by Charles Bock
Outside that adult bookstore on that June night, the darkness was solidifying and some of the passing cars were turning on their headlights. Ponyboy flamed up a Marlboro. He toed at the pebbles beneath his combat boots, then checked his beeper. He took a long moment and meditated on that faraway point on the horizon. The prick in the suit exited out of the side door and Ponyboy rammed a knee through his crotch. Ponyboy followed through, thrusting his knee in an angled blow that had a chance at propelling that motherfucker's nose bone into his sorry excuse for a pea brain. Yeah, motherfucker, Ponyboy shouted. Ain't so big now. The motherfucker flopped onto his back and covered his nose with his hands and curled into a fetal ball and made gurgling sounds. Now it was a fast and easy move into that tool 's back pocket. Maybe Ponyboy stomped the guy once more, asswipe, before he got onto his mountain bike and hightailed it back into the summer heat. With his heart still beating out a fret board guitar solo, Ponyboy pedaled directly to a flower store and charged a dozen long-stemmed white roses on the guy's AmEx. Darling sweet baby Cheri, he wrote on the little gift card thing. I know we're going threw tuff timez but I U so much UR the best thing in my miserable fucking life. Ponyboy scribbled a reminder on the palm of his hand, so that when he got to Cheri's place, he'd call this hacker, sell off them credit card numbers. He started to write something else, then figured the credit card one would remind him to fence the ID, so that did not need its own note. When deliveries were slow, it was not uncommon for Ponyboy to earn a few bucks as a day laborer at nonunion construction sites. He had an on and off gig that involved roaming the streets at night, duct-taping flyers for cut-rate moving services. Cheri also had rigged it so when the Slinky Fox was in a pinch, he could man the door. There were a bunch of other piddling errands. There was some other shit he was less proud of and didn't like thinking about. He pedaled onward, crouching low to reduce the wind resistance, churning his legs and cranking his pace another notch, the extra perspiration pouring into his old Metallica shirt.
By an airport terminal for privately owned planes, billboards alerted visitors to NUDES ON ICE AT THE UNION PLAZA, HOT GIRLS: ONLY AT THE RIVIERA, and the THUNDER FROM DOWN UNDER MALE EROTIC REVIEW. There were a few split-level motor inns, a couple of office complexes, buildings so generic you could look right at them without noting their existence. This meant they were perfect for wandering. You curled up beneath their stairwells, cracked open a can of tuna, unrolled the sheet of eggshell foam that served as your makeshift bed—although that could get risky too. Nobody wants to get their sleeping ass woken by some outraged business dude at nine in the morning. Straights like that always call the cops.
The middle complex was Ponyboy's destination, and he rode around its side, away from the roads and parking lots. Then he walked the bike down a long corridor with a bunch of different doors with company names on them, to the last door, a corner suite with no name on it, no suite number, no identifying marks. Yellowed blinds were down in the window and if someone didn't know what he was looking for, basically, the place was unfindable. Taking the ice pick from his boot, Ponyboy got ready to jimmy the window, climb inside. Then he remembered what Jabba had told him and checked through the blinds. The back of a mammoth head was visible—a balding crown, a ponytail of long gray wires, the big bastard sitting in his leather swivel chair, a phone jammed between Jabba's skull and a ring of neck flab.
Life just got a lot harder for the self-anointed Jedi knight, smooch to the booch, it did. But Ponyboy mentally prepared himself. Then he nudged open the door with his mountain bike's front wheel, and guided the bike inside, into a dingy but large office, air stultifying and smelling of mold; barren walls the color of dental plaque. Immediately Ponyboy placed the strongbox and docket on the desk, right in front of Jabba. The big bastard hardly glanced up from his conversation, his face remaining as expressive as a manhole cover.
The rotations of a small desk fan kept blowing up the corners of the magazines and yellowed papers that sat within range of its oscillations. Ponyboy would have loved to raise the fan to his face, maybe air out his pits. He would have killed to grab a tall-boy from the miniature fridge, press the chilled aluminum against the back of his neck. Jabba grunted into the receiver, nodded at Ponyboy, his heavy lidded eyes radiating all the grace and warmth of a dock worker.
Ponyboy took his time in returning the gesture—even in front of Jabba the Hutt, Jedi knights knew to be cool. Beyond that, it was hard to figure what came next. Jabba could be on the phone for a while, but he also could hang up with a bang. He could chill or he could blow up like napalm. Ponyboy called him Jabba like the guy was all blubber, but even a cursory look showed a packed, huge mass, nothing any sane person wanted to fuck with. Meanwhile Ponyboy still had to straighten the desk and empty the trash. He had to separate the week's metered mail from the order catalogues. He had to weed out all the overdue bills, then make a special pile of the warrants and IRS notices. Ponyboy'd never seen anyone besides Jabba in here, and little about the place suggested anyone else ever came in.
“They're saying I WHAT?”
Jabba's voice was raspy with outrage, and Ponyboy knew better than to go near him when he was like this. So he ducked his head and started into the office. Footprints, cigarette butts, whiskey stains, and other unidentified mishaps had bludgeoned the shag's normal shade into puddle water. Different-colored videotapes—green, blue, red, yellow—were stacked at the same knee-high levels where Ponyboy'd finished stacking them last time. A few large cardboard boxes had been sliced open, with glossy magazine spreads unfolding onto the carpet, lying right where they'd been when Ponyboy'd last finished with them. Ponyboy cut a diagonal path toward the far wall, and a sofa sectional, this huge three-unit couch of impenetrable black leather—Jabba let him curl up on it whenever Cheri was pissed. Like, for a week after Cheri'd got her rack done, Ponyboy'd slept on that couch—including one wild night with this skank from the Olympic Garden, which wasn't cheating, technically, since Cheri'd been the one who'd thrown him out.
“A hundred and fifty-eight?”
Forcing himself not to check over his shoulder, Ponyboy made a quick turn into an open-air bathroom vestibule. He splashed cold water on his face and head, put his mouth below the tap, swallowing some water, letting the rest strike his neck and spray onto his ripped T. The carrying remnants of Jabba's voice were drowned out by the sound of the water, and Ponyboy dipped two fingers into the nearest jar of petroleum jelly. He took his time, re-spiked his damp and tangled hair, and stared at his body, all sunburned and glistening. His shoulder tatt majorly needed touching up.
“Come on. Ninety percent of the vice cops on the West Coast are breaking down my doors to get into the industry. And a community standards rap? It's VEGAS, for Christsakes.”
The trick here—any streeter knew—was to eavesdrop while looking like you weren't eavesdropping. Stay out of the way and at the same time stay right in sight. Look like the dumbest fucker in the world and learn whatever there is to learn. The trick is, was, and always would be to take whatever wasn't nailed down, and then it was to get a hammer and start yanking on them nails. Loyalty went as far as the end of your fucking nose ring, especially when some motherfucker was riding your ass around in volcano weather.
Ponyboy left the water running and reentered the suite's main area. He sat on the section of the couch farthest away from Jabba and felt the rush of a day of fighting and biking and fuck knew what . . .
“She signs a contract,” Jabba said.
Ponyboy ducked his head low between his legs; sucking for air, deep breaths . . .
“Her driver's license says she's eighteen.”
Ponyboy concentrated on Jabba's screams, returning to the world.
“Explain to me—her lie is MY fault?”
He kept his head low and his body poised on the edge of the couch, and deliberately used the top of his pupils to check across the room, watching Jabba: the big man starting to speak into the phone, then stopping, listening, his face dumb
with concern. “Right,” Jabba said. “Maybe our lobbyists . . . I mean, a hundred and fifty-eight?”
“Right.” Jabba sank into his chair. “Yeah. Okay. Get back to me.”
Less hanging up than simply letting go, Jabba stared out and into nothing. Ponyboy watched him pull invisible hairs from his skull by their imaginary roots. Watched him look up to the ceiling, rub the three-day beard on the underside of his neck.
“Lemme ask you.”
Fucker. How'd he know?
“Say a kid's . . . what, fourteen.” Jabba's hands made a rolling motion. “It's three in the afternoon. Zero on the tube. His older brother's at football practice. Bedroom's unlocked. Kid goes in. Looks around. It's natural, right?”
“I guess.”
“Okay. Right. He's not supposed to go in, he does. He has a chance, he takes it. A barrier goes up. You want to see behind it.”
Overhead a commercial airliner passed, shaking the matchstick walls. Jabba waited it out.
“Now, throw in the beauty and mysteries of the female form.”
The fat man paused, looking at the strongbox in front of him. He spent a moment with the docket. Another with his own thoughts. “Different example. Your girlfriend.”
Ponyboy's head rose.
“Let's say she likes making a scene.”
“Can you not say shit about Cheri.”
“What? I like her. She's a talented individual.”
Ponyboy popped his thumbs. He kept his eyes level and rocked slightly in place.
Jabba gave a quick grin. “Some generic girlfriend, then. A girlfriend that doesn't exist.”
“Just don't be saying shit about Cheri.”
Jabba's palms spread in front of him. “A make-believe girlfriend.” He smiled. “Let's see. Let's . . . how about . . . make believe she's an actress.”
Without waiting for a reaction, Jabba swiveled in his chair. He reached down. There was the muted sound of a door opening; a tiny, metallic popping sound; air releasing.
“So it's Friday night,” Jabba said, swiveled back toward Ponyboy, an aluminum can now in his fist. “Date night. You go to rent movies. She drags you to the adult section in back. Like I said she's an actress. One of them extroverts. She shouts out the dirtiest titles. Wants the whole video store to hear—it makes her hot or something.”
“Where you going with this, biggie?”
“Imaginary, remember?”
“Something you want maybe?”
“You rent a dirty movie with yer imaginary girlfriend.”
Jabba's tone let Ponyboy know the big man's patience had run out. Ponyboy felt violence simmering in his gaze. He thought of saying something, thought better of it.
“Back at her place. She wants to imitate all the positions. Fucks you till your eyes bleed. Tell me, tough guy—anything detrimental to the common good in that?”
Jabba cackled, leaned forward, and slammed the opened can of beer down onto the desk. Foam came in rivers from the can, like a miniature volcano eruption. Jabba unleashed a shit-eating grin and shook his soaked hand, obviously pleased with himself.
“How about this?” He wiped his hand on his pants. “You're just out of a long-term deal, into the idea of meeting new people. You wish you were sexually active. But what can you do? You're just not in a place where you can put yourself at risk. Not yet.
“Could be you're an average guy who just finished a third date with a girl he's really into, the festivities having gone far, but not far enough.
“You're a fifty-one-year-old widower. A middle manager. You got this meager, settled life. No foreseeable prospects.
“Maybe your wife's ass keeps getting fatter and her breasts are sagging toward the floor. She's looking more and more like a tub of lard, and you're no bargain, either, but hey, why shouldn't you be able to look at young pretty bodies?”
Jabba paused, caught his breath. Now he offered Ponyboy the beer.
“Viewing pornography is NOT a crime,” he said. “Every member of the male species who whacks off to an explicit prompt is not necessarily going to rape the little girl next door. A seventeen-year-old clicks onto an adult website, he's not gonna stalk your sister or instigate an abusive relationship. It's horseshit. Why not say every person who's ever told an offensive joke is a racist? Anyone whose lips touch beer is alcoholic?”
Pushing off the desk, Jabba rose. “We got all these political opportunists, all the right-wing God squadders, bunch of tight-ass virgins. Throw in a bunch of hairy-lip feminist dissertation grad school dogshit. Now the terms get skewed. Anyone who willingly makes a living from their body is exploited. Who cares if the girls sign papers? If they choose this life? If they make good money. God forbid they actually enjoy sex.”
Ponyboy relaxed, kicked back. He'd seen the Pacing Defense Attorney routine before, heard the arguments more than a few times. The rants were a relief, actually; their familiarity gave Ponyboy a path to follow. He listened, allowing himself to get caught up in Jabba's excitement, to remember how fascinating this shit was.
“A rational mind, a thinking mind—you and me, brah—we accept masturbation as universal, as natural. You keep too much inside, you bust. Cleopatra, she used to have slaves rub their semen into her skin as beauty ointment. Didn't know that, didja? I collect shit and you bet I'm gonna whip it out. I got a Sears catalogue from the 1890s. They got a listing for clitoral stimulators. Know what it says? ‘Relieves tension. Allows a woman to concentrate on her housework.’ ”
Ponyboy chuckled along.
“Here's the nut,” Jabba said. “All these years later people are the same, only now the world's different. Women got the pill and vibrators now, they want their orgasm just like men. I got all these lezzies, more than happy to yell how their films ‘reclaim pornography for the clit.’ I got fags, they luuuv their fag porn and don't care who knows it. I say God bless them. Because porn's not just a guilty pleasure for the raincoat crowd, not no more. These days you got teenagers flipping Mommy and Daddy the bird, buying a Porn Star brand T-shirt from the clothing company that Mommy and Daddy own stock in. You got porn jokes in talk show monologues. Paris designers using adult stars in fashion shows. You got professional power women heading to the gym after work, taking classes in aerobic pole dancing.”
Jabba took a moment, caught his breath, his face alive now.
“Now. Does this necessarily mean porn should be celebrated?
“That there's no exploitation? No objectification?
“Does it mean that prolonged, sustained viewing of this shit has no long-term effects?”
5.2
Following Daphney's directions the girl slowly rotated the powder-filled spoon above the blue and orange sections of the cigarette lighter's flame. Her jitters and contrary instincts were like so many years of public service warnings, acknowledged for the precise reason of opposing, and the girl lifted the spoon to her nose, she closed her eyes and tilted her head backward. A long inhalation, a deep snort; the jagged edges and larger rocks aggravated her interior nasal passages, felt rough along the fleshy and sensitive tissues. There you go, Danger-Prone Daphney said. Nice and easy, right? The girl with the shaved head swayed, then stayed still, half-expecting butterflies that morphed into sky rockets, afraid of tentacles leaping out from the middle of a blue forehead, all that weird Goth zombie shit that the girl imagined came from taking hard drugs. Suddenly she did not want to open her eyes, was afraid to give in to what was waiting for her. She realized there was no turning back. She also thought how cool it would be if there were like a menu of hallucinations, like if she could order her hallucination from one of the fast-food places she abhorred and boycotted and yet sometimes still craved. The girl with the shaved head wanted to ride on a butterfly and kiss the stars. She opened her eyes and looked around and there weren't any butterflies, no stars, just Daphney squirming on the toilet seat, the mongrel dog licking up water from the floor. The girl did not feel the drug inside her lungs, she was not aware of her body's carbolic
acids doing their assigned work— breaking down the different hallucinogens that were inside the basement-made methamphetamine, allowing each to make its way into her bloodstream. The girl's heart pumped with goodwill for all of the childhood friends whose names she no longer remembered—boys who used to catch lizards and frogs near the boat basin, a freckled happy girl with pigtails whose bladder problem had been in direct conflict with her affinity for playing jump rope at recess. Hydrochloride salt is the glue agent that holds together many inhaled drugs; it is used as glue specifically because the chloride is water soluble, and because blood is mostly water. The girl's heart beat generously, with each pulse helping to further separate the inhaled drug's essential ingredients. The drug's glue atoms further dissolved and the essential agents of each hallucinogen were further absorbed into and carried along the girl's bloodstream, and she was oblivious. Complained, in fact, wanting to know where her hallucination meal was. Said she might as well have been waiting in line behind some old lady. The girl with the shaved head said waiting for the drug to kick in was like having that old lady search through her purse for the nickels and quarters. It was like you waited and after all that waiting the old lady had counted out the exact amount for her gas, but then all of a sudden remembered that she needed to buy milk, too. Danger-Prone Daphney half-listened. Pulling some sort of vial out from her tampon applicator, Daphney laughed and snorted in a kind of knowing way that, to the girl, sounded like a walrus. Now Daphney uncorked the vial, and took a long hit, snorting that whole stash, and now lurching backward, slipping without warning, skidding backward, and there was some sort of significant and definite sound, splashing, something was going on, but it was impossible for the girl with the shaved head to know what, impossible for her to see, for the girl was occupied, she was being bathed in a celestial light, a brightness that was infinite and immaculate. The girl with the shaved head felt loose and limpid, her every pore simultaneously opening and being filled with the energy of truth, with the charge of young love in bloom, with all events turning into echoes of one singular and primordial event. Suddenly time was outside of the confines of linear temporality for the girl, substance existed outside of dimensions that defined all notions of substance. Every action, every event, every sound and energy and transference, they were ripples in the cosmic continuum, dust in the fucking wind; the high was the girl's end and the high was her means, the high was her word, and this word was good. And as for all of the other words, the girl was a part of them as well. Her esophagus was the source of Daphney's newest cry, the girl's ecstasy an extension of Daphney's sudden shock, Daphney now calling out, It's not funny, Daphney embarrassed, laughing at herself; wiggling in place some more and saying, Yeah, I guess it kinda is funny, isn't it? The girl with the shaved head laughed along, although she did not know why she was laughing, but at the same time, she could see it all: reality was this large lake of gravy, the girl was a buttermilk biscuit. The girl had to sop up all of reality, take it in and absorb everything she could, she had to savor each image—the sight of Daphney's hands on the toilet lip, the spectacle of Daphney pushing, making those splashing noises and stomping her feet, Daphney saying I'm stuck, and Can you believe this shit? And now the girl understood, and she celebrated, bending down, laughing and bleating, singsonging, Daphney got stuck in the toilet, Daphney got stuck in the toilet. The girl laughed harder, so hard that she had to stop singing, for she was suddenly aware of her own realization of this ridiculousness. The girl laughed because she had not been able to see the obvious sight of Daphney's ass lodged in the toilet, and she laughed because she had been laughing for so long. God, this is so funny. The universe is so absurd. And now, as if all this were not enough, now the girl caught a glimpse of something else: running between Daphney's thighs, Daphney's underwear strung like a washing line between tenements. What? Daphney wanted to know, rocking to the left, snorting herself, her giggles like the moans of an embarrassed walrus. Her face shining with tears, Daphney looked down, trying to see. What's so funny? I can't see around my belly. Tell me.