Everyone's Pretty

by Lydia Millet

Ricky was pointing. She couldn’t believe it. He was pointing at her where she hid. She flipped him the bird. Pigface shitwad. No way. She had to get up before she was cornered. She rose and grabbed her teddybear knapsack.

  —Ginny!

  She had the bag over her shoulder. She dashed past Liza B. and Ricky, pushed her mother aside and was out the door, down the hall. Out the metal doors. Her mother’s Honda hatchback was parked in the lot. The door was open and the key was in the ignition. She got in and jammed down the emergency brake.

  —Ginny! shrieked her mother, behind her. —Wait for me!

  3:41

  —I’ll pay you back tomorrow.

  —I’m sure you will, said Bucella, and withdrew two crisp fives from her mauve vinyl wallet. Alice took them and crumpled them in her hand, hopping while she adjusted a shoe.

  —It’s a bachelorette party, we were all assigned gifts. I have to get a vibrator shaped like a banana but I don’t have my car here and I can’t face the bus again.

  —I see, said Bucella. Flushed, she opened and closed a drawer to look preoccupied, then snapped the wallet closed and replaced it carefully in her purse.

  —Personally I have no interest in bananas, I want you to know that right up front, said Alice, gathering up her pile of Band-Aids.

  Alice was confusing. Sometimes she said Profanities, but other times she was almost quite nice.

  —I’m sorry Bucella, this is an inappropriate subject. So Phil and Barbara are dining with you tonight?

  —Yes they are. I’m hoping it will improve my work relationship with Phillip. He’s so quiet. And he didn’t come for Thanksgiving.

  —I hear his wife has some kind of disorder.

  —Disorder?—

  —She’s a little slow. Ernie met her once. Slow but steady, Bucella.

  —Special people often have great faith in God, said Bucella.

  —And well they might, said Alice. —Thanks for the loan.

  4:04

  Decetes had fetched up in a patch of scrub weed along the edge of a parking lot. They had chased him. The sharp end of a fallen brown palm frond was gouging his ear. On a rise in the nearby soil, he watched a beetle bury its black ass in the sand. A stinkbug, no doubt. Or perhaps a dung beetle. Sticky blood was caking over his eyelid. He raised his maimed hands, divested now of bandages, and waved them above his face to ensure he still had his vision. Yes. Five fingers on each hand. He counted ten in all. That seemed correct.

  He was frequently the target of brute force. It was scarcely a surprise, for all true heroes were misunderstood by the rabble. The very underclass whose sensibilities he nobly championed turned upon him in blind wrath and battered him to a pulp. Like rabid dogs they bit the hand that fed.

  Tentatively he adjusted the frond so that his head lay on its brittle leaves. The bushmen of the Kalahari slept flat on the sand but held their sleeping heads up off the ground: for they knew well what small and many-legged animals might infiltrate their ears in R.E.M. He would be wise to do the same.

  Above him stretched the pale-blue sky with its hem of gray filth near terra firma, where the endless prairie of the stratosphere met Los Angeles city limits. Writ large over the banks of fleecy clouds, in so-far invisible ink, was his name. He squinted and lifted a leg, testing his motor abilities. All was well, but he must rest awhile.

  He was frequently beaten by men. Women, being weak of sinew, did not dare attack his cage of meat and brawn; but men often laid siege to the fortress of his body. Luckily their efforts were geared toward the short term. With men, he took the beating and then he recovered. He was permitted to relax between beatings. God bless the men, for they were simple brutes. With women the battle was gradual and wearing. It never let up; it was insidious and stealthy.

  A wasp alighted on his arm and he watched its wings move as it crawled between a cut and a hair. Presently it rose and disappeared. Animals had superior justice. The wasp refused to sting a wounded man. Its peers, no doubt, had prevailed upon it to extract some resource from Decetes; but the wasp, having surveyed the damage, decided for charity and made itself scarce.

  If only he could rally the wasps to his cause. There was a language barrier, sadly. Like it or not, the women and the men would be rolled beneath the wheel of progress some day soon, and that wheel was named Dean Decetes. Some would be crushed and others would be spared. These were the lucky few. Their names were already inscribed upon a roster somewhere, the roster of the faithful. The faithful would align themselves with him, a cadre of mighty lieutenants.

  —How come you lyin’ there, said a kid, looming above with a translucent green plastic submachine gun in hand.

  It was a hispanic kid of the male gender. Spic spawn. Pope progeny.

  —Begone Pedro, mumbled Decetes. —I would be alone.

  —How you know my name, said the spawn.

  —I am a God among men, murmured Decetes. —I am Jesus Christ crucified. Can’t you tell kid? Take a look at my hands.

  —You not Jesus gringo. Jesus he dead.

  —Resurrected, don’t you know the Bible Pedro?

  —Jesus gots a beard.

  —Shaved it off, you beaneater. You think I don’t have access to a disposable Gillette? I told you I’m Jesus. Now run back to your hovel and get me a drink. A glass of water. Go!

  —Jesus don’t say swearwords.

  —Chinga tu madre Pedro. A glass of water or you will be barred forever from the gates of heaven. I mean business Pedro.

  —You stink Jesus.

  —Here Pedro, here. See this? It’s a one-dollar bill. You send this to Mexico City, your grandmother can buy herself a condo. Get me some water and I’ll let you have it.

  —Okay stinky Jesus, easy money. Wait here Jesus.

  4:28

  Ginny cruised slowly along her street in the Honda. Had to pick up her stuff at the house, but only if there was no one home. Her mother had to be in hysterics by now. She might even have called the police. Four lawns to go, three. Yep, there she was. Outside. She was still wearing her ugly robe.

  But what was she doing? She was at the old lech’s front door, her back turned. Her right arm moved. Omigod, she was spraying purple stuff on their door. She had flipped. Those dumb tapes from the family counselor had finally driven her up the wall. Once Ginny stole one and listened to it on her Walkman. It was weird and pathetic. Visualize clear sparkling water and repeat: blame is not productive.

  Ginny sped up and drove past. Maybe she could sneak in and get her stuff at night, through the window. Find Lucas or Mitch and get them to boost her up. Plus she needed a place to crash. Liza B. hated her now like all the other girls. She was just jealous but it was sad anyway. Find some guy and go home with him, but no one from school. She couldn’t face them. Never again. A titty bar maybe. Guys there were desperate.

  She turned the car around and headed east.

  5:02

  Zamphir Flute played on Bucella’s car stereo. She had bought it many years ago but it was still good to calm frazzled nerves. She stood on the threshold of an Epiphany. In the morning Ernest would find the note, albeit unsigned.

  Pulling up the driveway, she saw something purple on her front door. Purple letters! She jumped out and left the car idling. Across the front door someone had painted two purple words. CHILD MOLESTER.

  Tribulations! She was being Tested. And the Kreuzes were coming. Dean, as usual, had somehow brought Dishonor upon her house. Had he done something bad? She turned back to her car, but it was rolling backward into the street. No! Someone was driving. At the wheel was her next door neighbor.

  —Stop! What are you doing? cried Bucella, and ran after the car, but the woman ignored her, reversing into the street, then pulling forward as Bucella pounded on the driver’s side window. Her housekeys were in the ignition. —Stop! Mrs. Frenter?

  5:57

  It said GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS, just like in the movies, flashing red. Prime spot for desperate guys. She could doctor her mother’s license for
fake ID, change the date and put her own picture in. First she had to park the hatchback. It had embarrassing bumperstickers, BABY ON BOARD and I BRAKE FOR KITTYCATS. Wack. She was peeling the plastic off her old Arizona learner’s permit to get the photo out when a sleazebag in acid-wash jeans tapped on the window.

  —Baby you want a quick buck? Quick buck for quick fuck?

  —Get out of my face. I got mace in the glove compartment.

  —Oooh baby she talk dirty.

  6:04

  —$39.99 for a lousy vibrator, you have to be kidding me. Don’t you have anything cheaper?

  —We may have a smaller banana model for $31.99 if you prefer something modest.

  —A yellow dildo marked CHIQUITO HAND-PICKED is modest? Don’t you have sales on these things? Clearance on last-year’s models?

  —We are selling the Misses’ Missile model at a markdown. $19.99. It’s a novelty item.

  —Jesus Christ it says SCUD on the side.

  6:12

  A splinter of wood from the window frame was lodged in her thumb. Mrs. Frenter had gone crazy. It was not her fault.

  Bucella had found paint in the basement after breaking in, but it was all dried up. The wreath she had made for Thanksgiving would have to serve her purpose. It was large, with orange ribbons, dried red corncobs, oak leaves and a pilgrim doll peeking out from behind a gourd. She hung it on the front door. Now only CHI and STER showed. In the dark, Phillip Kreuz and his wife might not notice.

  After she called the police to report her car stolen, she put on Hildegarde of Bingen and began to layer mozzarella into the casserole.

  6:29

  Decetes had misjudged. The Spic spawn had returned with his brother, who had proved uncompromising on the subject of money. Decetes had been forced to yield up his savings, though not before the older Spic cut a swath of hair off his head. A premature bald spot, cuts on his wrists, a finger almost severed at the second knuckle, a sprained ankle and a black eye.

  The ground was becoming cold as the sun sank. Beneath him was the solid earth. Under the soils, the inner empire of worms, slugs, arthropods, where the dark labyrinths of invertebrates met tree roots and subterranean streams, beneath the crust, beneath the lithosphere, hot currents ran. The globe’s core was molten, a cauldron, a beating heart of iron and lead. He was reassured by its presence. The obscene palms waved above him, moved gently by a twilight breeze.

  One day silence would fall over his mother earth. Silence would fall like night over the relics of his race, and all would be still. On the husks of rusting cars vines would creep and bloom unseen, in the temples of commerce and industry bricks would crack, ceilings would cave, dust would line the marble staircases and grass would grow through the floorboards.

  Only he, Dean Decetes, would wander through the alcoves of the churches, prowl the corridors of ancient prosperity, and watch the rolling of the tides. He would sit on the rooftops and see the great flocks as they covered the sky, he would see pterodactyls blot out the sun, observe the return of the bison, the eagles, the tall-grass prairies.

  He alone, misunderstood, embattled prodigal son, would prevail, with his tribe of humble survivors. The poor and the downtrodden would cleave unto him, as would the gentle animals. Even now he was bleeding into the land that had borne him. His blood was running in the soil.

  —Get up guy. This is private property.

  —You pondscum, man can never own the earth. Go ask the Indians.

  —The Indians are dead. Now haul your indigent ass off my lot.

  —In point of fact I inhabit a single-family dwelling in Culver City. You see before you a temporary victim of circumstance.

  CHAPTER THE FOURTH

  Houseguests run amok; a Death occurs; Chaos begins to reign; and the Prince finds his Princess

  WEDNESDAY EVENING

  7:00

  —Come in, come in.

  —Bucella, this is my wife Barbara. Barbara, my coworker Bucella.

  Barbara was gangly and pigeontoed. She smiled and nodded, eyes fixing briefly on Bucella’s chin and then straying toward a macrame wall hanging.

  —Can I offer you a glass of wine?

  —We do not drink fermented beverages or spirits, do we Barbara.

  —I want a glass. Special occasion.

  —No Barbara.

  —Yes please. A glass of wine for me, thank you very much.

  —Dinner should be ready soon. Make yourselves at home. Barbara, I understand you were in a fire last night. That must have been a terrible experience.

  —Physically she is unharmed!

  Barbara hovered at Bucella’s elbow while she poured the wine, then drained the goblet in a gulp.

  —Barbara!

  7:20

  Alice, in fresh underwear, wrapped the banana and fashioned a floppy bow as she listened to her messages.

  —I bet you thought I would forget your name, I was so fucking shitfaced. Surprise! I smell my sheets, it’s like a natural high babe. Gimme a call. —Alice? Honey? This is your mother! I got your number from the Information, I checked New York, Chicago, Dallas, then Los Angeles and you were listed. You sure are far away. I hope it’s really you honey. If it’s someone else I’m sorry. Ray’s sick honey. He’s got this colon cancer. You wanna come home Alice? I know you two didn’t get along but he’s real sick sweetheart. He hardly weighs a thing. He’s so skinny, just skin and bones. He cain’t hurt a fly. They got him on some machines at the hospital. He cain’t even use a potty by hisself anymore. I’m still at the same number in Knoxville. You think about it Alice. God bless you honey. I hope you done okay for yourself.

  —I knew I should have been unlisted, said Alice out loud. She put down the banana and strode to the kitchen cabinet, from which she extracted a bottle.

  7:39

  —My sister calls me Babs.

  —Barbara’s sister has recently recovered from hepatitis, said Phillip.

  —Hepatitis A, said Babs. —Fishbowl with a treasure chest! I like it. We can’t have a pet. They’re too dirty he says.

  —I do not object to fish of course, put in Phil Kreuz quickly.

  —I am not fond of the fish, said Bucella. —My brother gave it to me on my birthday, for what reason I am not in a position to know.

  —Yummy. More please.

  —I was under the impression Barbara that you were attempting to watch your weight.

  Phillip had eaten his small piece of lasagna and carefully placed his fork and knife beside each other, upside down on the edge of the plate.

  —Can I get some more wine?

  —Barbara, I am putting my foot down. Bucella I must ask you not to pour her any more wine.

  He clasped his hands on the edge of the table. Oh my it was quite Awkward. Babs held out her goblet, fingers clenched around the stem. It wavered in the air over the casserole.

  —Put that down Barbara, you are embarrassing our hostess.

  —I’ll get it myself.

  —She is not accustomed to alcohol. Barbara you are intoxicated!

  —I like beer. I drank eight beers at the party last night.

  —Eight—!

  Babs rose and went to the sideboard, where she poured more cabernet into her glass. Bucella kept her eyes on her plate and lanced a cherry tomato with her salad fork. Domestic Strife was drowning out Hildegarde.

  —Barbara please behave. We are in Bucella’s home.

  —Phillip, I don’t mind—

  —No Bucella. This display is inappropriate. Barbara come sit down, and leave your glass where it is.

  —Then let me keep Bronco Bill.

  —Barbara this is neither the time nor the place.

  —Let me keep Bronco Bill.

  —Please Barbara. Your attitude is deeply distressing. Perhaps Bucella would like to hear about your activities with the Science and Health Inspirational Teachings Personal Initiative Group.

  —No she wouldn’t.

  —I would be very interested, said Bucella. —Phillip,
would you care for more salad?

  —No thank you. Barbara this is your fourth glass, I have counted. Sit down.

  —Look! said Babs, and giggled, pointing at the fishbowl. The goldfish was swimming along with a long thread of excrement trailing behind.

  —That is distasteful Barbara. Nature is unappealing at the dinner table.

  —Fish with a shit. It’s a shitfish!

  —Language Barbara! Language!

  —Fishy shit and shitty fish, fishy shit and shitty fish, sang Babs, and began to hop on one leg, spilling wine on the carpet.

  Phillip’s hands were shaking on the table edge. He rose abruptly, laying his napkin down beside his plate.

  —Barbara we will have to depart. I apologize Bucella. It is most likely an allergic reaction. I cannot tell you how irregular this is. Barbara believes in the life of the mind. She knows that Christ lives in the spirit. She has never behaved this way before. The trauma no doubt.

  —Mind of Christ and shitty fish, mind of Christ and shitty fish, continued Babs singsong, and then stopped hopping long enough to empty her goblet.

  —Come Barbara. We are leaving.

  He took her by the arm, but she wriggled away and ran into the living room. Bucella, still seated at the head of the table, watched Phillip cross the floor and make a grab for his wife. She dodged behind the couch. He stood facing her with a frown.

  —Barbara, come here, he said, lips in a tight line, gritting his teeth.

  Bucella watched with bated breath as Babs came around the corner of the couch and approached him, hesitant.

  —Good Barbara. Now get your purse. We are leaving.

  But Babs leaned forward and Vomited.

  Lordy Lord!

  —It’s on my shoes! cried Phillip.

  He stepped backward as Babs deposited additional lasagna on the floor. Bucella ran to the kitchen to find a rag. When she got back Phillip was retreating into the bathroom and Babs was staring down at her Contribution.

  —Step back please, said Bucella. The carpet had been steam-cleaned not three weeks ago.

  —Shoebarf, observed Babs. —Shoebarf and rugbarf. Barf like a dog!

  —Please move away from that so I can clean it up, said Bucella. —Paper towels are in the kitchen.