I spent the rest on candy and ate it.
I watched everything carefully.
I stole gum from purses, magazines from doorsteps.
I worked on my muscles, lured dogs from neighbouring yards and cut off their ears, then testicles. Learned fast I’d be shunned—didn’t mind the cliché: just the getting caught, and more the fucking punishment. That felt like losing.
I turned ten, pushed a whiny boy named Brian off the jungle gym headfirst down the hole for the fireman’s pole. He was concussed, I cried, people took care of me. It was the best birthday ever, and a week later I got another—for mine had been ruined. Sadly Brian survived, and became even more neurotic.
I killed two swans and tried to tie their necks in a knot—it was tougher than you might think.
I beat a crossing guard’s daughter with her own shoes, blackening her eyes.
Went to juvenile detention.
I did a lot of drugs, sold a lot of drugs and mixed them together—into new drugs, then sold those. I convinced a male nurse to fuck me, then I beat him with a flashlight.
I travelled. I read books. I wrote. I dove into canals. I threw empty bottles from rooftops, cars colliding in the street below.
I stopped travelling, became a DJ, raped a girl with red socks, rediscovered rock ’n’ roll, decided not to kill her, then hit the road again.
I studied Buddhism.
Drank a lot.
I tied a boy named Jeffrey to a furnace and peed on him for three days while eating strawberries, drinking gin and raping him.
I rolled drunks to buy drinks for drifters. I singed their eyelids with cigarettes.
I loved life, took what I could, was imprisoned for it, yet remained optimistic.
Then, all of a sudden, I was released.
And moved to a place called Sudden House—I became once more, for the most part, free. Free to be me, to live and love and write.
I enjoy the writing more each day. In fact, I came on this page.
And now I’ll try it again.
For I am an optimist: coming, coming … Oh, I am a poet.
On a quiet night, there is profound rhythm to the hooves and breath of a strong horse. It moves upwards through the rider’s gut and changes the beat of his heart, the tenor of his own breathing. Wind made of speed rushes past their ears. The horse and rider breathe together, drum rolling across the earth—hooves thudding and clicking—until the sound is like a message.
Down the cliff. Down the cliff.
You’ll never make it.
Down the cliff.
Hooves and breath. Hooves and breath.
A book on your back like a monkey junkie.
And the dark rider knows: somewhere out in front of him, the Earth gives way to nothing.
THE BOOK OF HANDYMAN
I think what’s funny is people trying to figure things out. They try to figure me out as if I’m like them. Pathetic. I don’t give a fuck, as in I got no empathy, asshole! Get it? But they try to get me by trying to relate to me. I don’t fucking relate! I do what makes me feel good. Period. Empathize with that, you pussy! If I were someone else, I’d just beat the shit out of me if it made me feel better instead of trying to understand. But people are just pussies and assholes. And I fucked them.
Fuck!
62
THE BOOK OF HANDYMAN
You may notice that the last few pages have been torn out. There is a reason for that—just as there is a reason I have not written anything for the past four months. There is also a reason that I am writing this now—and it is NOT because I enjoy it. In fact I find this painful. It has taken me almost half an hour to write these fucking sentences, and they’re not even good. I am no longer a poet. But I will persevere, and explain all of this, for the sake of reason. I’m not saying this will be an engaging read. The writing is not good. But you must pay attention. I am writing this for you.
And keep in mind: even poorly written words can change your life. These are the ones that changed mine:
“Condition of Parole, Medical: progesterone treatment (injection q. 14 days) under force of law.”
At first glance the sentence doesn’t seem too bad—other than it is incomplete and some of the words are confusing. But don’t be fooled, it’s a doozy—full of ugliness, hopelessness and death. It can be found in paragraph four, page 11, of Seth Handyman’s “Conditions of Release,” a work I should have read more carefully.
Progesterone is a female sex hormone that suppresses androgen through shutting down the pituitary axis. This, in turn, stops the production of testosterone.
The side effects of progesterone are as follows: decreased libido, decreased creativity, extreme depression. Simply put: I have been legally, chemically castrated.
And as it turns out, the key to life is not acceptance or love or balance: it is testosterone. Without it there is nothing: no sensation, so no desire, so no reason to do anything—to eat or drink or fuck or write. No incentive to choose one word over another. But it’s more than that—or should I say less?
If I look out the window, what do I see? A tree, two squirrels, a plastic garbage container, a brick, a man with a brown cap, three cars, a woman in a blue dress, an orange pylon. To me they’re all exactly the same. It’s not just that my sense of competition is gone—it’s that all competition is gone from the universe, so that nothing vies for attention. The woman is the pylon is the tree is the brick. And so why write, when one word describes it all: ugly.
U-G-L-Y.
You ain’t got no alibi.
Yer ugly. Yer ugly.
And it’s all yer fault.
So you see, with that one incomplete sentence—“Condition of Parole …”—I was robbed of everything: music, books, sex, power, pomegranates, women, pylons, trees and bricks.
In the end, fat Larry fucked me—gave me freedom and took away my life. I, Seth Handyman: brought down by a girl’s sex hormone.
Mason took the stairs two at a time. The apartment was empty. He plugged in his cellphone and called Chaz. No answer. He ran down the stairs and out—then down again, into the belly of the Cave. And there he was, his oldest friend, wiping down the bar. He looked like someone strange.
“Did you get my text?” said Mason.
“What happened to you?”
“I fell off a horse. Did you get the fucking text?”
“Yeah.”
“And …?”
“And Willy’s safe,” said Chaz. “What do you mean you fell off a horse?”
Mason looked at the mirror, trying to look through it. “Is she in there? Is she back there right now?”
Chaz nodded. “You want to see her?”
He thought for a moment. “What time is it?”
“What?”
“I need a gun?”
“Your head is bleeding.”
“So?”
“I’m not giving you a gun.”
“Fine!” Mason took off his backpack and slammed it down on the bar. He held the edge of it, wobbling. “Then how ’bout a drink?” Chaz poured him a glass of Jim Beam. Mason did a quick succession of lines.
“What the fuck’s going on, Mason?”
“What time is it?” said Mason.
“Almost time to open.”
“I gotta go.”
“Oh, you do, eh?”
He took Seth’s notebook from his backpack and handed it to Chaz. “Hold on to this. And keep Willy safe.”
“Anything else?”
“I could do with a gun.”
“You mentioned that.”
“Just a small one …”
“Sit the fuck down, Mason.”
Mason stared at the mirror. “I gotta make last call,” he said.
“That’s what you gotta do?”
“Yeah,” he said, then killed his drink and exited through the curtains.
THE BOOK OF HANDYMAN
It was so bad I thought of killing myself.
And then, one day, something happened.
I was waiting for the doctor. As if a prescription of despair and emptiness isn’t enough, I have to go and wait to have it filled. So I was sitting in the doctor’s waiting room, trying to plan my suicide, when suddenly I heard a voice.
“Willy told me what you did!” it said.
I looked up and there you were, standing in the open doorway, shouting at Dr. Francis. I don’t know if you saw me. You were mad and self-righteous, fucked up and wound up. It was like listening to my very own God: “Don’t you accuse me of hurting people—or trying to save them! Take a look at yourself, Doc!”
And with a nod to me you left. You didn’t know me—but I knew you: my lucky star, my resurrection.
Yes, you, Mason Dubisee, are going to be the one who saves me.
Mason came fast through the door, right into the mahogany coat rack. He hit it with his face and down they both went, crashing to the floor. Mary, behind the bar, howled with glee. The men banged their fists: an explosion of sound, laughter like shrapnel. “For the houuuuse!” shrieked Mary.
He got up quick, a fresh flash of red across his nose. His clothes were heavy with dirt and sweat, hair stuck in a gash on his head. “Fuck the house!” said Mason. And then he saw Seth.
He was fifty feet away, on the other side of the pool table, a cue in his hands. They looked at each other.
“Where is my notebook?”
Mason shrugged.
“I warned you,” said Seth.
“Oh wait,” said Mason, his heart so fast it made his words feel slow. “What’s this …?” He looked down at his right hand. No one moved.
Then he lifted his middle finger.
In the time it took five men to thump the bar twice, Seth was past the pool table, Mason running straight at him. The men pounded the bar once more—Seth swinging his cue, Mason airborne.
They collided with a breathless crunch, the cue splitting as they tumbled over the corner pocket, into a row of chairs. Seth scrambled to his feet but Mason drilled him down with an elbow to his face, punching and pushing him away at the same time, trying to make enough distance for a cross to the head. And that’s when they grabbed him.
Fucking Finns, thought Mason, as they pulled him up, an elbow tight across his throat, his arms bent behind him. A cane smacked against his thigh. His ankle twisted. Someone stomped on it. Through the pain and loss of air he heard Mary squeal with happiness. He wished he’d bought a round for the house.
Then Seth stood up.
Maybe it was because things had been moving at all different speeds, all that galloping, cocaine and adrenaline—or that his collapsing windpipe created the effect of time slowing down—but it seemed Seth wasn’t just standing; he was rising before him …
In each hand was a half of the splintered cue. Where once there was pudginess, now there were muscles—veiny arms stretched at his sides, low and taut, as if lifting weight and menace. His pale eyes glowed like fluorescence. His hat was on the floor and his scalped head, full of horror, rose like a nightmare forming.
What hair remained was stringy and grey, like the cut of a dishevelled monk. The crown looked nothing like the top of a man’s head: instead of hair, or even skin, there was a shining cap of red-purple flesh, like an organ exposed. The men holding Mason gasped, and he realized they didn’t know Seth from Adam—could have just as easily stayed out of this. Backlit by the aquarium, Seth now stood before him.
As Mason ran out of air, he saw the circle of grey hair shining—a silver halo surrounded by fish, pale blue orbs, a broken cue raised like a flare. Something whistled by his head. He thought of plums. Then, in superslow motion, he saw a red six ball spinning, mirrored, for an instant, in aquarium glass. The tank exploded.
In the moment before he passed out, there was a shining flood—a wall of water, the crystal blue wave rushing towards them, fish flying over the head of Seth, glistening and baffled into the world.
THE BOOK OF HANDYMAN
What do you believe in, Mason?
Me, I believe the universe is controlled by two things: competition and coincidence. Not God, nor the Devil nor fate nor logic.
The Big Bang, the splitting of an amoeba, evolution, ice ages, the harnessing of fire, the creation of the wheel, war, vaccination, every new life, every new path—they’re all the result of competition and coincidence, neither profane nor divine. That’s what WE have, Mason: will, and the intersection of instances. And you’d better fucking believe it.
You’re in MY universe now.
Mason came to, surrounded by pieces of glass, seashell, porcelain figurines and a half-dozen fish flopping—baby birds crashed on a deck. The floor was wet with blood and water. Looking up, he saw a man in a black helmet battling atop a pool table—swinging his cue like a light sabre. Right on, thought Mason, then passed out again.
THE BOOK OF HANDYMAN
It’s cosmic, ain’t it, that of all the doctors’ offices in all the world, you’d be shooting your mouth off in mine. And not only would you be a hack, a gambler, and a fuck-up, but you’d be a fucked-up hack who writes suicide notes to cover his gambling debts. And you happen to know the sins of our doctor. I do believe my universe loves me.
I believe in offers that can’t be refused.
I believe our doctor will replace the progesterone with a placebo, allowing me to live—free and free, alive and alive.
I believe you will convince her to do this to save yourself. Or, if that’s not enough, to save your Willy—so to speak.
I believe I dream in colour.
I believe in rock ’n’ roll.
I believe in so many things now, thanks to you.
This faith—it is the making of a great new game.
And you, my man, must play it. So listen well to the rules.
You must return to Tony’s Happy Daze Bar and Beer before last call tomorrow, alone and unassisted.
Should you fail to do so, these are the penalties: (1) I will send the authorities the specifics of your business. (2) I will hunt down Ms. Willy and convince her to help me in your stead.
I’d love to ride a crippled mare.
And by the way, you needn’t worry about my letter. You might want to write one for yourself, though. Just in case.
Ciao for now,
Seth Handyman
P.S. If you don’t bring this notebook, you’d better come ready to fight.
When Mason next awoke, the fish were gone. His face was wet with beer, and Chaz was standing over him, an empty pint glass in his hand. “Let’s go, Dorothy,” he said. “We got to get out of here.”
Mason tried to lift himself, shards of glass, shell and porcelain cutting into his palms. Chaz hauled him up and leaned him against the pool table. There were two unconscious men slumped in a corner. Neither one was Seth. Mason tried to ask his whereabouts, but all that came out was “Cahhhhhh …” It felt like his throat had been stomped on. He tried to lie down on the table.
“Now,” said Chaz. “Before the cops get here.” He put Mason’s arm over his shoulders. They staggered across the wet, beach-strewn floor and made it out the door. The streetlights were bright. Chaz’s motorcyle was parked on the sidewalk. Mason got on the back. He tried to ask what had happened to the fish—but all that came out was “Cahahhhaaahhhhhhh …” He could hear the sirens as they pulled away.
63
Mason lay on the floor of the Cave making pitiful scratchy sounds.
“He’s got no head?” said Chaz. “What do you mean he’s got no head?” He held a glass of whisky, salt and lemon juice and poured a bit down Mason’s throat—trying to open up that windpipe.
“The top of it… is gone,” Mason croaked. “You didn’t notice?”
“I was kind of busy saving your ass.”
“Thank you.”
“So let me see if I’ve got this right—come on, try to sit up: you quit your job selling hotdogs and started writing suicide letters instead.”
Mason nodded.
“For psychos.”
“I didn’t… know.”
“Of course not—how could you? Only well-adjusted people hire a guy to … Is that even a thing? How do you think of something like that?”
Mason tried to speak, but nothing came out.
“Forget it. I don’t want to hear.” He propped Mason’s back against the bar, then sat in a chair and looked at him.
“So. Since starting this new job of yours, you’ve—let me see … you helped somebody jump off a bridge, you wrecked the Dogmobile, you stole a horse….”
Mason was nodding.
“You stalked a convicted psychopath, took his journal, then attacked him in front of several witnesses who came to his rescue, forcing me to assault pretty much everybody in the place…. But before doing any of this you told him all your secrets, and spelled your last name for him…. Have I got this right?”
“We did quid pro quo.”
“You what?”
Mason tried again. “Quid … pro quo. I ask … a question, and then…”
“I know what quid pro quo is, you moron …”
“But we had to … aaaach, sink a ball.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Quid…”
“If you say pro quo again I’m going to strangle you too.”
“It’s … moot anyway.”
“Moot? What could possibly be moot?”
Mason tried, but all that came out was “Caaaaahhhhh …” He started to mime something. Chaz leaned forward with the glass. Liquid gurgled into Mason’s mouth.
“He read my file.”
“Your what?”
“We had the same therapist.”
“The same what?”
“She’s a doc….”
“So the horse thieving, the psycho assaulting … that started after you got professional help?”
Mason nodded.
“You should look for a new therapist.”
“She’s in danger,” said Mason.
“Of course she is,” said Chaz, standing up. He walked behind his chair.
Ghosted Page 20