by Joe Clifford
"We might even get the dogs in on it," Mira said.
"Not the shit-eater," I cried, aghast. "Think of the germs."
Katzenjammer looked at me in confusion, Mira with pity.
"It's not what you think," she said.
"I'm not thinking anything."
"Obviously. Come out to the garage with us."
I followed them out there, trying not to watch Mira's ass. Damned if she didn't have a low-tech film studio set up out there. Katzenjammer's Harley was in the center of the garage. A backdrop of a cheesy beach scene was nailed to one wall. A video camera was positioned to capture the bike and the backdrop, with a fancy lighting rig nearby. Who knew what they were going to do on the bike—supposedly at the fake beach? It had to be a homemade porn movie.
I didn't know if I was ready for this, even if I was going to see Mira naked. Katzenjammer started flicking lights on. If I was going to be part of a sex video, I was going to be comfortable. I took my shirt off since the lights were starting to heat things up in the garage. Katzenjammer looked at my nipple ring with what I took to be envy, or maybe distaste. "That looks infected," he said. I decided it was envy. The nipple was sore and greenish though.
Mira brought in her iPod and Katzenjammer fiddled around with it. "We'll have music to lip sync to, but the quality won't be good. I'll dub the real music in later."
"You're going to be singing while you do it?"
"That's what it's all about, the music."
"And the scenery," Mira said. "They go together."
"What about the sex?"
They both looked at me. "There is no sex," Mira said.
"I'm gay," Katzenjammer said.
It was my turn to stare.
"That means I don't have sex with women," he said. "Even Mira."
"Thanks," I said. "I get that. But what the hell are you filming then?"
"We do a cute video for Christmas and post it for all our friends."
"Wow."
"Yeah. They love it."
"I thought you'd like to help with the filming," Mira said. I swear she leered at me.
I really felt taken, for the second time that evening.
"So what do you do?" I asked, despite my growing anger at my own stupidity.
"This year we're going to act like were riding the bike along a deserted beach and we'll lip sync to our favorite song," she said.
"Kind of like karaoke," Katzenjammer said.
Being neighborly is one thing, but I didn't even know why I was here, other than cruelty. I could be smoking in the hammock, watching the stars and listening to frogs croak.
"What song?" I asked.
Katzenjammer stomped over to the iPod and started the song. After the first notes my legs got so weak I almost had to sit down. This was worse than I thought. Not only was I not going to continue drinking beer alone with Mira. Not only was this super effeminate bogus Austrian-named biker now involved in the proceedings that did not involve anything interesting such as sex, or even nudity. Not only that, but the music they were using to accompany their faux holiday bike ride was total old top ten sewage by Air Supply, a song so vile and ungodly that I've always hated it. Maybe more than any other horrifyingly dreadful song, ever. Some drivel about not having enough love, or being lost in love—atrocious dreck that made me throw up in my mouth almost every time I accidentally heard it. And now I was trapped in the garage with it. How could things get so fucking twisted, man? It set me off.
I was pissed at this whole turn of events and didn't hold back for a change.
"You're favorite song is the worst fucking noise ever recorded by man?" I believe I even stomped my foot. "This total piece of shit? The Karl Rove of pop music?"
I thought Mira would get mad at that. I didn't care any more. Hot neighbor or not. It didn't seem to bother her. She just laughed.
"It's not that bad," she said. "It's fun." The music whined on. They didn't even have the decency to turn it off.
I looked at Mira in pity, wondering what I ever saw in her, besides the smoking body. But I wasn't finished.
"And you're going to put it out there for everyone you know to see and hear? It's like eating raw sewage." I was yelling and gesturing now. "You just don't do that to people. What the hell is wrong with you?"
Katzenjammer was the one that took offense. He must have picked the shitty song. Probably his favorite one since his days as a little bogus tricycle rider. In a tutu.
"If you feel that way, we don't need your help, dude," he said. He took a step toward me and tried to look menacing. He was a big guy, no matter who he chose to snuggle up with in his private time. I've been beaten up by bigger, but that was when I was young and limber. I wouldn't recover as quickly now.
Katzenjammer planted himself in front of me in his non-scuffed shiny boots and tried to stare me down. I stood my ground. I had to for everyone that hated shitty music.
Instead of hitting me, Katzenjammer flicked my nipple ring. I don't know what he thought would happen, but what happened was the ring popped out of my apparently severely infected nipple, bounced off my chest, and dropped on the floor. I screamed like a girl and grabbed my chest, which caused a load of blood and pus to squirt between my fingers onto Katzenjammer's pretty leather vest. Some got on his cute shirt. The pain and relief were major. In keeping with my new (and probably temporary) toughness, I didn't pass out. Katzenjammer looked down, screamed louder than me, and started clomping in circles and hyperventilating, looking for something to wipe it off.
While the stricken-looking Mira was getting something to clean him up with, I decided that was it for me, because even I have my limits. I found my way out of the garage and walked out of the house with a bleeding and painful nipple. I didn't bother to go back for the earring. Mira ran out behind me, and in the first act of kindness she'd ever shown, brought a clean white hand towel and pressed it against my chest to stop the bleeding. I soaked up her kindness for a moment, then followed her eyes as they focused on something over my shoulder. I turned to see Batty and Smitty standing next to his truck in the driveway, both staring at us like an old lady stares at an empty lunch buffet. Ravenous and angry.
Katzenjammer chose that moment to step outside clutching a towel, still wiping up. He saw me and said in his loudest, possibly gayest voice "I can't believe you squirted that vile stuff all over me."
I said, just as loud, but I hoped, a little less effeminately, "You shouldn't have flicked my nipple like that, dude."
I turned for home, and didn't even run when Batty went into the truck and came out clutching her bowling ball, a swirly pink one Smitty had bought her. She started screaming depraved insults at me, focusing on my questionable sexuality. She even called me names usually reserved for when we were alone and drunk. Batty ran at me with the ball over her head, ready to slam it down on mine. Mira and Katzenjammer gasped behind me. Smitty smiled grimly, hoping for a strike, or at least a spare if she got two chances.
Batty's not the swiftest woman I've known, so I simply stepped back out of her way as she got to me and started to bring the ball down on my skull. Her momentum kept her going and I gave her a helpful kick in the ass as she passed. She ran headfirst into the brick wall of Mira's house and dropped like a rock, cracking her jaw on the bowling ball on the way down. She wouldn't be yelling at me anytime soon.
Smitty looked like someone had pissed on his Kools. I knew he kept a pistol in the truck so when he went back in for it, I grabbed the bowling ball. As he came up with the gun I pitched the bowling ball through the windshield—except it lodged in the safety glass and rolled harmlessly off the truck. I jumped up on the hood and started kicking through the spidered glass.
I didn't give a fuck about Smitty and his gun. I took years of his shit and now he was going to take a few seconds of mine. I finally got enough glass kicked away to see Smitty crouched in his seat clutching his pistol with a look I had never seen on his face. I'd had it on mine enough so I recognized it as fear. I reached thro
ugh the hole and snatched the pistol from his hand. I stood on his hood, held the pistol by the barrel, and flung it on the roof of Mira's house. Smitty was trying to start his truck. I jumped down and went to his door. He was waiting for me to hit him. Instead I pointed at Batty.
"Go get that crazy bitch and take her away. I never want to see either of you again."
Smitty stumbled out of the truck and fumbled with Batty. Mira and Katzenjammer stared at me with open mouths. Smitty finally got a hold under her arms and dragged her to the truck, her heels dragging on the driveway.
"Wait right there," I told him. I walked to my house. I don't know what Smitty thought I was going to get, but he was sitting in the driveway with eyes wide and the truck running when I came out. Batty was slumped in the passenger seat. I dropped the nameless piss-happy kitten in her lap and looked at Smitty.
"Get the fuck out of here," I said.
I ignored Mira and Katzenjammer as Smitty backed the fuck out of there. When he got to the street, he stopped and yelled in a voice that didn't sound like his—more like a crazy old woman's. "I always knew you were a pole smoker!"
I started toward the truck. He fishtailed, squealed the tires halfway down the street and gave me the finger over the roof. I stalked into my house and closed the door. I was going to scrounge up a cigarette and relax in the hammock for as long as I damn well pleased.
Then I'd go buy that dog a bone.
Chum
by Michael Sears
They call Montauk 'The End.' It's not, but it's close.
"Help you?" The bartender is a heavy man who appears to be in his sixties, though he is so out of shape, he could easily be ten years younger. His belly, barely covered by a faded Twisted Sister t-shirt, hangs down over his belt, a testimony to cheap beer and bar food.
He probably thinks he still has a thirty-four inch waist, I think. But I don't say it.
"I want to go fishing." My voice almost cracks. I haven't spoken since the episode with Marlene the night before, and my throat is still raw from the yelling.
"Yeah, well Viking is the place, I guess." His voice seems to emanate from the room itself, rather than from his mouth. The lack of light is disorienting—the single grease and cigarette-smoke stained window produces only a thin, gray diffusion. "But you're late. Or early. The party boats go out at dawn and sunset."
"I couldn't get here any earlier." Why do I bother to explain? He is not capable of understanding.
He looks down the bar. There is a second man in the room, huddled over an empty shot glass and a bottle of Budweiser. I hadn't seen him until now. I wonder, idly, why are there no other lights on?
The other man looks up and for a moment he and the bartender lock eyes. He owns the pick-up out front. The rusted black Cheyenne with the POW/MIA bumper sticker. I can tell. I am very good at that. Matching men and their cars. It's not guessing. I know.
They snicker. Maybe it is only a smile that passes.
"Did I say something funny?" People sometimes think I'm being funny when I'm not. I don't like that.
The bartender lies to me. "No, sir. Tom's an old friend. You come back late this afternoon. They'll be a boat going out for stripers. Leaves at six, gets back at midnight. They provide the bait."
"Stripers?" He means striped bass. "I'm not interested."
"Well, what are you looking for? They do a porgy run. Porgies not like fishing, though. More like just hauling 'em up. Good eating, porgies."
"I want to catch a shark."
Tom, the drinker, sits up, turns and looks me over. The bartender seems to defer to him, waiting to see if he will speak. He doesn't.
"Not too many charter for shark," the bartender finally says. "Those that do are probably booked solid this time of year. All the Star Island guys'll be booked, you can be sure of that." He's concerned that I am disappointed. He wants to please. Of course he does, he's a bartender. If he can't please, what good is he? "Can I get you a drink? We're not officially open at this hour, but I doubt anyone's going to mind."
That explains why no lights are on.
"Can I get a beer?" I am still sweating peat from the single malt the night before. The beer would help wash it out. "Where's the men's room?"
"Back along that wall. There's only the one, so check to make sure there's no ladies in there." He chuckles at his joke and Tom looks up and smiles at him. He is missing two or three upper teeth on his right side.
There are two doors. One has a toilet seat dangling from a hook. The other is marked Exit, but the light is out and the red letters are hard to make out in the gloom.
"Light switch is on your left," the bartender calls out.
It is.
My piss is dark. I have not been drinking enough water. There are still toxins to be flushed from the system. I find this funny. With all that I've had to think about this last twenty-four hours or so, I am now concerned with the color of my piss.
Perry would understand. He'd find it funny, too. Perry and I sit next to each other on the trading desk.
Sat.
Perry still sits. I no longer sit on any trading desk. I am free. Released.
The water runs pink when I wash my hands and for a moment I am startled. Am I cut somewhere? It doesn't seem possible. Then I see there is still a dark red stain under my fingernails, another along the heel of my right hand, splatters that run up onto my shirtsleeve. I run cold water over all. The spots fade but do not disappear. I don't think anyone will notice, but the shirt is ruined.
Sometimes I can't see my eyes in the mirror. I've noticed that in recent months. Usually, it happens with a headache, but not today. Ocular migraine, the doctor called it. He's full of shit. He doesn't know why it happens, so he says shit like that. Ocular migraine. I look sideways at the mirror. It doesn't help, but I do notice more spots of blood on my neck and a smear across my cheek. I wash them off and look in the mirror again. I still can't see my eyes but my face is clean. Squeaky clean, my mother would have said.
The bartender and his friend, Tom, have been talking about me. I know this. People will always deny it, or try to make it seem like something else, or downplay it, or I don't know what. They lie. People lie all the time. This is another of my talents. I know when people have been talking about me and I know when they are lying. And I know about their cars. That's the easy one.
I sit and sip the beer. The cold bubbles explode in my throat and sooth the hot patches. The liquid flows into my tight muscles and they begin to relax. It might yet turn out to be a good day.
"So, where would I ask about shark fishing?"
The bartender looks over at his friend before answering. I knew they'd been talking about me.
"A day's shark fishing will run you some money. Boats go twenty, thirty miles out. That's two-three hours out and two-three back and running the engine all day chumming. Fuel's expensive."
"I've got money," I say. I do.
"I doubt you'll find any of the regulars, though. Like I say, those still working it are probably booked."
"They catch mostly blue sharks, right? That would be okay. I'd like a mako or a thresher, but a blue shark would be okay. They don't have great whites or bull sharks around here much, do they?" I turn to Tom, the morning drinker. Boilermakers before lunch. "You a fisherman?"
They share another quick look.
"Yeah," he says, speaking for the first time in my presence. "I'm a fisherman." His voice is half hoarse growl, half aggrieved whine. A victim and therefore dangerous.
I nod. "You ever fish for shark? Or are you basically a porgy fisherman?"
From their reaction, I deduce that I have violated a local etiquette ordinance. This is unfortunate. I still need their assistance.
"Sorry. I don't mean to offend. I just want to go shark fishing. I can pay. Top dollar. Name your price."
Tom, the non-porgy fisherman, stares at me for a long time. I have not shaved, nor showered today and I am wearing a rumpled and slightly stained dress shirt, gray suit pa
nts, and a pair of black Allen Edmonds wingtips. I'm not dressed for a day's fishing.
"I can get you a shark," he says.
I stand up and place a twenty on the bar next to my drink. "Then, let's go."
"How's your stomach?" Tom asks.
I don't understand the question.
"You get seasick?"
"Oh. No. Never."
He rises, his body unfolding like a mechanical crane. He is taller than I thought. And straighter.
"We'll get some swells, is why I'm asking. The tail end of Hurricane Catherine is about six hundred miles due east of here. We won't get the winds, but we will get the long swells. Not everybody can take 'em."
I have never been on a small boat on the ocean before. I have never fished beyond the end of the pier.
"I'll be fine."
He nods. Whether he believes me or not doesn't matter—he has warned me. His responsibility for my stomach is done.
"Leave my tab open, Dez. I'll be back tonight and settle up."
The bartender nods, nearly licking his lips in anticipation of the tip that Tom will pass his way after I pay him for my shark.
"Keep the change," I say.
Despite the thick, low cloud cover, the gray gloom outside is almost blinding after the midnight of the bar.
"That your car?" Tom asks pointing with his chin to my convertible 3-series.
I have seventeen more lease payments. It will never be mine. "Yes. Your truck?" I point with my chin.
"Nah. That's Desmond's. I came over in my dink." He points again with his chin. This time to the end of the service dock where a small inflatable dinghy is tied. For a moment I think I have been made fun of—tricked. There is no boat other than this tiny bathtub toy that would barely hold two grown men. There will be no shark. Tom and Desmond will share this story over the bar and the walls will echo with the drunken laughter of fishermen, dock workers, and ferry crewmen. Idiots. Uneducated blue collar men. Men who wouldn't know a stock option from a single malt.
"I'm going to run over and gas up my boat. Meet me right out there." Again he points with his chin to the end of the dock. "Give me half an hour. If I were you, I'd grab a sandwich or two, a big bottle of water, and whatever else you may want to drink. We won't see the sun today, but it'll be hot out there."