High Life

by Matthew Stokoe

  Until a wino hassled me for change as I approached the sliding doors. He was one of a group of four, all of them crusted like forgotten, turn-of-the-century statues in that brown semigloss accretion cities use to camouflage the homeless. Their clothes—all of them wore too many for the summer heat—had the slickness of oilskin, their hair looked like something dredged from the bottom of a river and smeared into place with a trowel. They stank of shit, garbage, and genital cheese.

  The guy in my face was about fifty and pretty close to the edge; sores around his mouth, the shakes, liquid eyes, that dumb expression beggars get through years of humiliating themselves by asking other people for money. It looked like he needed a drink pretty badly. It looked like the hope of getting one was the only thing holding him together.

  I pushed past into the cool interior. Produce section. I felt a stab of guilt as I moved past the fresh, crisp, tastefully arranged bins. Every famous person on the planet ate a super diet of carefully balanced fruit and vegetables, unrefined carbohydrate, and hormone-free protein. It was important. It meant you stayed looking better than everyone else. I knew I should do it too. My telehosting course had stressed the impact of good skin tone and clear eyes on the projection of personality. But I couldn’t do it. I could never do it. And all the words about it from books and TV health shows and the stars’ beauty tips in magazines spun in my head until the only way I could shut them down was to eat stuff that was so manifestly bad for me there was simply no point in attempting dietary salvation.

  I went to the chiller cabinet that lined the rear wall and leaned against it, face on glass, exchanging heat. Packaged meat, low cholesterol dips, zero-cholesterol cakes, naturally extracted juices … Most of the food had product photos on the front and I got hung up for a while picturing the homes they must have been taken in. Soft lighting, tasteful decoration, high-income furnishings. Successful homes where life was fulfilled and comfortable. I quit when the security guys started to hover.

  Inside this hangar-sized supermarket the feeling of detachment that swaddled me increased. The overweight women, the tired men, the whining kids—all the fucking, guzzling calibrations of moderate-income humanity—trundling their carts up one aisle and down another, seemed so pointless and disgusting it frightened me to consider I was part of the same race. They were fairground constructions, papier-mâché models drawn in shopping circuits by a network of hidden cogs and chains. Things to be shot at or knocked over with baseballs.

  I hit the snack and convenience-food sections heavily, then moved on to liquor. Bud was reduced so I took a couple of six-packs. On my way to the checkouts I had to pass the spirits. Brandy, gin, vodka, all the rest. On an impulse I added a half gallon of generic whiskey to the beer.

  The girl at the checkout swiped my Visa and we had a few seconds’ wait for authorization. Time to worry about credit balances and to wonder what her cunt looked like, and if sitting on it all day crusted up her briefs. I was putting my stuff into paper sacks when she handed my card back. She smiled. I smiled too. And pictured my load sliding off her chin.

  “Spare change, buddy?”

  Same wino as before, the fuckwit didn’t realize he’d already asked me ten minutes ago.

  “Spare change, buddy?”

  Lush voice. All clogged mucus and collapsed nasal passages.

  “Buddy? Buddy? Just something so’s I can get something to eat.”

  I looked past him, at his three derelict companions slumped against a wall twenty feet away. They were watching expectantly, gearing up to grab a share. I spoke quietly so they wouldn’t hear.

  “You don’t want anything to eat. But I bet you could use a drink.”

  “Well, to tell you the truth …”

  “Sure. It’s a hard life.”

  “Damn hard. Takes it out of a man just sucking in your next breath. I don’t suppose you got a bottle in one of them sacks, do ya?”

  He couldn’t take his eyes off the bags in my arms. When he spoke it was to them. His lips were cracked and he licked them constantly.

  “A fine young man like you, mister, sure to be taking maybe a bottle of wine home for dinner. A fine civilized young man like yourself.”

  “Are they your friends, over there?”

  “Yes, sir. We been watching out for each other a few months now. Lots of others come and go, but we stuck together.”

  “Ah … See, I’m thinking there won’t really be enough to go around. What do you want? A few mouthfuls for everyone, or something more sensible?”

  The wino flicked a quick look over his shoulder and licked his lips some more.

  “Well, mister, I sure wouldn’t want to do nothing that weren’t sensible. What exactly is it you got in there?”

  “I think we want somewhere more secluded.”

  “Can I take a peek first, mister? Just to kinda fortify myself.”

  I let him see the whiskey.

  “Holy Jesus Christ! Come on, there’s a place around back.”

  He took off at a trot, coat flapping, skinny arms jerking arrhythmically. It looked like the sockets of his hips were filled with broken glass. He made it about twenty feet, then stopped when he realized I wasn’t beside him and waved frantically for me to catch up.

  The market kept its garbage hoppers in a three-sided brick pen. The walls were about six feet high and, crouching at the back, we were pretty much shielded from view. Cars in the parking lot were visible through the open end but the sky was getting bruised around the edges by then and I figured the evening shadows would hide us well enough. Besides, I wasn’t going to do anything that bad.

  When I pulled the whiskey out of the paper sack the wino almost lost control. He grabbed for the jug, but I held it out of reach.

  “You a hard-drinking man?”

  “Mister, I’m the hard-drinkinest man you ever met. How much of that hooch you figure you got to take home?”

  “Have a taste.”

  “Sweet Jesus.”

  I kept hold of the jug but let him pull it to his mouth and take a small swallow. Then I took it away.

  “Oh, Jesus, mister, don’t do that to an old man. You know what they say, a taste is worse than none at all.”

  His laugh was so laden with need I felt like squirming.

  “Maybe I should get your friends. It doesn’t seem fair to leave them out.”

  “You don’t want to do that. No sir, not if you want to keep any for yourself. They’ll drink it dry. I seen them fuckers do it before. Just you and me’s best. Believe me.”

  His eyes flicked back and forth between my face and the jug. He was dribbling and it looked like he was on track for some kind of wino anxiety attack.

  “Want some more?”

  “Fuckin’ A—I mean, damn straight I’d like some more. You can spare it, can’t you, mister? For this old bastard?”

  “Two conditions.”

  “Whatever you want. I’m happy to oblige.”

  “You get five minutes with the bottle. Five minutes only.”

  “Okay. Sure, sure.”

  “And you stop drinking longer than twenty seconds, I take it away and give it to your friends.”

  “All right, mister, whatever you say. Let me at it. Let me at it!”

  I gave him the jug. He held it with both hands, tipped his head back, and started to gulp. He got about a quarter pint inside him before he stopped to take a breath.

  “Whoa, buddy, that’s the right stuff. That hits the spot for sure.”

  His eyes were watering a little, but he seemed okay. The only immediate change was he looked a bit healthier.

  “Ten seconds.”

  “Just getting my wind.”

  “Fifteen seconds.”

  He stuck it in his face again. His swallows were a little slower this time, but he was still going for it.

  “Fucking Jesus, I ain’t been let loose on this much hooch for a long time. I gotta take my coat off. Won’t be more’n a few seconds.”

  “Take your
coat off.”

  He was sweating. When his coat came clear, the stink of his body filled the space around us. Mostly piss, but a lot of other rotted down stuff as well.

  “Better start again.”

  “A few more seconds.”

  I reached for the jug.

  “Okay! Jesus Christ, what’s your hurry?”

  He clutched the whiskey to his chest like he was holding a baby.

  “I said there were conditions. If you don’t want any more …”

  “Shit, who said anything about that? Just trying to pace myself, is all.”

  “Give it back.”

  He jerked the jug to his mouth so fast he cut his lip. Blood ran around the opening and down one side of his chin in a thin red line. I don’t think he noticed. He was trying to use a few brains this time, making his mouth small and taking shallow sips. His arms shook with the effort of keeping the jug steady.

  When he came up for air he made a sort of hooting noise. I guess it was a laugh.

  “Phew, buddy, I think I’m getting the hang of this. Got a smoke?”

  “You don’t have time.”

  Under the dirt his face was flushed. He grinned stupidly, shrugged like he had a man’s job to finish, and raised the whiskey again.

  This time some of it went down the wrong way and he spluttered violently, trying to clear his throat. Something ran out of his nose and he stuck his head between his knees and coughed for a while. When he straightened, the skin around his eyes looked swollen and there was a caul of spit across his chin. About a fifth of the jug was gone. He dragged his sleeve across his face and started humming snatches of some tune to himself.

  “How much of it are you going to drink?”

  “All of it.”

  “Half a gallon?”

  “You just watch me.”

  And away he went again.

  A little while later he started puking. I heard his teeth crunch against glass as his head jerked forward and a fountain of booze sprayed around the neck of the jug. He managed to get it away from his face, but his guts didn’t stop heaving. Dark gouts of whiskey and whatever else he’d had in his stomach splatted onto the concrete between his knees and ran into the V of his crotch. The liquid foamed at the edges.

  “Bit ambitious, the whole jug.”

  “This make you feel good, you pitiless prick?”

  “Have some more.” “You think I won’t?”

  Loops of viscous puke hung from his chin, they swayed as his head moved. He looked a lot less healthy now.

  “I’m waiting to see.”

  He tried to keep belligerent eye contact with me as he went back to the booze. But it didn’t last. He puked again. Swallowed and puked, swallowed and puked, until the cycle exhausted him and the vomit-slick jug slipped from his hands.

  He collapsed sideways and his head made a thunking noise as it hit the concrete. I stood up and watched him convulse, he looked like a dog having a nightmare. Between his retching he cursed me—strange old-man curses from a previous era that made him sound like Elmer Fudd.

  The jug of whiskey stood where he’d dropped it, upright, unbroken, almost half empty. When his body would let him, he stared at it as though it were some reliquary for the whole of his life. He tried to reach for it. I thought he was going to make it, but a few inches short the strength left him and he closed his eyes and let his arm fall. Without lifting his head he puked a stream of blood that gathered itself into a chest-sized inkblot and washed against the base of the whiskey bottle.

  He wasn’t dying—I checked his breathing—but it looked pretty much like he’d fucked an already fucked stomach. I left him with the remains of the booze and headed out into the parking lot. The last sound I heard him make was a prolonged wet fart as his bowels let go.

  I had a bit of an erection all the way to the car.

  I’d almost got the door of the Prelude closed when a plump white hand reached out of the corner of vision and stopped it. Ryan moved into frame, backlit by the mercury wash from the street.

  “Jackie boy. It’s that man again! Don’t start the car.”

  He walked around to the passenger side and got in. He settled his bulk comfortably into the seat.

  “This is cozy.”

  “Have you got some news about Karen?”

  I tried to sound tiredly grieving and expectant at the same time.

  “Interesting thing to do to the tramp.”

  “Huh?”

  “I let you have the dumb act last time, don’t push it. I was watching. Been watching a couple of days. You don’t get out much.”

  “He asked for a drink. I gave him one.”

  “Yeah, I saw.”

  “He could have stopped any time.”

  “But you knew he wouldn’t.”

  I had the interior light on, it made shadows of Ryan’s eyes, outlined the pouches of fat beneath them. He looked even more unhealthy than before.

  “Aren’t you here about Karen?”

  “Oh, you want to talk about Karen?”

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Boy, let me think … Maybe because you weren’t surprised when you saw her at the morgue? Maybe because you had something to do with putting her there?”

  “Get real.”

  “If I got any realer, boy, you’d be face down bleeding through both sides of your head. I know you lied to me … Didn’t she ever tell you about us? Didn’t she tell you who I was?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I knew her, you asshole. She was a whore, I used to buy her. I liked her because she went that extra mile, didn’t have a problem with those frills most cunts get all precious about. She used to call me Daddy while we were doing it.”

  “You’re old enough.”

  “Yow, Jackie, bitch-ee! You oughta be more respectful, I must have been a regular source of income for you two.”

  I wondered if this was all just cop psych to freak me into confessing to something. I’d never heard Karen mention Ryan’s name, but that didn’t mean anything. She might have hated the police but she’d fuck one if there was money in it.

  The next thing Ryan said, though, cleared things up considerably.

  “You look like a smart guy. Given that seeing her on her hands and knees wasn’t an unusual occurrence for me, it shouldn’t be too hard to figure that I know what you said about her shoulder was a little inaccurate. One of those Egyptian bugs, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Oh, shit, yeah, the scarab! Fuck, I’m sorry, I must have been in shock or something.”

  “Ooo, that’s upsetting.”

  “What do you want? I’m sorry. When I saw her body I just froze up.”

  “Or maybe the tattoo connected to something you didn’t want me to know about.”

  “Like what? Why would I hide anything?”

  “Right now I don’t know, Jackie. But if I gotta take a guess I’d say because you killed her.”

  You have to think of the exact right comeback to a statement like that. Surprise? Indignation? Outright denial? Something that will make him stop believing what he so obviously does. I couldn’t do it. So I lit a cigarette and stared out the window at the floodlit cars. Through the glass of the market people moved around all purposeful and clean, safe in whatever lives they led. And for one brief moment I was envious of them, of their acceptance of the rules of the world they found themselves in. I’d been like them once, but not any more, and I’d moved too far away to ever go back. Now I was in some alien place, sitting next to a cop who wanted to fix me for murder.

  A woman in shorts that cut into the crack of her ass walked across the parking lot to her car. Ryan watched her like some flabby predator. When she bent over to put her shopping in the trunk he rubbed his balls.

  “Look at that. What sort of beard you say she’s got? Real hairy, or just one of those wispy things around the outside of her hole? Whaddya say, Jack? You shack up with someone like Karen, I know you gotta like cooze.”

/>   “My wife’s just been murdered.”

  Ryan laughed.

  “You ain’t in mourning.”

  “Maybe it just doesn’t show.”

  “Maybe it’s just that old shock thing again, freezing you up. Where were you Monday before last? Evening into night.”

  The quick change threw me for a second, then the meaning of the words sank in. Monday night. Two days before she was found in the park. Totally cool, I had an alibi.

  “That was when she was killed?”

  “Answer the fucking question. And you better hope it’s checkable.”

  “I was working. Donut Haven on Wilshire, West Hollywood. Four till midnight. You can check it with the guy who runs the place.”

  “I will, but I gotta check something with you first.”

  “What?”

  “They found come in her guts.”

  “She was a hooker, what do you expect?”

  “I’m not talking about her pussy. I’m talking about that big hole in her tum-tum. Looks like after she was gutted someone relieved themselves at close range. Know what I’m saying?”

  “Me, I suppose?”

  “I’m hoping. But I tell you what, Jackie, I’m a guy who tries to see all sides of a problem, you know, consider all possibilities. So I’m gonna give you a chance to settle the spunk aspect.”

  “Er … how?”

  I had a feeling something bad was coming, and it did.

  “We got come in her guts. The obvious step, obvious to me, anyhow, is get a sample from you.”

  “Sure, anything to help the investigation. What do I have to do, give some blood?”

  “I’m kinda picky about these kinda things. We find spunk, we should match it against spunk. Call me old-fashioned.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m giving you a chance.”

  “Jesus, all right … Where do I go?”

  “Shit, Jackie, I don’t want to put you to any trouble. You can do it right here.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “It’s up to you. Of course, if you refuse it’s gonna be difficult for me not to draw the obvious conclusion.”

  “You want me to jerk off in the car?”