IV.
Two close friends of mine were filming a sequence involving a stalker coming down a flight of stairs clutching a gigantic knife. He was headed for a bright-tiled kitchen where a young girl cringed in fear. The filmmaker focused the camera on the maniac walking slowly down carpeted stairs, and he continued filming as the murderer lost his footing and fell on his knife, which penetrated his thigh so deeply it poked out the backside. The wounded murderer limped into the kitchen, leaving a trail of bloody footprints on the tiled floor. He had on work boots with heavy treading, which left arrow-like patterns pointing to him. At that point, all filming ceased. The director rushed into the kitchen where his friend was slumped awkwardly against the stove, and together they pulled the knife from his leg.
The knife severed a main artery, so blood squirted out at intervals relative to his body’s pulse. He almost bled to death. He couldn’t walk for weeks. A surgeon had to slice in there and tie the artery off. The knife was saved as a grim souvenir and added to the huge collection of knives they had around the house. One of them was an unsuccessful salesman for CUTCO at the time. He had to buy all the knives he didn’t sell. It was a door-to-door gig, but he couldn’t stand to knock on doors and nag people. He actually lost money because he was forced to purchase knives. So his impetus for making thrillers stemmed from two facts: he had lots of knives, and he hated his job.
Tiles serve to accentuate the color of blood, as well as give blood a surface to expand on, whether it forms beaded droplets, thick round drip lines, or thin smears. I’ve seen opaque smears, mostly in movies, because usually if a bleeding person is thrown against tile, their weight takes the majority of the gore down with them as they slink into a crippled pile. I’ve cut my leg shaving before, and if I touch the sliced area to the tiled wall, it merely leaves a rustcolored spot, which I immediately have to rinse off to avoid nausea. If you make a horror movie, please use tiles. They’re a cliché now, especially after Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho, but one needn’t use a foot-long blade in shadow to instill fear in the viewer. Make a tiled house interior, wall-to-wall, and see what transpires. Apply mineral oil to every ceiling, wall, doorjamb, appliance, and piece of furniture. Insist all the actors perform nude. And let me know when I can see it.
THE WOOKIEE SAW MY NIPPLES
A WEEK IN THE LIFE OF PRINCESS LEIA
Monday
The boy we elected Han Solo in the sandbox last Tuesday is the most popular boy at school. I like him but not that much. I wanted Richard to win, but I was out-voted by six other girls. Anyways, I was on the bars and looked down and noticed my nipples were hanging out of my dress, so I got embarrassed and went inside. I think Han Solo saw them because he poked me with his light saber three times today at recess even though I was playing with Max. Max has red hair and eats his boogers, which is gross. But I like Max because he doesn’t go around thinking he’s so great. He’s shy and most of the sounds he makes are truck noises as he’s pushing his yellow dump trucks around. Han Solo talks all the time. He even talked in class today after Miss Kelly told him to be quiet. She was asking Lily how many red triangles she could find on the page in the book we were reading. Han said there were no red triangles and everyone started laughing. I raised my hand and said six, so Miss Kelly gave me two extra stars on the class chart. If I get fifteen more I can have a free pass to recess five minutes before everybody else. That’s how I get dibbs on the best swing or on the handball that isn’t lumpy.
Tuesday
Han Solo is so mean! I hate his guts. This morning I wrote a note to my friend Alissa and I folded it up and put like ten stickers on it so no one would read it as they passed it along. The note was about Han. I asked if she thought he was cute or not. I think he’s all right, but if I could choose Han Solo I would still pick Richard because he has light-blue eyes that are like space eyes. He looks like he would be from space and know lots of aliens, like in that bar in Star Wars when the aliens are playing music and there’s that blue one playing the horn that looks like an elephant. Remember when Han is in the bar and Chewie talks to him and Han knows exactly what Chewie’s saying? The average person wouldn’t know because Chewie’s language is from space. But it seems like Richard would know.
Anyways, I asked Han to pass the note to Alissa so Miss Kelly wouldn’t see. Most people will hide a note in their lap, and if Miss Kelly asks to see it they just drop it between their legs onto the floor. That’s a trick Richard learned from a fifth grader. He showed it to us, and I thought Han knew it but he didn’t. Miss Kelly took the note from Han and now I have minus five stars on my chart. Even Max is beating me. Max has the fewest stars because Miss Kelly keeps telling him not to pick his nose, but he does anyway. He should stop because almost nobody likes him.
So now Han knows I like Richard better and he probably hates my guts too!
Wednesday
Yesterday I was elected Princess Leia. Everybody stood around in the playhouse and decided with me standing right there. It was embarrassing. Han Solo picked me. It makes sense because he has to pick someone he likes or else they won’t make a good couple. Alissa told me Han picked me because I have long dark hair like Leia’s and am kind of cute! I’m not supposed to know. So I can’t act like I like Han because then he’ll know I know. At least now he doesn’t hate me, and I guess I don’t hate him as much because he started being really nice. Here’s what it was like in the playhouse today:
“Leia, come to the top level with me. We have to save Chewie, he’s trapped by Imperial Storm Troopers,” Han said.
“Wait,” I said, “let me change into my white robe.”
“There’s no time!” Han yelled as he climbed the ladder. “Chewie’s dying!”
Then he came over and put his arm around my waist and pulled me away from the closet. He gave me a kiss on the cheek and said, “Leia, take my hand!” Then he held my hand and helped me get up the ladder that goes to the roof. It’s small up there and there’s only room for two people. Usually whoever play Han and Leia get to go up there, sometimes Luke or Chewie, so I’d never seen the view. Han Solo sat next to me and said to look at the galaxy because one day it was going to get exploded by Darth. It was so sad and romantic. Then he kissed me on the lips.
Thursday
Han Solo is my boyfriend now! It all makes sense because I am Leia, so that’s how it really should be anyway. He hasn’t asked to see my nipples again but we’ve kissed four times so if he asks, I might show him. I asked Alissa if I should or not.
“If Han wants to look at my nipples, do you think I should let him?”
“You’re Leia. You have to,” she said. “Otherwise you might get voted out.”
“But don’t you think Miss Kelly would find out because Han would tell everybody?” I asked.
“Maybe, but then Richard will know everything and he might like you more,” she said.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because if the teacher knows and you get in trouble, Richard will think you’re cool,” she explained. “He likes girls who get in trouble.”
That made me like Richard more because he isn’t as nerdy as Han. Han is nice, but he sometimes seems sort of like a nerd. He’s a teacher’s pet. Like every day he beats the erasers outside to clean the chalk off for Miss Kelly. He has the most stars.
So I decided if Han asks, I will show him what he wants because he is technically my boyfriend. I’m thinking about breaking up, though. Richard is cooler and he’s not such a goody goody.
Friday
This morning when I was lined up against the classroom wall waiting for the bell to ring, Han Solo came over and started talking about how his wookiee wanted to meet me on the upper level at recess as soon as the bell rang. So when we got out for nutrition break I ran over there, climbed the ladder, and untucked my shirt so it could be lifted up easily. My mom makes me tuck it in but I always untuck it, so it’s not just that I was doing it for Han. Anyways, I don’t even know for sure if he saw my nipples that first
time. It just seemed like it. He kept poking me in this weird, mean way. And my mom told me that sometimes boys will act mean even when they really like me. She said they’re too afraid to say it. But then the next day Han kissed me, so I don’t know what to think. Maybe he saw my nipples when we were climbing the ladder that first time. He was looking up and holding my hand, so he could’ve peeked if he tried.
I was on the upper level waiting. Then up came Han, but he brought Chewie with him! I thought we were going to be alone. Chewie was handcuffed. Han told me he’d just rescued him from the Death Star and that they’d barely survived. Chewie roared because it’s against the rules to speak. I noticed Chewie had dirty fingers and wondered why. But I was too nervous to ask.
“Leia, please locate the key to unlock these cuffs,” Han said. I like him better when he’s bossy. I started looking on the floor and picked up an imaginary key.
“Unlock my wookiee,” he said as Chewie roared again. I set him free.
“Han, is Chewie going to stay here?” I asked. “Or do you think we should transfer him to Sector 7-B, where he can take a bath and eat?”
“Chewie has permission to stay,” Han said. And Chewie put his hand on my hair, brushing it as if he had a big hairy paw. I didn’t like this at all and pulled away.
Han asked his wookiee to turn around while he asked Leia something. Then Han whispered to me that if I could pull up my shirt and show his wookiee it might make Chewie feel better. Chewie was sick because Darth had tortured him with needles and hot metal. I knew it! I knew he had seen my nipples that time! I couldn’t wait to tell Alissa.
“I am at your command,” I said. “But the wookiee must face away.” Then I gave him a kiss. He granted my wish and told Chewie to stay turned around with his eyes closed.
I lifted my shirt and Han looked for a second then reached out to feel them. He didn’t say anything, but he felt them with his fingers, a rub then a pinch. It hurt when he pinched but I didn’t say Ouch! I didn’t want him to think I couldn’t handle it. I remembered that part where Leia makes a movie of herself and plays it through R2-D2 saying, Help me, Obi Wan Kenobi, you’re my only hope. She was so brave. Then, in the trash compactor scene, her braids fell out but she didn’t even care. Her hair was all messed up but she found a pole anyway and jammed up the walls that were about to mash everybody. I wondered, What would Leia do? I decided she would let Han squeeze her nipples as much as he wanted to. So he pinched mine pretty hard but it was kind of cool.
Then Chewie turned around and stared at me. I pulled my shirt down really fast. I was not Leia for a minute. I wanted to push him off the upper level into the sand. But I just stood strong and waited until Chewie climbed down the ladder, smiling the whole way like he was about to laugh. Han was about to laugh too, so I dumped him.
SOFT DEAD THINGS
I crave something to pet. I mean something besides my dog or cat. I need something even softer. My cat has a velvety coat, but it’s not wispy and fine like a rabbit or rodent. Rubbing my nose in her soft, white belly fur makes me sneeze. Sometimes when I wake up, I’ll kiss my dog’s snout, but it unnerves me to think of the trash and hairy testicles it’s been rooting around in. Still, he gets a morning smell I like, and sometimes I get off on his musky, bushy mane.
Right before I got my learner’s permit, I took some allowance and bought a sheepskin steering wheel cover, anticipating the day when I could cruise the mountain highways in my own car, gripping the puffy wheel. It was expensive but high quality, not to mention so squishy that I figured if I ever went camping and forgot my pillow, it would come in handy.
In high school, I gave my friends rides in the sheepskin mobile, until one too many of them compared me to Ed Gein. After that, I began to view my flocculent treasure as a symbol of blatant disrespect for mammalian life. I was honestly worried someone would report me to PETA.
I stored my steering wheel cover with the car jack and canvas tool bag, only pulling it out when I was driving in neighborhoods where no one could recognize me. I dreamt of road trips to Montana, a place where I imagined every truck had something wrapped around its cold wheel. “Where’s yer steering wheel cover, girl?” some grizzly farmer would ask me. “It’s freezing ass, you’re gonna lose some fingers grabbing that bare wheel.” I’d reach down and pull out my sheepskin, proudly stretch it around the wheel, then grip. “That’s more like it,” the burly guy would say, satisfied.
Eventually the sheepskin pilled with little balls of wool. In the spots where I held it, the fur rubbed completely off and the skin grew torn and holey. Still, I used it until the thing was threadbare.
Back when I was in kindergarten, I used to have a lot of tea parties. Once when I opened my teapot to inhale the imaginary steaming hot peppermint tea, I got a whiff of my hamster with her pissy nestshavings stink. I decided she needed a bath. How cute she would look popping out of the teapot like a Victorian children’s book illustration—the china pot, the round brown hamster ears, its whiskers against a floral-print wallpaper (the decals on the kettle were roses). In my Beatrix Potter books there were no hamsters, but there were lots of mice, and they were always getting dirty then tidying up to stay out of trouble. I hallucinated Hunca Munca and Mrs. Tittlemouse getting snippy with my pet because she was so disheveled.
So in the upstairs bathroom I ran the tap water until it reached maximum hotness and filled my kettle. Then I submerged the hamster. She pressed her paws against the oblong rim and scratched at me with her sticky claws, so I took tissues and wrapped my fingers in them. Once I got her inside, she started moving in slow motion and panting. After a final squeaky noise, she died, then slunk down into the teapot, limp and slick.
I pet her dead wet body for a long time. My hamster’s fur was wet-soft instead of dry-soft, which is sort of like the difference between rubber and velcro. Although I knew I’d done something mischievous, my fascination overcame any feeling of regret. Part of my pleasure came from the fact that I could pet her for so long—finally she was docile.
Before I buried the teapot with her inside behind a tall fence overgrown with clematis in the backyard, I touched her one last time. The moment when I felt her cold tough skin, like leftover chicken nuggets, has stayed with me up to the present. Her fur felt nice, but I preferred her alive.
Fur still makes me sad but excited, or it did until last week when I visited a fur shop in Beverly Hills to check out the coats. This shop carries both exotic and classic coats like mink and fox. Whenever I’m there, I remember my grandma’s Silver Fox jacket that used to hang in her closet. I used to wonder why it almost never left the garment bag. Why didn’t she wear it all the time? I wanted a fur coat, but not one like hers. It had all these fox tails dangling from the waist. She looked like Davy Crockett when she wore it—like a pioneer trying to be dressy.
To enter Samantha Furs in Beverly Hills, you have to get buzzed in. I always put on lipstick before ringing the bell, so they’ll think I’m serious.
On my most recent trip, a lady greeted me with long fingernails painted a gruesome coffee brown—I mean, the caramel of diner brew, not a rich chocolate espresso hue.
“Can I help you?” she asked, following me around as I eyed the garments.
“Just looking,” I said. “Do you have any beavers?”
“We just got some beavers in,” she said happily. Her high heels clicked across the tile floor to an especially dark brown, floor length coat that was wired to the rack.
I looked at the price tag, $5,000. It probably took fifty beavers to piece that thing together. A hundred dollars per beaver. Beavers are worth so much more than that, I thought.
“It’s gorgeous,” I said. “Can I try it on?”
Later, as I left the shop, a coiffed lady walked by flaunting a white rabbit stole while carrying her Pomeranian in her arms. They were an advertisement: Dead fur and live fur combine into my ultimate fur experience; don’t you wish you could afford the dead? And I thought, Why is dead animal fur more expensiv
e than live animal fur? My dog was free! Fuck everyone in Beverly Hills, I’m going home to pet my dog for the next four hours.
Every time I leave the fur store with that familiar feeling of humiliation, I tell myself I’ll never go back.
I am officially still turned on by fur. I’m also in awe of living animals and wish to celebrate their lives to the fullest. Soft dead things attract and repel me—but I’ve only succumbed that once. Until I can live someplace wild where there are several velveteen animal species to experience, I’m cutting myself off. Lately I’ve learned to squeeze the fleshy cheeks of my pets the way I squeezed my old steering wheel cover. I shake them back and forth as I tell them how much I love them and how cute they looked when they were newborns. I dig up their baby pictures from some dusty box in the basement and bring the photos upstairs to wave in their blissful faces. My cat licks the photos (for the taste of the salty emulsion), and my dog just hangs his tongue out and slobbers on them. My pets were softer when they were young, but I still love them. Most people think Lenny (in Of Mice and Men) crushed his mouse accidentally because he was too strong and clumsy, but I believe he crushed it on purpose because he couldn’t stand how cute it was and he went crazy.
To be truthful, I can’t wait until my pooch is a foxy red panda-jacket. Sometimes I contemplate where in the house I will place his tanned skin—in the hallway, or maybe in the most classic spot, before the fireplace? I imagine lying on my side, nude, drinking champagne and having sex to Barry White on the earthly remnants of his being. I picture a remote mountain cabin, the savory smoke from the birchwood log that just got chucked into the fire, and the four-pointed Chow Chow hide pinned like butterfly wings to the top of the A-frame’s two-story tall wall across from the bunk beds. My husband hangs his raccoon-tail hat on the pegs while he takes his muddy boots off on the porch. I am wearing leather moccasins to keep my feet warm. My kitty sniffs under the stove for bacon drippings. And in this future of using my deceased animal friends as decorations and clothing, I feel closer to the animals, more a part of the kingdom than ever before. This skin trend can extend far beyond soft things, into smooth suedes, into cool hard leathers, then into other product realms such as antler chandeliers and carved-bone letter openers. But every creature will have died a natural death. The rich Pomeranian lady from Beverly Hills had it totally wrong.
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