Angel promised never to bring any business home. Soon, tall lustful men were pounding on Sanchez’s door at all hours.
Sweetie, please don’t tell lies in my house, said Irene, believing in the present necessity of abrasive words.
What do you mean? said Angel with a false smile. I was in jail, I really was; I swear it—
Yeah? Then where’s your plastic bracelet? Where’s your papers?
You know what, cunt? It’s not your house. Not no more.
When Angel finally persuaded Sanchez to throw her out, Irene was crushed. Strangely enough, it was the old man whom she hated more than Angel, even though the latter was the precipitating agent of her destruction. On her last morning in the Imperial Hotel, convinced that Sanchez had been scheming to bring about her departure all along, she refused to say goodbye to him, but embraced Angel, sobbing like a child. —It won’t be so bad, honey, Angel said. You’ll find a new home, I know you will! And we’ll meet on the street. It’s gonna be just like old times . . . —Irene gripped Angel even more tightly, and here the Queen’s intuition about her proved entirely true, because at that moment, even if only for that moment, she was willingly and proudly embracing her own degradation, like a Christian on the cross. And perhaps what she intended for Tyler (although one can never be sure about anything concerning the Queen) was for him to take to himself the embodied shame of Irene’s self-distraction, loving somebody who would be bad for him. And yet how depressing, indeed repulsive these plans for another appear, when we spell them out like this! Tyler, of course, had humbly laid his life in the Queen’s hands; it was incumbent on her to do something with it. As for Irene, incapable almost of choice, haunted by the insult she received, fearful of that grimy and dangerous street life which had now reclaimed her, she went silently down the stairs until for the last time she passed through the lobby, and the desk clerk wrinkled his nose. Then she left the Imperial Hotel forever. Suddenly dreading above all the possibility that Angel and Sanchez might be watching out the window, she refused to look back, and for this pride I admire her, especially when she would have done anything to be allowed to return. What then? She hobbled to Capp Street, clutching all her belongings against her stomach in a trash bag, which with extreme tentativeness she concealed in a garbage can. With its bruises, varicosities, scars, scabs, burns, bites and abscesses, her flesh resembled one of those Hungarian sausages which offers the buyer all the splendid colors of autumn: astonishing oranges from paprika, scarlets as delicious as any dead maple leaf, yellow pebbles of fat. But who would buy her? What would she do? It was only ten in the morning, and she was already beginning to feel junk-sick. Terrified of what would happen if she didn’t cop some heroin very very soon, she set out on a hunt for sanctuary, not knowing exactly what she was looking for, praying she would recognize it when she found it. Unlike Beatrice, who conversed with the Virgin in her straits, Irene retained no one to pray to but herself. Her ancient, bloodshot eyes saw the black-and-white come rolling from around the corner, and she was already shambling on before the police could accuse her of peddling pussy at that infamous corner. Today no one would help her to continue existing, and for her to pursue salvation through the one trade she could practice was to become a criminal, a temporary betrothed. She considered going to live with the Queen as Beatrice had advised, but she had been given to understand by Domino, who wished to keep the club exclusive, that the Queen was a very difficult and dangerous old bitch who sometimes cut women’s eyes out, and that her kindness to Irene during their private interview had been a treacherous device. Irene trusted Domino more than Beatrice, because given two tales, the most frightening one was generally in her experience the truest. She had now put almost four blocks between her and the Imperial Hotel. Exhausted, she sat down on somebody’s front step and cried again. Although the heroin need grew nauseatingly inside her from moment to moment, more than anything she worried about the terrible pain in her leg which made it so difficult to walk. The hospital had told her that she had two blood clots. Irene wondered whether this had something to do with the fact that heroin had stopped her periods and somehow sent the bad blood from her womb into her legs. They’d given her some anticoagulant pills, but when her left leg started feeling better she quit out of a principle of general distrust, the bottle only half empty (and she was supposed to get three more refills); then her right leg began to hurt. She wanted to go to S.F. General and perhaps if she won extraordinary luck sleep that night in a high metal bed with clean sheets, but she had to earn ten dollars first, understanding all too well that even if she’d reported to the waiting room early in the morning (and it was no longer early), no doctor would see her until late afternoon, by which time she wouldn’t be able to handle the scanning and palpitating and poking unless she’d shot up in the ladies’ room. And how could she do that, without ten dollars? Ten dollars would save her or damn her! She tried to explain this to Tyler but he didn’t understand; it was as if he didn’t listen or something . . . (In fact, what she had said to him was: You see, I’m daydreaming. You see, I’m nodding. If I coulda had some coke instead of straight heroin I wouldn’t be nodding like this. I was a little more cool than my classmates. So I always hung around with people who . . . And I asked my mother . . . But she wouldn’t lemme . . . just make a joke about it . . . and then I told ’em—I told ’em . . .) Irene never felt so abandoned by God as she did that day. Ten dollars! She staggered all the way from Sixteenth up to Twenty-First in hopes of performing a ten-dollar blow job so that she could purchase white medicine from the tall man, who ran a side business outside the Queen’s circuit, but nobody would pick her up because she stank. Ten dollars! Closing her eyes, she could see her heroin spoon, not too thick, not too thin; she tapped the needle because even though she’d only used it once they were now cutting heroin with shoe polish, which gummed up the point. She could see it; she could taste it. Ten dollars! Forgetting all about her possessions in the trash can, she dragged herself far beyond the drunken swaggerers who were now too drunk to do anything but sit on their overturned shopping cart. Irene asked them: Hey, can you spare just five or ten cents? It would really make my day. That’s all I need. —They gave her nothing. A man in mechanic’s coveralls was coming, so Irene asked him: Can you spare just fifteen cents? and he walked by her. Ten dollars! Irene rounded the curve of a passed-out drunk’s buttock on the reddish sidewalk-tiles in front of Walgreens—Walgreens! she was going the wrong way! Turning around, she discovered an auto repair shop, then two more shopping carts side by side with a foam mattress folded over them both to marry them, clocks and towels and blankets stained with wine-flavored urine and stuffed animals tucked beneath them in what to Irene was utter senselessness. She passed Chocolate, who was prancing back and forth on Capp Street like a spirited warhorse, holding her white parka in her arms as she streetwalked because she didn’t want it stolen. Chocolate and Irene did not say hello to one another. She passed Justin, who leaned with his empty hand behind his back. At last she came to a weary black man’s blue stubble glowing like a patch of tiny alpine flowers as he slept under the subway lights. The palm of his hand was incredibly expressive. Ten dollars, ten dollars! She was as wide open as Mission Street with its palm trees rising above squarish brickwork and woodwork. She passed Strawberry, who was scratching her forehead as she pulled her hair back, leaning against brickwork, urgently watching each car. Irene had irrevocably lost count of Strawberry before she even saw her. A quarter-hour later, the Queen emerged from the Thor Hotel with a cigarette in her mouth and her hands in her pockets; Irene did not see her. It was sunset now, and the sharp stench of urine on the sidewalk focused her consciousness like smelling salts applied to a fainting woman. If she only had ten dollars . . . Irene stumbled through bright bristling palms and fish markets and supermarkets and murals, spied on by informers with pawnshop eyes. Then she walked some more, her teeth sunk deep in her lower lip so that she would not scream with pain. Was she free like Buddha? Finally she remembered Tyle
r.
| 179 |
Tyler was drunk. Tyler was in need like Domino marching down the streets in her silver miniskirt muttering to herself: I gotta get me some bump.* —He said: All I have now is my pain, Irene. That’s all that ties me to you. Without that cord, I’d fall into the abyss of senseless happiness.
The false Irene, who barely heard him and was sure that he had no conception of what pain was, said: Can I stay with you?
Let’s see how it goes, he said. He had faith, but not so much. He was afraid that her stench would infect his apartment forever. He feared that she would steal his computer and try to sell it. God knows what she would do . . .
You mean you don’t care about me? The Queen promised you’d take care of me . . . And I . . . You see, if I could just cop some china white . . .
What is it you want, baby?
He was so shallow. He knew what she needed, and he would not give it to her. Look at him! He had nice shoes! If he cared for her, he could sell his shoes. He must have money in his wallet. If he would only give her ten dollars, just ten dollars . . . That was what her happiness cost.
Well, my connection got busted, she began to explain, making a great effort to help him comprehend, and . . . and after the raid, I didn’t know anyone to cop from, so me and Domino, we had to go downtown to meet someone on Turk Street . . .
Oh, come on, said Tyler. Domino cops from the Queen.
All right, so I was lying to you, said Irene. I don’t know why I lied, I just . . . Hey, you got any money on you?
| 180 |
Remember you said that I didn’t have to have sex with you if I didn’t want to? said Irene. Well, I’m thinking that maybe I won’t have sex with you tonight, because I’m starting to like you and I want to see . . .
Okay, sweetheart.
Thanks for the ten dollars. I really appreciate it. You saved my life, Kenny.
Henry.
Oh, did you say your name was Henry? I thought you . . . Listen, I gotta go. I need more heroin. I’ll be back in forty-five minutes and then we can just cuddle, okay? I’ll whistle outside your window. Don’t worry. You’ll wake up. You ain’t never heard me whistle.
The darkness about them was close and cool and stone-flavored like a cathedral’s, and within it, like candles offered to the memories of souls, glowed the flames of many crack pipes. The happy sense of love, of trust, of grateful sharing between two people who have just smoked crack together temporarily allowed him to believe in her. (He had a sudden memory of Irene rushing about most soundlessly in stockinged feet on the carpet at John’s place, making dinner. He’d become agitated, as was usually the case whenever he had to see Irene. But he never showed it. He remembered Irene standing with her left hand on her hip, clicking the remote control, her lips parted as she gazed at the crawling colors in the TV. He could see her sitting on the carpet, dialling John’s portable phone, her dark lips parted, smiling politely at him but withdrawn; he knew that she was irritated at something. He remembered her high small breasts.) She kept giving him more hits of crack and he kept rubbing her neck.
She kissed him on the lips and said: I never kiss.
You got any more money? she said.
(Tyler stood in the locked bathroom, counting his money from the nylon under-the-pants moneybelt which smelled like his balls. The false Irene was moaning and snoring.)
Okay, she mumbled. I gotta go. I need my medicine. I’ll be right back.
She didn’t come back, of course.
| 181 |
He loved the false Irene with sincere desperation for more than three weeks.
In the fourth week he was walking past Sixteenth and Capp at around nine in the morning and saw Angel, although he did not know that she was Angel; then he spied Lily across the street, thin and false-blonde, with her hair, skin and clothes all grey and pitted like an old barn door or a hammer which had been left outside in an Arctic wind for years and years; she was standing on the corner, looking patiently at every passing car, and seeing him Lily smiled and waved until he waved; then she strutted halfway over to him with her miniskirt riding high up her hips and her hairy thighs all crusted with some yellow substance, so for politeness he approached her and she came closer and soon was at his side.
How about the morning special? said Lily.
What’s that? said Tyler, taken aback.
Ten dollars.
Ten dollars for a blow job, I guess, he thought.
Well, how about if I buy you coffee? he said, anticipating that good happy coffee feeling, the same feeling almost as of crack cocaine.
She was already starting to move back to her corner, just a step or two back so that she might still be able to return quickly to get something out of him, and looking coolly into his eyes she said: Well, you could just give me a dollar. That would work.
That’s Domino’s line, he laughed.
Oh, her. She’s full of one-liners, but I’m better. My hole’s better. You wanna see my hole?
One of these days, Lily.
Well, then, how about that dollar?
How about when I see you? he said, not wanting to give her anything if she wouldn’t even sit with him for a minute, not that he blamed her.
Fine.
Do you remember me? he hazarded.
I know I’ve seen you before. I just . . .
I’m Henry.
Henry? Oh, that’s right. You’re Maj’s . . .
How’s the Queen?
She said to ask about you, but I forget what she wanted me to ask. I bear so many messages at so many times, and sometimes the first message overshadows the last message, because I . . .
Tell her I’m trying really hard but I’m having problems. Can you remember that, Lily?
A dollar would sure help my memory . . .
| 182 |
Every morning Lily went out to Capp Street walking skinny and crusted, spookily laughing from her tired cunt unmuffled by any underwear; then Domino usually came and started yelling as she did every night: Bitch, bitch bitch, you stole ten dollars off me, bitch! and Lily just squatted there on the curb, ignoring her, so Domino kicked her onto her ass and triumphantly laughed: Bitch! while Lily laughed, gurgled and cycled like an old dishwasher in some not yet vandalized apartment, remembering her black nightgown in which she always used to do business because she thought that it made her more pretty; in fact it got so that she didn’t like to take it off even during a fuck because it made her look and feel so special. Some customers disagreed, but Lily knew that even if she wouldn’t fuck naked they were nonetheless happier in her company than alone, especially because in those days she had a nice thing that she did for the men (like Sunflower or the Queen, she wanted to give them all something). She would spread a rubber sheet on the mattress and grease it, and then tell the john to take off his pants and everything else and lie down on his back on the greased rubber sheet while she went to mix him a free drink, and afterward she’d give out her choice of one of three nude photos of her, which she’d then package in an Amaretto box; but so many times the men said: Hey, I’m married, I don’t want no photo of some hooker, so then she started saying: And if you’re not married you can have this if you want . . . but even then they sometimes worried that it might be incriminating, so Lily learned to say more tentatively: Well, if you’re not married and if you don’t think it would incriminate you, I can give you a picture of me, but half the time after the men had left and she went outside to get some milk and tomato soup for her mother she’d find the nude picture of her lying on the street, or jocularly stuck behind a stranger’s windshield wiper, or face-up or face-down in the trash.
Did that make you sad? Sunflower had asked her.
Sad! choked Lily, laughing and crying. Hell, no. But it made a lot of other people sad. Ugly me, and my ugly pussy, saddening people all through the neighborhood . . .
She continued to wear her black nightie because she knew it made her into the most beautiful girl. Somehow that nightie was magic.
Okay, so on request she’d lift it above her weary breasts but it never came off when she was doing men, never, ever, especially after she started to get older (well, almost never; sometimes she might relent if a man tipped her), until after a while it began to look and smell a million years old and the men started making comments, so she went to the five and dime and found another just like it, being a creature of habit in more than one way. That find made her very happy. She took the old black rag, threw it into her favorite dumpster, and wore the new black rag. When it ripped, she trimmed it into a miniskirt like Beatrice’s; Bea had shown her how. . .
Meanwhile Domino stood halfway down the block, showing tit and whistling. Humiliating Lily always put her in a fine mood. That bitch was so out of it, so perpetually robbed and broken, that she’d never tell Maj. Truth to tell, Lily really had borrowed ten from Domino and shot it into her veins, so we cannot accuse the blonde, who needed money as much as anyone, of being evil—Domino wasn’t that, merely mean.
| 183 |
So what’s new? said Domino, each of whose eyes resembled in hue the blue star which said S.F.P.D. on the white door of the black police car with its shiny twin upturned mirrors like mandibles and its blocky multicolored roof-light.
Oh, you remember that cat I had? the false Irene said.
That little shit? chuckled Domino. How could I forget?
Hey, that’s my cat you’re talking about.
That’s your diseased pussy I’m talking about, the blonde muttered to herself.
Oh, fuck you, said the other whore.
All right, fine. What about your darling cat? Wasn’t that like a year ago you had that cat?
I think I told you that it was one of two that they had at this clubhouse. And the other, this Samoan gangster stomped it to death. So when they got the next litter, I took all three. I figured I could sell them to some friends. And I got money for two, but I had to take them back, because the two girls I sold them to weren’t taking decent care of them. And one had a litter, so now I have eight cats. That’s my news.
The Royal Family Page 42