Seven Deadly Pleasures

by Michael Aronovitz

  "What's the point?" I said. From beneath his cloak, the Reaper produced a long-handled sickle. He pushed himself up to a standing position and brought the weapon down with a kingly bang.

  "Because I am the provider of your shield, and I like to see my work in action once in a while!" He paused, and leaned in a bit. "Don't you see? I am the creator of the mask. Without it, the human race would annihilate itself in a matter of days. Call it a loan. I supply your species with this safety device, this ability to screen, refine, and purify before going verbal so to speak. In return, I take lives at random. That's the deal. On the downside, I am the artist who so briefly gets to witness his product first hand because he must inevitably erase his subjects. It is life's ultimate irony."

  "Then take back the mask."

  "What did you just say to me?"

  "Take it," I said. "I have nothing to hide."

  He cocked his head.

  "You reject my art? You dare to insult me?"

  "Yes."

  "You reject the gift I have given you? You reject the very essence of personal mastery?"

  "Yes," I said. And fuck you, I thought for good measure.

  His grin got savage and the air tingled. He pressed in across the table within an inch of my face, and I was overcome by an odor that drew up images of dead flowers strewn before gravestones under a pale moon. My head spun, and he spoke a last time.

  "I always like a good wager, so survive this and your life shall be spared. Speak the truth for two short hours."

  Then he was gone.

  It was 8:00 A.M.

  With every second that passed by, the "Reaper incident" dulled and lost potency. The bubbling sound indicated that the coffeemaker was on its last cycle, next to hiss the last of its water through in a thin stream. If there was any sound that could really ground you, that was it. I got down two clay cups, did the sweeteners, and added the half-and-half with the pretty Native American squaw on the carton. A bird chirped somewhere, but it wasn't that distinct sound cardinals made when spring had truly arrived.

  I turned to the window and looked into the back alley. The neat checkerboard presentation of windows and brick face was betrayed at the bottom by small pockets of trash that had blown up and settled in various areas of fencing. Of course, everyone had a different idea of what color a garage door should be and how long between paint jobs was appropriate. Wires crisscrossed each other up and down the row, and there was laundry hanging off some of them. The family across the way had left their mongrel dog out all night, and he was circling his pen with his gray tongue hanging out. He sensed me, pawed up on the fence, and barked hoarsely. We really had to get out of the city.

  I poured the coffees and strode back through the living room. Potted coleus and fern stood like handsome soldiers beside the wall unit stacked with television, cable box, DVD player, and state-of-the-art audio system. The sun coming through the blinds made glare bars across my Monets hanging on the east wall. From upstairs Tina's voice tinkled like those high piano keys little girls trilled in the drawing rooms of movies about the old country.

  "Honey, we need toilet paper up here!"

  The hairdryer kicked on. I switched the coffees to one hand, opened the downstairs closet, and snagged a roll.

  "We could have used a jumbo pack of these at the office yesterday," I thought with a smirk. "The old man must have shit himself at the close of trade when he saw my profit and loss at eight hundred and ninety thousand in the black."

  Then again, he probably thought it pretty much par for the course by now. After my third interview and the ceremonial handshake nine months ago, he'd said they hired me at Rollins and Howell Financial because I was the most serious young man they had ever met. They thought I was the dependable young mule they could keep in the wings, and what they got was a thoroughbred that shot out of the gate. They had planned a straight and narrow path for me, and now pretty much scrambled to get out of my way. I was a risk taker with an incredible poker face. I had a great sense of humor, but kept it to myself. I loved being an enigma, time and again dashing those lingering impressions of conservative stoicism with broad and sweeping strokes of precariousness behind closed doors. I always went long, and I never asked permission. I almost always won, and didn't even smile until I got home.

  Tina called me an "old soul." Still, every oyster had to have a pearl to give up once in awhile. I did confide in her. I told her my dreams, confessed my insecurities, shared occasional frustrations, admitted the different angles and depths of my love for her. I preferred to do that in bed, under the covers with the lights off. I liked the warming effect of her cheek to my bare chest, and the hollow of my neck. I liked her little rosebud lips and the way she dryly brushed them along my jaw line. I cherished those intimate exchanges, breath mingled with breath. Whispers.

  "Baby, I love ya!" I called out loud while climbing the stairs.

  The hairdryer stopped.

  "What did you say, Mookie?"

  I smiled. We were still in the stage of little pet names in private. It started as a joke and we fell into the habit. It was cute for now, and it would pass. That was OK too. As long as we didn't turn into a quarreling couple like her parents.

  "I said I love ya! Whoops!"

  "What?"

  "My foot hit the base of the top step and I almost dropped the coffee."

  She snickered.

  "Klutz! You should work out or something."

  "Cunt! If you keep sneaking handfuls of the Nestlé's morsels that are only supposed to be for baking, you're going to end up with a bitch-belly like your mother."

  Whoa!

  I straightened up and a hot dash of coffee spattered my wrist.

  The vision was real!

  And I was lucky. The ugly words had escaped under my breath just after Tina turned the hairdryer back on. Just. I stumbled into the bedroom and ditched the clay cups. Prickly sweat beads stood up on my scalp.

  It was all real!

  There was no filter. There was simply the primal brainwork here, immediately spit forth like sewage before it could be transformed into something witty.

  I plucked a pack of Marlboro Lights off the bedside end table, stuck a smoke between my teeth, and absently patted my chest for a lighter. I was partly dressed, no shirt. My eyes did an erratic, bouncy search across the room and I made myself slow the glance down. On the bureau sat "the box" which Tina had conveniently forgotten to stow in the basement, and I snatched it down to dig through.

  It was her old retro Gothic stuff, safety pin earrings, studded wristlets, spiked ankle bands, and junk jewels. It was her childhood hope chest, sweet nostalgic reminders of the fashion she sported long before I introduced myself, showed her the comforts of the corporate world, romanced her, swept her off her feet, and made her Mrs. Joe Kagan. The skull and crossbones lighter was near the bottom and I drew it out to thumb the small roller. The flame blew out before I could light up and I cupped my palm against the current of the ceiling fan. I popped it to life and took a deep drag.

  "So," Tina said.

  I jerked at the sound and she didn't notice. She was on her way to the closet to switch blouses for the umpteenth time, and she twisted her straight, jet-black hair up into a temporary bun. She scanned the overstuffed hanger-rack, shook her head, and reached for the small bottle sitting next to her pile of beret hats on the back shelf. She turned, pursed her lips, sprayed a bit of perfume into the air, walked into it, and spoke as if the conversation from last night had never been interrupted by seven hours of sleep.

  "So, hon, if the kids play ball on the lawn tonight, it's your turn to kick 'em off, right?"

  It was her slickest game. If not fully gratified, Tina would relentlessly return to a subject until the answer brought full satisfaction.

  "We discussed this last night," I said. She blinked thick lashes.

  "Yes, but we did not conclude. They're always in our garden to use my flowering fig for first base. When I asked them to leave yesterday that ol
der boy called me the 'C' word while his mother stood in her doorway across the street with a smirk on her face. It's not fair, and I think you should get involved."

  "Fuck your flowering fig," I said. "That woman across the street happens to be married to the biggest, meanest-looking motherfucker I've ever seen and I don't relish the thought of pissing him off."

  Tina's arms flew up to cross before her chest and my heart sank. Straight confrontation made for poor politics and the issue was tricky, especially since she had a good point. Our neighborhood was the farthest borough northeast of town that still claimed an urban zip code. And it was littered with children, mainly two tribes. The nine-year-olds were the wild street rats who kept the avenue swarming with the violence of their Nerf bow and arrows, rubber dart pistols, and Super Soakers. Still, the real problem was the twelve-year-olds, that cruel clan that was quick to make captains and choose up sides. Whether it was a quick round of roughhouse, dodge ball, or nine-inning baseball played with an aluminum youth bat and duct-taped tennis ball, they claimed any section of unfenced property as prized, personal domain. Real champs. They swore like sailors, fucking spastic, you suck!, argued like lawyers, and slid hard and often into Tina's flowering fig.

  "Stop playing the isolationist," she said. "I need your support in this because when I do it alone, I come off as the neighborhood witch." She bent to tug her black stockings and the smooth line of her cleavage jumped out to say hello.

  "I want you now, baby," I said. "Shut your damned trap and bend over so I can do the nasty." As soon as it was out I clapped my hand over my mouth, but she read the motion as an act of sarcasm. She jerked up straight.

  "I'm not your slut, Joe. And don't change the subject. Our life together does not just revolve around you."

  "The hell it doesn't! Do you really think that the chump change you make at the boutique even comes close to—"

  "Why, you slug," she said. Her eyes got weepy for a moment, but she fought it off with a quick sniff. I used the pause to the best of my ability.

  "Honey! I made a bet with the Grim Reaper this morning and believe me, I'll be all right by mid-morning, please!" Her "hurt" look went ugly.

  "Stop fucking with me."

  "I'm not kidding! It's a curse! I just need two hours to get myself—"

  She put her hands on her hips, and I jumped tracks.

  "—that blouse makes your arms look fat, you pig."

  Her eyes flicked to high beam.

  "Fuck you, asshole!" She brushed past in a huff. "Today, I'll take the bus and the subway."

  There it was. I had gone from "Mookie" to "Joe" to "asshole" in the space of two minutes. The room still held the muffled ring of hot words and Tina's voice wafted up the stairs just before the slam of the door.

  "And don't chase me down the street, either! It would give our neighbors something else to laugh at, you bastard!"

  I let her go. As badly as I felt about it all, it was clear that this would have to be patched up later over dinner and at the bottom of a bottle of fine burgundy. Wasn't there a really cool Italian place on Berkley that had waiters who played violins at the table? Yes, at the office I would make the reservation, order flowers, and maybe pick up a new piece of jewelry to sneak onto her cloth napkin. I reached into the closet for my double-breasted three-piece and frowned.

  I could not go to work in this condition.

  Still, I had to. Today, the unemployment report on which I had taken a few risky investment positions was being released. The old man knew it and I was under strict obligation to make an appearance.

  "On the first Friday of each month you are to be here when the economic releases come across that news wire service. That means nose to the computer by 8:30 A.M., Eastern time, no exceptions. Pull a no-show, and we will do the rough and tumble in my office like you have never seen! I only want you to show you care."

  But I had to stay home nonetheless, even though I had actually seen the old man issue a pink slip over a principle. If he was awarded my company in this condition, I would be jobless and blacklisted by 9:07. At 10:01 with the curse lifted, it would be easy to rush in with some kind of story to explain my tardiness.

  I reached for the phone by the reading lamp and stopped before my hand touched the plastic. A sudden vision of the receptionist, Jessica McQuade, filled my head, and I drew my fingers back as if I'd been burned.

  Jessie was a strawberry blonde who loved to show off her pretty legs. Two years ago she was a cheerleader for the Philadelphia Soul. Now, she ran the message center at Rollins and Howell in a blur of sheer blouses and short, tight skirts. She never wore panty hose, and it was a special pleasure to watch her kick off a heel, cross knee over knee, and massage her ankle while taking a call.

  I stared at the phone and cursed my newfound inability to communicate. What could I trust myself to say or keep hidden? What words would I have for good old Jess when she answered my call?

  Hi, Jess, I won't be in until 10:00, but while I've got you on the horn let's talk about the X-rated side of my imagination that has me climbing you like a tree.

  I began to pace the floor. In desperation, I tried to figure a way to twist truths without telling lies and felt like an idiot locked in a cage with Rubic's Cube. On my second pass across the room I stubbed my toe on the bed leg and the small spurt of pain brought an idea along with it. I grabbed the receiver and dialed the office.

  Jessie picked up the line and said, "Rollins and Howell."

  I reared back and kicked the bedpost, hard, barefoot, and arch first. A bright bolt of pain rocketed up to my knee and I yelped.

  "Hello?" she said.

  "This is Joe Kagan," I said through clenched teeth. "I won't be in, and I just cracked my foot on the bedpost."

  "Oh Lordy!" she said.

  I hung up before my thoughts could turn from the pain in the foreground. I fell to the floor wincing and laughing, a private victory that meant nothing to no one.

  The phone rang back at me like a dark intruder pinging a black bell. I stared at the device in dumb horror and thanked my lucky stars for answering machines. I got up and limped to the hallway to sneak in a listen. After the fourth ring the machine clicked on and I heard the odd, displaced sound of my own voice taped from downstairs.

  "Hello. This is the butler. Joseph and Tina are on the yacht right now, but if you must leave a message, I'll hop in my dinghy and get it to them. Thank you."

  There was a beep and I heard a blast of traffic through scrambled voices, with a pneumatic jackhammer deep in the background.

  "Joe? Oh God, Joe, please pick up!"

  It was Tina. She was crying. I rushed back for the bedroom phone and jerked it to my ear.

  "Tina! What's wrong? Where are you?"

  There was a long sigh and I could picture her looking at the sky, thanking the powers of heaven for finding me at home.

  "Joe, honey. I'm at a pay phone. A couple of guys—"

  A big truck or something roared past.

  "Hold on!" I shouted. "I can't hear you! What the hell did you say?"

  The large vehicle faded out and her voice came back in a gush.

  "Two guys jumped me and stole my purse! I fought them, Joe, I tried but the big one knocked me down and they got everything. Credit cards, bank card, all my money, my cell."

  "Then how did you make this call? You can't call collect to an answering machine! Why haven't you called the police? Why—"

  "Because I've memorized our calling card number and I want to get out of here before Christmas!" She erupted into a fresh rush of tears and hiccups. "Why are you grilling me? I'm scared, Joe."

  I looked at my feet.

  "Tina, I love you so much. I want you to know that."

  "I don't need you to love me right now. I need you to come and get me."

  "Where are you?"

  There was a pause.

  "Well, there's a crab shack on the corner, a check cashing store next to a tattoo parlor, and a beauty shop called Slick Divas
."

  "Look for a street sign, Tina."

  There was a clunk, and I knew that in defiance Tina had dropped the phone to go take a better look. My mind's eye could see the stained and chipped receiver swinging on its metal cord like a dead thing on a rope.

  "Sixth and London," she said.

  It was the worst section of the city, a war zone smack in the middle of the fastest route to the downtown business district. Together, we drove down Fifth, a block over, each day with our windows shut and doors locked. And now, Tina was trapped, out in the open, exposed to the wolves. She had probably been mugged on the short walk between the bus stop and the overhead subway trestle. The animals.

  "I'll be right there," I said. "Keep an eye out for the car."

  On the telephone's quick trip from my ear to its holder, I heard Tina plead a last word.

  "Hurry."

  ***

  The streets of my neighborhood flew past as I cheated one yellow light after another. Peripherally, I could feel the sun rays spangle across the Kennedy Middle School's football field and glint off the steel goal posts closest to the road. To the right was a blur of stores and lots that led to the cluster of buildings before Fifth Street, then the Blockbuster Video, Keystone Beer Distributor, and Rosenburg's Auto Tags. I cracked the window, lit a cigarette, and registered in some deep and far-off place that I really had to quit these foul things.

  After the quick right on Fifth the properties withered and the buildings closed in on each other. Long zigzagged cracks in the sidewalks sprouted gnarled clumps of weeds, street signs were bent at odd angles, and plywood-covered doorways wore layers of unintelligible graffiti. I took my eyes off the road for a moment to flick an ash and almost slammed an old woman jaywalking a group of young girls to the Flemmings Ballet School on the far corner. I screeched my brakes and she glanced back at me with a sour look of distaste. I rolled down my window.