Dealing Flesh

by Birgit Waldschmidt

  “I forgot I have to meet some people in the desert.”

  He puts on his clothes, gives me a quick kiss, saying that he will call me soon and leaves. I cry myself to sleep.

  Today at the grocery store, I break into uncontrollable sobbing right in front of the checker. It’s something that happened to me many times in the past months, but much more the last few days now that Ken appeared on the scene again. Having the hardest time being alone with myself, I attend three back-to-back gatherings today in the program that supports people who love someone whose life is ruled by mind-altering substances.

  Ken’s number shows up on my pager around ten this morning, putting me right back on top of the world. I phone him.

  “I want to come home, babe,” he says.

  Severe elation takes me over.

  “What do you mean by ‘home’?”

  “Can I move in with you?”

  I gulp as additional euphoria ignites me even further.

  Romy (beseechingly): You must say yes. What’s to think about?

  Doubt Cloud (shouting): Dooon’t do it. You’re not gonna survive if you lose him again.

  An hour goes by during which I arrive at a “yes” answer, quickly changing it to “no,” then “maybe,” and back to “yes,” and so forth. Frustrated and my head in a spin, I ring Ken’s number. His voicemail picks up.

  “Honey, I thought hard about you moving in with me, but you know what? This very moment, I really can’t make a decision about that. I’ll talk to you another time, okay?”

  Romy: I’m suffocating in here. Gotta get out of the house.

  I go about the day, returning around eight this evening. Fantasia plays me a movie of how wonderful it could have all been right now had I said yes. I feel like running, just like Forrest Gump did, and never stopping again.

  Romy: Call him right away and tell him you had a change of heart.

  Deciding to listen to his voice one more time on one of the saved messages in my mailbox, I dial into my system.

  “You got one new message,” it alerts me.

  Ragelina: Impossible. I haven’t seen the pager go off for hours.

  “Please call me right now, baby. I will do anything you want; I just want us to be together again,” I hear Ken say.

  I call him instantly, but he does not pick up. I briefly explain on his voicemail what happened, urging him to contact me as soon as possible.

  Ragelina: Damned that pager company. Those fuckers should pay for ruining other people’s lives.

  Romy (wailing): How could they fail to deliver the most important message of my life?

  I do not hear back from Ken until the next morning.

  “Do you want me to be honest?” he asks as I have him on the phone.

  “Of course, I do.”

  “When you didn’t return my page, I assumed you went out with some guy again, so I went out with a girl I know.”

  The all too familiar raven blackness returns.

  “Fuck you, Ken. Do not ever bother me again.” I slam the phone down and head out the door.

  Fifteen minutes later, I am parked at the outskirts of the deserted grocery store parking lot a couple miles from my apartment. My eyes zoom in on the icing-covered donut inside the box on the passenger seat. I make a game of trying to catch the tears that keep crashing into my mouth by whisking my tongue across my upper lip like a windshield wiper: left, right; right, left. Their saltiness offsets the lingering sweet taste of the dozen cream and jelly-filled dough balls that passed over my tongue a few minutes ago. I grab the last one and devour it in the same savage manner as the others.

  To keep my long, gold-blonde highlighted hair from sticking to my soiled mouth, I secure it behind my ears. My fingers get stuck in tangles caused by sticky jelly patches. Ew. I rest my arm on the console, getting more sugary globs. Frantically, I wipe some of the crumbs from my black spandex top and knee-length skirt while my eyes take a brief scan of the cockpit interior of my ride.

  I notice that it looks like a birdcage tray after a parrot feeding. The mess is jarring but I cannot attend to it. Nothing matters but the paper bag next to me and the only thing left in it: a soft, gooey, chocolate fudge bar. A couple of bites into it, my face grimaces in disgust at the incessant sweetness of my binge. I take the rest of the bar and rub it one side at a time across the stained mat in front of the passenger seat, knowing it will eliminate the chances that I’ll be tempted by it later.

  For a few moments, I concentrate on the tingling of the teardrops traveling down my cheeks to my chin where they remain for a couple seconds before plunging into the crater of my cleavage. Several scenes of my favorite sexual fantasies flash before my eyes. They disappear again. I promise Fantasia I will revisit them later.

  Miss Vanity demands that I take instant measures to keep the sugar from reaching my blood stream, scaring me with frightening pictures of what I would look like chubby. I crank up the car and head toward home. Once inside the kitchen, I fumble for the chopsticks in the cabinet drawer and forge into the bathroom. Instantly, I kneel down in front of the toilet and poke at the inside of my throat. Out comes the load—or several little loads, that is—taking away much of the guilt—at least, for a short while.

  Ten minutes go by. A new wave of intolerable soul discomfort sends me rushing to the convenience store a few blocks from my pad and returning to my vehicle with a monster package of cookies, a pint of ice cream, and a couple of candy bars. I ravage the cookies and candy. I then try jabbing a spoon into the ice cream but it breaks. To give the stuff some time to thaw, I set course for my house again, driving the car at 50 mph down the road. My fingers lunge for the container on the passenger seat. I move it into my lap and lock it tightly between my thighs.

  One hand on the wheel, I tear the lid off with the other and quickly move the carton in front of my mouth. I can no longer see the traffic around me now that my incisors burrow into the frozen tan-colored substance, carving an inch-long trench into it. Gee. The brain freeze and stinging cold instantly make me pull my teeth back. Who cares that I can’t see the road? I need what I need, and I need it now. Within seconds, I stick my teeth in again. Pull ‘em out again. I do it twice more.

  Thoroughly frustrated, I pull over to the curb, turn off the car, and pick at the ice cream with another plastic spoon. It’s still hard, but with passing minutes, the chunks that make it onto the utensil get bigger and bigger. Thirteen minutes go by, not a lick left. I feel sick, but I know Hell Beast won’t let me rest. The tantalizing vapors of fudge float into my nose. Scaredy Cat demands I pick the filthy piece off the mat and trim the edges. I dig up one of the picnic knifes from inside the glove compartment, place the chocolate chunk onto a napkin, set it down in front of me and start sculpting. While chewing on the remaining piece, I hear Miss Vanity holler that I oughtta be ashamed of myself. I am. Sure, but it matters not.

  This is not your garden-variety suicide attempt, although it could be construed as one—a slow and dragging one, an involuntary form that has been proven to kill if engaged in habitually. Right now, I’m just after finding relief from the achy-breaky, acid-like burning feeling that is eating at the gaping wound inside me, the internal crater that no amount of sexiness or perfection could ever fill.

  I rush to my house again, and quickly relieve myself of the internal cargo. As my eyes stare at the still partially firm vanilla substance at the bottom of the loo, Scaredy Cat suggests I dig some of the texture back up and eat it. My throat badly battered, I ignore her. Instead, I shift my attention to Fantasia who does an excellent job selling me the concept of being the star in a titillating threesome with two sizzling-hot black men.

  The phone goes on silent. Blinds are closed and into the multi-disk-player drops one of the raunchiest music CDs I own. Mister V at my command, I dive into the mental theme of “I’m a porn star participating in an orgy with hoards of good-looking men of different nationalities who are doing all sorts of nasty things with me.”

 
; Another two hours go by. No…don’t stop, I hear Lustania whine as I am about to quit, hinting I should explore porn stardom for real; that way, I could always feel good about being bad. The excessive aching in my carnal region forces a break upon me, and my thoughts drift to memories of Ken again. I cringe, move into a fetal pose and wail until I feel brainless. As my gaze loses itself inside the blackness of the room, I contemplate another round of eating and sexing it up. Thankfully, within minutes, the sleep fairy whisks me away.

  ~~~

  The sun shines on my g-stringed behind while lying on my towel at Malibu Beach. Out of the blue, Ken calls, suggesting I pick up the rest of my things from his house, saying that they otherwise will end up in the dumpster since he is going to move out soon. Girded with seductive tan lines, I make it up the stairs that lead to his apartment an hour later.

  Doubt Cloud: Hmmmh, I wonder, if he’s moving in with some woman he’s doing.

  Ken lets me in. We exchange a disgruntled “Hi.”

  More convinced of my sex appeal than ever, I throw him an arrogant look when passing him.

  Hot Shot: Eat your heart out, pal.

  Without a word, I shoot straight over to the walk-in closet.

  Romy: Tell me this doesn’t mean I’ll never see him again?

  The garments piled on one arm, I do as Pretender Babe suggests, dawdling toward the front entrance in record-breaking slow motion to buy some more time for a possible reaction from Ken.

  Romy (swooning): I want him to interfere like they do in the movies…like when boy keeps girl from walking out of his life, and they live happily ever after.

  Ragelina: Don’t count on it, not after all the shit he’s put you through.

  I reach the front door. Nervously, I switch the items that are crowding my left forearm to the opposite side. Ken is leaning against the table to the right of me, several feet away, his arms crossed in front of his chest, his eyes peeled on my every move.

  Romy (whining): It’s the worst pain in the world knowing that he cares so little.

  I send a quick huffy “bye” his way and despondently put my hand on the handle.

  Romy: Out of time—damn. You can’t just stand there and let ‘Forever Over’ happen. Do something.

  This exact second, Ken leaps toward me and places his marine-like body in front of the door, causing my hormones to whirl completely out of control.

  “Let me out,” I boldly repeat after Pretender Babe who is getting a kick from keeping the game of pertness alive.

  Thankfully, Ken does not honor my request but instead, lifts me off the ground and throws me over his left shoulder.

  Lustania: Ummh-hmm. This is getting good, yeah.

  Pretender Babe lightly drums her fists against his back while he marches toward the middle of the room with me.

  “Put me down, dammit,” I demand with an almost believable feistiness.

  He carefully drops me on top of the futon mattress in the center.

  “Sit for a minute,” he says.

  Pouty-lipped, smoldering with excitement, and immensely tickled by my strategy of defiance to the inevitable, I stare at the wall in front of me.

  “I think you need a massage,” he says, serving me his famous irresistible grin. I slyly smile. I feel his hands run up my thigh, ultimately advancing to kneading it in slow soft motion.

  Lustania: Just what the doctor ordered.

  Romy: I’m getting my honey back.

  Our eyes collide in unbridled desire. Having rested on my elbows up until now, I lay back to fully enjoy his intoxicating touch. Rendered without will, releasing all resistance, I let him fly me to the moon. Returning to earth an hour and a half later, I ask Ken if we are now in a relationship again. He dances around the issue, keeping me more confused than ever with his life-draining vagueness.

  Romy: I just can’t take it any more, not knowing if he is for real, lying, or seeing someone else while stringing me along? If he won’t fill in the blanks, I’m gonna have to get to the truth some other kind of way.

  ~~~

  Two weeks have come and gone since I last saw Ken face-to-face or spoke with him on the phone. I resolutely enter the parking lot of the building on Linden Street this sunny weekday afternoon. I glance over to the spot where Ken’s car is generally parked, noticing that the port is unoccupied. I proceed inside the building and sprint up the stairs to his unit. My heart pounds rapidly as I stick the spare key into the door. I open it without making a sound and hurriedly step inside, nearly forgetting to breathe.

  Romy: Geeeooo-lee. What’s happened to my baby? I hope he is okay.

  The place looks a chaotic mess, as if a bomb went off inside. One can hardly find a path to walk on. I feel my adrenaline pumping as I hasten from room to room. With sweaty palms, I pick up the receiver of the phone on his desk and press redial. It connects to the answering machine of a mutual friend of ours – Olga.

  Enviola: Thank God, it’s not that chick from Long Beach.

  Romy: I gotta find something before I leave here. I need closure, damn. I deserve to know why he won’t commit to me.

  Nervous as can be, I poke around in the bathroom trashcan, digging for condoms or other feminine items. Nothing. I search other parts of the flat for lingerie, perfume, love letters, anything that indicates Ken is screwing someone else. Again…nothing turns up. But there, on top of the dining room table is my diary, the one I sent him in the mail a week ago in the hopes that it will prove to him how much I adore him. It is flipped open and turned upside down.

  Scaredy Cat: That’s it. Time to get out. He could be here any second.

  I leave unseen. Right before I get to my car, I toss the spare key into a large garbage container on the side of the road.

  Romy: There goes my life.

  Two weeks go by. Today, my diary arrives in the mail, a week after asking Ken to send it to me. About to make a new entry for the day, I discover that he filled the last four pages with his own words. The abbreviated version sounds something like this…

  My sweet, I love you, and I can’t deny that we sure have a whole lot in common. But regardless, this just isn’t a good time for us to be together for reasons I can’t get into right now.

  Flooded with tears, I sense an invisible sword jab me each time I read over those lines.

  Whip Cracker: Oh dear. Don’t you know by now that love is a big fat lie, let alone what I’ve already told you on numerous occasions? Ken is too fine to hang around an average woman like you…an average woman like you…an average woman like you…Had you been a super model, actress, or rich chick, he would have quit smoking dope. Like he told you, you are an imbecile, a whore. Imbeciles and whores can never succeed in the real world. Just drop the ‘Miss Goody Two Shoes’ act. You are only good for one thing: getting guys off. I strongly suggest you go where guys adore you for what you have to offer. It’s always better to die from the ultimate climax than from a broken heart.

  Tough Gal (hissing): Get the hell away from her.

  Hot Shot: But he is right. I suck. I’m the wrong kind of woman. Fuck. The wrong kind, for sure.

  Romy: The hopeless variety.

  CHAPTER 19

  Hell Beast’s Roar

  I heedlessly roam the streets of the West Valley. The sun has already set. The words “Best Peep Show in Town” jump out at me from a big, white, illuminated screen on the building to my left.

  Hot Shot: Whoa, check that out. Always wanted to know how the earning potential of those girls compare to stripper incomes.

  Romy: Please, don’t go in there.

  Hot Shot: I don’t think it matters if I dabbled around a bit more on the seedy side of life now that I don’t have either love or money. Come along.

  I park the car and head inside. The guy at the check-in desk suggests that I look around as long as I need to to decide if I’d like to come on board. I make my way down a stretch of tiny stalls which, in my head, I call “masturbation row.” They remind me of a ribbon of storefronts; only
their main attractions are found on the backside of each tiny establishment. Inside every dark and creepy space is a thin glass divider that separates the customer from the entertainer. Behind it the chosen showgirl presents her goods up-close and personal, and in anyone’s face who has the means to pay for it.

  I walk into one of the empty cabins. For a moment, I contemplate about sitting down on the round wooden footstool, but it gags me picturing the gallons of sperm that flowed through here.

  Miss Vanity: I’d freak out if some sticky residue latched onto the bottom of my pants.

  Therefore, I remain standing.

  For several seconds, my eyes follow the woman’s act adjacent to the booth I’m in. I make out bits and pieces of what goes on. I spot the man who hovers in front of her with his face greedily sticking to the window’s surface while she performs for him up close. When exiting the space, I notice that the curtain to the neighboring booth is badly adjusted and that it provides a tiny opening to peek through. I cannot help but take an inconspicuous glance. I watch how the stripper presses her buttocks against the glass barrier, giving it her best for a dollar a minute.

  Hot Shot: Uhh, I don’t think so. That shit’s beneath me. I think money can be made faster in a real club.

  “I need some time to think about this. Will let you know,” I tell the guy at the front and jam out of there.

  Whip Cracker: Check into webcam modeling. I know you’re curious about it because I’ve seen you read those advertisements on plenty of occasions.

  I admit, the thought of making money from the safety of my own room, putting on a show or talk dirty to someone I can’t see, interests me.

  Hot Shot: I think it’s a fabulous idea, but on second thought, I’m not sure if I want everyone in the world who’s got access to a computer and a valid credit card see me naked whenever they please.

  Whip Cracker: You can always wear a wig.

  Starlight: Nice try, but I think I’ll pass. It’ll tarnish my chances for a future acting career.

  Over the next two weeks, several promising connections with various owners of webcam businesses form. Weighing the pros and cons again, I, at once, withdraw from any outstanding job offers.