Seven Deadly Pleasures

by Michael Aronovitz

  "Hey, pelican face," I said. "Next time, move your fat, wrinkled ass! Don't you have a duty to die or something?"

  There was a spatter of laughter from the children and I drove on feeling lower than dirt.

  I hurtled down the one-way, straight into the side of town most broken-down. Garbage bags billowed from the paneless windows of dirty tenements. The wind had knocked over a few recycling bins, and they barrel-rolled at the front of an alley like cars on a short-circuited Tilt-a-Whirl ride. Across the street, a pit-bull on a chain gnashed and slammed against a rusted, diamond-link fence.

  I cursed out loud.

  A block ahead I could see the two hookers that worked the corner of Fifth and Walsh. Tina and I passed the pair every day and had slowly numbed ourselves to them, made the whole thing into a joke. We even gave them nicknames. Thelma and Louise.

  Today, Thelma had on her Friday colors, black mini and heels with both legs sporting a roadmap of purple bruises. Louise, the stockier one with fire-red hair hanging in dreads, boasted yellow hot pants and a matching bikini top. The girls looked feisty. They were in the middle of the street prepared to block traffic.

  I drove between them just fast enough to make them shove over, and couldn't help but forfeit a grin.

  They howled.

  "Look at him with the piss-face laughing," Thelma said.

  "Where's the little woman?" Louise said. "Come back here, baby. Ain't there something you want to ask me?"

  I slammed on the brakes. I couldn't help it. I threw the car into reverse and squealed backward to a halt. Thelma approached, and the car behind me honked long and loud.

  "Go around, muthafuckah," she shouted. "This is business!" He put on his signal and squeezed around like a good little boy.

  "Hey there, sugar," she said into my face, arms folded on the lower window rim. Her breath stank of peppermint Dentyne and stale gin.

  "There's something I always wanted to know," I said. "How much for what?"

  She grinned brown, crooked teeth.

  "I got two programs, sweet thing. Regular and High Octane."

  "What's Regular?"

  "For a hundred dollars we go to a room above the Y across the street. I light a cigarette and put it in the ash tray. Then you get to possess this body like the Devil himself, but when the smoke gets down to the filter, your time be over."

  "And what's High Octane?"

  She reached in and slipped a hand under my lapel to rub my chest.

  "Not recommended for a little punk like you. The only thing left would be your belt buckle and a puddle of sweat."

  There was a clunking sound and my car bowed down in front. It was Louise, crawling on all fours up the hood. She slipped down a strap and popped out her breast.

  Thelma's hand became a strange shape under my suit jacket, and she made a play at stealing the gold Cross pen in my pocket.

  "Hey!" I said. I pressed the heel of my hand to her forehead and pushed. She fell backward on shaky heels and landed butt to the asphalt. I hit the gas and Louise smacked the glass cheek-first before rolling off to the right. I burned rubber and eyed the rearview. Thelma was in the street shouting obscenities. Louise was looking for something to throw. I sped away as if the hounds of Satan were snapping at my tires.

  Something was burning. It was the smell of tobacco and smoking fiber. I had dropped my lit cigarette during the scuffle and something was burning and my crotch was on fire!

  I spun the wheel to the left and peeled curbside behind an old abandoned Buick that had been torched and picked clean of just about everything but the steel skeleton. I pushed open the door and scrambled to the street where the warm wind kicked up angry whirlwinds of newspaper, scraps, and plastic debris. I rubbed off my fly and bent in to brush the hot ash off the seat.

  I heard laughter. I shut off the engine, backed out, and turned to a sea of eyes from across the sidewalk.

  It was a welfare line, a smorgasbord of all the races and creeds that defined our own wretched refuse. There was a lot of flannel, cheap sneakers and soiled T-shirts covering pot bellies. Course sprouts of facial hairs grew from wart bubbles and the men looked even worse. My face brightened.

  "Hi!" I said. At some deeper, more intellectual level, my brain was telling me not to do this, but that rational captain of industry was locked in a dark office in the back of the building somewhere. The mad elves were loose in the factory now, yanking the gear knobs, bending the crankshafts, pounding on the buttons, and pinning all the meters.

  I stepped away from the car and walked toward my rapt audience. The intersection of Sixth and London was just one city block to my right.

  "I just want to know how my employees are doing," I said. I unbuttoned my blazer and put my knuckles on my hips. "I pay taxes so in a sense you all work for me."

  No one spoke back. They did not even speak to each other. And no one moved. They didn't want to lose their places in line. Yet.

  I began to walk up and down their flank.

  "Do you know who I am? I'm Joe Kagan. I trade stocks. I pull short or go long on the unemployment figures. Do you know what that means?" I slapped my hand to my forehead. "It means we make money off you whether you're working or not. And lately, it's been pretty easy to predict, let me tell ya."

  "Shut up," someone said.

  "Yeah," someone answered.

  That broke the line. They began to converge in a follow-the-leader domino effect; I was surrounded. Rough hands grabbed and pinned back my arms. There were shouts and hoots. A thin, scarecrow bag lady type wiped her nose, licked the back of her hand, and spat on my headlights. A wiry dude wearing a back turned Mets cap grabbed a saw horse that had "POLICE" stenciled up the supports. He struggled it over to a blue dumpster and swung it around in an arc. There was a splintery crack and he was left with a busted two-by-four that read "LICE." I struggled and went nowhere.

  "So this is how it is?" I said. "Gang up on the rich kid? Whatever happened to one on one? How about a fair fight, huh?"

  What am I saying? I'm five foot six and couldn't bench a hundred pounds on a good day, oh mercy, please.

  Something had changed. I was still held fast by my captors, but it had gone quiet. Then the crowd started to chant,

  "Blood, blood, blood."

  Someone was coming.

  He pushed through the crowd, long hair, rawhide headband, lots of gold chains, and a mangled nose that appeared to have been partly bitten off in a bar brawl. Probably half Injun, a third Jamaican, and part wild animal, he was huge, a Redwood tree with feet.

  He pressed his way into what had now become a semicircle and took loose hold of his prick.

  "Set the brother free and let him express himself," he said.

  The crowd roared.

  I was thrust forward and I purposely hit the pavement, knees first.

  "Please don't hurt me," I said. That brought on a chorus of boos. "I'm frightened, I can't fight you, and I want my mother."

  The monster lowered his fists in disgust of my absolute truths and there was a sudden shout from someone in the crowd. Heads turned and the mob miraculously began to edge toward something better going on in the street.

  It was Thelma and Louise. They were hotwiring my car.

  I shot to my feet, but the human Titanic seized a handful of my hair. He yanked my head back and slowly, very slowly walked me to the curb. He spoke to me through the side of his mouth.

  "Don't you ever."

  Thelma struggled with the ignition. The engine sputtered and quit.

  "Come into my neighborhood."

  Another choke and grind from beneath the hood.

  "And be simple enough to leave your car door unlocked."

  The transmission kicked in and my car jerked away into the street. There were cheers and whistles and Bigfoot reached back and crashed knuckles into my face. A jolt, stars, black dots in a swarm, and as he threw me forward I could already feel my right eye swelling shut. A wild toss of knees and elbows, I stumbled into the st
reet and smacked palms first into the back door of a Yellow Cab.

  "Get in," the driver said.

  I threw open the door and bent in. Clutching hands tried for my arms and missed firm grasp.

  "Go!" I said, door shut, faces in the window. The interior smelled like beer, puke, and Pine Sol. Heaven. The cabby gunned it and gave a half look back over his shoulder.

  "Should I follow da whores?"

  "God no! Get me the fuck home!" I dug in my pocket and snagged my money clip. "Here's fifty. 225 Byberry Street. Move!"

  Don't you mean Sixth and London? What about Tina?

  I fought myself for a moment and tried to force the words out of my mouth.

  Sixth and London, where the pretty girl waits with her heart on her sleeve. Say it.

  I could not. I couldn't lie even to myself. I was too frightened to save her, at least in this condition.

  I am selfish, yellow scum.

  The driver turned down an alley and shot up fourth.

  "How about the stolen car, son? You want to report it? North Detectives Central is only two blocks over. " He was looking at me in the rearview, big roll of fat on the back of his neck, crewcut, brown derby hat, a blue collar, fatherly type who had found maturity and kindness through a tough paper route.

  "Yes, I'll report it." I massaged my bruised eye. "But I'll report it by phone when I get home."

  Send a rescue squad for Tina as well.

  In my hurry I had left my Verizon Razor charging in the kitchen, and I had no intention of confronting the cops in person. They were in the business of asking questions, and my possible answers were frightening. I thought for a moment about asking Joe-cabbie here if he had a cell I could borrow, but nixed that idea the moment it tried to surface. The less I talked the better. Hey, maybe I was getting control of this thing after all.

  "Christ!" I shouted.

  "What's wrong, son?" The driver wasn't flustered by my outburst in the least, just mildly concerned. It made me wonder what kinds of losers he carted around on a typical day shift.

  "I never checked the back door," I said. "I ran out of the house in a panic and hell if I can remember locking the back door."

  "So? 225 Byberry, that's up on 'The Hill.' It's a good neighborhood."

  "But those two slutbuckets have my car! My insurance card is in the damned glove compartment."

  Easy, easy.

  "To hell with 'easy does it,' the slip has my address printed on it in big, bold letters."

  Stop babbling.

  "I know I'm babbling like a girl, but there is a lot of expensive shit in that house. Stereo and video equipment, sterling silver service, artwork, Christ, my wife has seven thousand dollars' worth of antique jewelry hidden in the zipper cloth coat hangers in the bedroom closet. Isn't that the first place you would look if you were a hooker in a strange house?"

  The cabbie laughed. "Cloth coat hangers, huh? That's not so bad, kid. My wife has a collection of gold thimbles, big deal, right? Well, she keeps 'em shrinkwrapped in plastic and stuck down the back of the toilet tank. Women and their hiding places, eh?"

  I didn't answer and he let it fade. I was slumped down in the seat now. My neighborhood was getting close and to my alarm I was gaining an urge to shout truths out the window. I looked at my knees. Thank goodness I had nothing to say to them.

  The back door had been locked the whole time and the basement was unoccupied. Still, I checked the deadbolt three times before marching up the dark stairway to the dining room. The main floor was silent, shadowed, thudding with dull, dead air. I pulled at the lower rim of the kitchen window to make sure it was shut fast, tested the lock on the front door, and then vaulted two stairs at a time to get to the bedroom. I went to the phone on the nightstand and dialed 911.

  "309 Police," said her android voice.

  "You sound like voice mail," I said. "Get someone on the horn with a pulse."

  Her tone sharpened. "State your name, please."

  "Joe Kagan."

  "What is your emergency?"

  "My wife had her purse stolen and she's stranded at Sixth and London. Send a black and white to pick her up, and step on it, bitch."

  "Who is this?"

  "Joe Kagan, I told you. Pay attention. Aren't you writing this down? Put on your boss."

  "My boss?"

  "Yeah, the captain or the admiral or whoever the fuck he is, hurry up."

  Her voice got quite smooth and official.

  "May I remind you sir, that this line is reserved for emergencies. It is also being recorded."

  "Good! Sixth and London. Send a car and look for my wife. She's short with killer thighs and a real girly smile that would make you turn dyke if you're not there already. Now move."

  She hung up.

  I slammed down the receiver and gazed at the bedroom walls. Suddenly I had a raw urge to walk my block, pound on doors, and tell all my idiot neighbors what I really thought of them.

  Don't leave the house again, Joe. You're a danger to yourself and a danger to others.

  I looked at the digital clock. 9:25 A.M., and the intense need to speak my mind seemed to be growing exponentially as the hour of 10:00 drew nearer.

  "Screw this," I said out loud. I grabbed Tina's box of punk junk off the mantel and dumped the contents on the bed. I sifted through for a moment and came up with the pair of stainless steel thumb-cuffs that she had bought at Zippers. Its thin link chain was six inches long and a tiny key dangled off one of the circular traps by a thread. Perfect.

  I pulled off the key and chucked it on the bed. I slipped out of my suit jacket and made sure I had a good supply of cigarettes with lighter. I snagged an ash tray and hurried into the bathroom before my mind could turn back toward the need to verbalize my thoughts to the world.

  I took a seat on the tub rim and noticed that the toilet needed a scrubbing. I shoved the shower curtain to the far side by the towel rack, set down the ash tray, then leaned in to close one of the cuffs around the metal pipe of the cold water faucet behind the four-pronged knob. I gave it a strong pull and it held fast. Carefully, I put the other cuff around my left thumb and gently pressed it shut between the joint and bottom knuckle. A soft squeeze and it ratcheted down to lock into its tightest setting. There was a tug of pressure, a tight bind, but not quite enough to cut off the circulation. I gave a test yank and the cuff dug hard into my top, wrinkled thumb joint. It held fast.

  I was going nowhere, thank God. I took out my cigarettes and shook up a smoke. I lipped one, set the pack on the tub, and dug in my pocket for the lighter.

  There was a creak on the stairs and I froze. Another creak. Closer, a definite footstep.

  "Who's there!" I shouted like a fool. I tried to pull loose but I had screwed myself real fine. I tugged three more times and drew up a trace of blood. I looked into the foyer and almost fainted as the growing, slanted shadow on the wall now appeared to be hooded. I scrambled into the tub, got to my knees, and shut my eyes to pray.

  "You're cheating," the Reaper said.

  My eyes flew open and I banged my head on the soap dish when I tried to shrink back. He was looking down at me, his horrid face twisted in fury. Black streams of smoke poured out of his nostrils. His lips were drawn back above spotted gums; he was not smiling. A hot, silver drool dripped off his teeth and turned to spats of fire upon hitting the tub rim in front.

  "Mercy," I said.

  "You are a coward!" he roared. "You have learned nothing. You have not yet really faced your aggressors. Did you actually think you would come clean of this without sacrifice?"

  "Please," I said.

  His tone changed.

  "My friend, can you imagine what it would be like if you were not able to retreat into shock? Can you fathom the pain you could endure if your body would not allow your mind to black out? Can you picture the torture of surpassing your own ability to faint?"

  "What? I don't understand."

  "Stay still, my love. I want to kiss you."

  My
mouth dropped open. So did his. From between his teeth a sudden eruption of black vomit shot forth and sprayed between my parted lips. Obscene. The taste was bitter and the plume was a juggernaut of force. It was either choke or swallow.

  I swallowed and the room immediately became brighter. The details around me focused into a vivid, pronounced reality. I understood. It was a supernatural drug now alive in my veins. For whatever was about to transpire, he wanted me awake. My face dripped and he spoke in a hoarse whisper.

  "If you can bend the rules of our wager, then so can I. It is time for redemption. It is time for choice."

  What choice? Oh, my fucking God!

  "It is simple," he said. "If you are not out of this bathroom in five minutes, Tina dies."

  He vanished.

  On the sink, there was a white timer set on five minutes, already ticking off precious seconds. And something off the rim of the tub glinted at the corner of my swollen eye.

  It was a razor blade.

  I turned on the hot water with shaking fingers. I grabbed the soap, slopped its film across my left thumb for lubrication, and found it was futile. I wet it, jerked, pulled, jogged, and turned, but the cuff would not slip over the joint. I tried cold water, got the same result, and had already wasted a minute and ten seconds.

  I stretched back for a towel to dry off my hands. I knew what was necessary here, there was no time left to deny it. My eyes were wide. I carefully picked up the razor in my right hand and tried to gain the motivation needed.

  To cut off my left thumb.

  I sliced through the top tendon in one sweep and my thumb jerked down to the palm as if snapped off a rubber band. A thick well of blood boiled to the surface and dripped down to the rubber tub mat.

  Small needles of pain, live wires, I had cut it to the bone. Careful not to let the razor slip, I pushed it along the inner side with a forceful swipe and the left half of my thumb went numb. A jet stream of crimson burst sideways and spattered the wall tiles. A droplet of sweat slipped over my eyebrow and danced off the back of my left hand. I cut through the outer side and almost dropped the razor down the drain.

  I was moaning, spitting phrases of gibberish. My thumb had become a foreign object, alien, a disease; obsessed, I was focused keen on its removal.