see them. He can smell the musk of their flesh and he can taste their passion on his great forked tongue.
Men are sly, he says again, and swoops lower still, towards the waiting lake.
/Paul's dead, man. Miss him, miss him, miss him./
He comes underwater, unable to breathe, an asphyxiated orgasm that sends his body into convulsions, into fabulations, that sends him floating to the surface, lying flat on his back with his pants lost somewhere in the murky water. He isn't breathing now, doesn't need to any more. One and one and one make three, assembled on the shore.
The man with the dragon turns to his companion and whispers, Does it turn you on?
The dragon roars.
One and one and one make three. He floats in the water as in a glass coffin. He would wave, but he has no breath left with which to do so.
You took your time, Georgie-Porgie, Richie says.
Jerzy shrugs. We had things to do. Cities to rescue, maidens to roast. Where have you been all these years?
Running rings, Richie says. Yochanan grunts and turns away from them, shading his eyes. They watch their friend float away upon the waters, two jets of foam trailing in his wake.
They crack open bottles of beer and get drunk, roaring at the moons. It is a wake, he is awake, and it is beautiful and ugly and sad all at once, just like a pop song.
/Fabulous, the dragon says./
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Aliens by Jordan E. Rosenfeld
&
nbsp; The Handbook at Tempe's Vegan Raw Food restaurant here in Sedona requires only that we wear black bottoms and white tops. This leaves room for the broadest possible range of clothing to fit the wait staff, from the wide polyester slacks that Rosalie, our bassoon-nosed manager, wears, to my modest Amish pencil-skirts, to the wedge of electrical tape that Nadia passes off as clothing.
Across the dining room, nubile Nadia giggles and jiggles over a silver-haired type with a ponytail and lots of turquoise on his neck and wrists. I swear to God, Arizona is the only state in the U.S. where men can wear jewelry and get away with it. I've got his number just by looking at him: he believes in UFOs because he's seen those weird lights that everyone eventually sees in the desert. Or his second cousin thinks she was abducted by aliens as a kid and has the scars to prove it. Or he's here to contact the mothership in the hopes that its powers will make him a swinger with the chicks, or more powerful in his business, or bolster his Karma.
And Nadia, who is like a deadly fruit, gorgeous in a way that's painful to look at, is over there shaking tips out of him with her fancy parts. Why do women with large breasts get away with everything? What is so damn fantastic about a pair of jiggling mounds of fat dressed in skin?
I slap a plate of stuffed mushrooms with water chestnut soufflé down at table forty-two. Seated there is a thin redhead, pale in that ethereal, near sickly way, like she's been recuperating from scarlet fever in a dark room. Across from her is a chubby yet handsome Native American man, I'll guess Navajo. They look mismatched.
Redhead looks up at me, then down at her plate, then across at her stone-faced beau. He's wearing a bolo tie with a gorgeous piece of jasper cut into the shape of ... well, it looks like California to me. Maybe that's just because I'm homesick. She sticks her finger into the soufflé and I can tell she's seeing the dubious beige pudding not from the point of view of customer-beguiled-by-presentation, what with the fancy red cabbage and kale garnish, but as suspicious meat-eater-being-coerced-into-eating-here. I feel for her.
"It's good,” says Bolo-Beau, then digs into his buckwheatnoodle jicama-papaya bowl with an exaggerated enthusiasm, opalescent noodles disappearing wetly between his fat lips.
Redhead unwinds a soft green pashmina scarf from around her neck. “What's inside these mushrooms?” she asks Bolo-Beau. He must have bribed her to get her to eat here.
I glance at Nadia across the floor; her massive bun slowly unraveling, giving her the look of a Slavic warrior-princess. She is leaning down over a table in section four, which is where all the good tips come from—even if you don't have enormous breasts—because of the panoramic windows; the dramatic southwestern light works its magic on the desert and the patrons. Right now, a rosy sunset dusts the mesas. Gradient shades of pink and peach halo Nadia's head, which is just her luck, as these are her colors and, in their glow, she could be the next Miss America, reaching out for her crown. Her mascara is a tiny bit smudged below her eyelids, an effect that only accentuates her green eyes, even from across the room. I can see the very bottom half-moons of her ass where it peeks out from under the Band-Aid skirt.
Rosalie doesn't reprimand Nadia for slutty dress habits. Her flesh revealed keeps the customers happy, and she was raised on a hippie commune in Siberia, so not only does she have an exotic accent, she “gets” the food concept and can encourage people—like Miss Sneering Redhead here—into eating food they might otherwise be too afraid—or too wise—to consume.
What is it about Nadia that makes me want to break something?
"Can I get you anything else?” I ask Redhead and her Bolo-Beau.
She smiles. “Tea?"
"We've got kombucha and chai—though it's unsweetened—plus bancha twig tea and a list of other greens.” I hear the apology in my voice for these teas that sound as tasty as kinds of mold.
She winces and shakes her head. “Just water, then."
"Do you want water with ginger added?” I offer.
She sneers; Bolo-Beau sighs. Has she failed some test of his?
"It, uh, cleanses the taste buds,” I add.
"That would be great,” she says. As I am about to walk off, she adds, “I'm from Ohio. We like meat with our meat, you know?"
I laugh but Bolo-Beau heaves a larger, more disappointed sigh. Nadia intercepts me on my way to get water, shoots me a smarmy smile, then grabs my shoulder and leans in, conspiratorial, like we are really best friends.
"Ugh, Ameeelia, anudder freak who vants show me his scars of UFO,” she says, referring to the turquoise-encrusted fellow.
I laugh inwardly.
"Vat you are doink avter vork?” she asks.
"My laundry. Then cracking open a nice new bottle of white Zin that's been chilling in my fridge and getting my tired ass in bed."
Nadia frowns, as if she expected just such a spinster's life from me.
"Vis me, you come. No say no."
Nadia, while friendly, has never asked me to join her in any reindeer games. But damned if I am not curious to see how the other half lives. We're both single, but in Nadia's world, ‘single’ means something different from my empty bedroom for months on end and late nights watching old seasons of canceled shows on DVD, like The X-Files. Nadia is also a self-proclaimed artist, though I have never seen the art she makes. I have seen photos she's brought in of herself as another artist's subject, naked except for body paint in wild renderings of famous portraits across her body. There's Starry Night, with her breasts two 3-D versions of Van Gogh's signature swirling clouds, Cezanne's fruit—easy to imagine what part of her came in handy—but my favorite is Nadia as Mona Lisa, that famous aloof smile deftly recreated across the yawning vista of her flat stomach.
Nadia and I have also slept with a man in common, which I only know because he also slept with another of Tempe's waitresses, poor hyperthyroid Annie who couldn't gain weight and who took the job because she hoped it would help her kick her smoking and occasional cocaine habits. Annie told me about the man we shared in common, because after me he moved on to her, knocked her up, and took off after Nadia while Annie was out of commission from the abortion.
I find it odd that he slept with all three of us, different as we are. Perhaps we were his muses, or maybe his furies. Less odd that we all three slept with him, despite the fact that his name was Herman and he was all brain and long fingers. He had beautiful brown eyes and a beguiling way with words. I'm tall for a woman, six feet, small of breast and big of foot and, well, I have a hair problem. Not that you'd know it; I pay a pretty penny to have my follicles brutally slathered in steeping hot wax and the marauder hairs ripped free.
At any rate, I think Nadia saw the sharing of one man as some kind of blood-sisterhood through carnal means. It grosses me out just to think of it, but at least I was the first. Poor Annie was never the same. She got nowhere near kicking her habits, and last we heard, she'd had some kind of psychotic break, brandishing enema bags in the aisle of a Rite-Aid in Phoenix and threatening to beat some poor old man with them.
"Yoo-hoo, Ameeelia.” Nadia waves her hand in front of my face.
"Where do you want to go?” I ask. I can feel the eyes of the thirsty redhead on my neck. “I've gotta get some water for that table over there."
"Oh, he is disgustink, how you say, peer-veert,” she says, referring to Bolo-Beau. I want to tell her that she ought not to encourage him with the twine she's passing off as a skirt.
"I don't know about pervert. Food Nazi, maybe. I don't think she wants to eat what he ordered for her,” I say. “Not that I blame her."
Nadia smiles. “But zees food ees good for you."
"Raw food gives me gas,” I say.
"Only in beginnink. Your body, it gets used to zis. So, you are comink tonight vis me, please? I have good time in mind; I am friendly wit so little of women.” Nadia flicks her hair away from her face like a camera flash might go off any second.
"I'll think about it,” I say, and retrieve the tall pitcher of gingerwater and a fresh glass.
I am suddenly very thirsty, looking at that water. When I return to the redhead's table, her beau is gone.
"He's testing you by bringing you here, isn't he?” I ask, feeling bold because we seem to share the same opinion of the food.
"Trying to change me into the kind of woman he can love, I guess.” She laughs.
"Hmmm. And stuffed mushrooms are the path to his heart?"
She drums unlacquered, obviously-chewed fingernails on the table, but considers my question rhetorical.
"God, I wish I had a cigarette right now,” she says.
There is a pack of Marlboro Reds in my purse. I only smoke one a day, but that one is crucial, building up a thin wall of smog inside my head and heart, keeping the past at bay.
"That co-worker of yours, she's—"
"A little bit trashy?” I offer.
"I was going to say Ukrainian,” Redhead laughs.
"Oh, no, she's Russian."
"Unusual accent of hers. I'm Ceal, by the way."
"Short for Celia?"
She shakes her head. “Like the sea mammal. My parents were being creative, I guess."
She lifts a mushroom cap that is as large as her palm and holds it up to the light. The sunset is doing an audacious routine outside, turning from pink to a shocking shade like an Orange Julius.
"What's it stuffed with?” she asks.
"Um, well, it's a purée made from root vegetables and water chestnuts."
She grimaces. “Yum."
"Apparently it's very good for you,” I say. My legs feel very tired just now and I want to take the empty seat opposite her.
"He's not my boyfriend,” she says, pointing to the empty space where Bolo-Beau sat slurping noodles moments before.
"Oh?"
Nadia bounces past us and whispers, “Tonight!"
"He's my lover,” Ceal says, looking wistful, nostalgic, like he has already left her for another woman/a gay boyfriend/the priesthood.
"Sedona sees a lot of that,” I tell her.
GUD Magazine Issue 1 :: Autumn 2007 Page 3