by Charles Bock
The streets all looked the same at this time of night, and as Lincoln made a turn, he was unable to come up with a reasonable explanation for the voice screaming obscenities that had come from the other end of Newell's cell phone. Lincoln was wearing one of his suit jackets and a pair of old sweatpants. His feet were smashed into an ancient pair of dock sneakers, their backs crushed down by the weight. He'd staggered out to the car in this haphazard outfit and Lorraine had followed, gripping her bathrobe tightly around the waist and nagging him, complaining about driving safety and the kind of people who were out on the road at this time of night. She'd double-checked to make sure he had his wireless, then worried because he did not know what kind of car Newell was in, did not even know where to begin looking. Lorraine had made him promise to check in, and she'd assured Lincoln that she would call if there were any updates, and if she had not kissed him before he got into the car, Lincoln nonetheless felt she was back on his side, that their dinner and evening together, and yes even this little mini-crisis, had thawed her frost for him.
Kids were going to be kids, Lincoln knew that much. They were going to inhale substances that by all rights no sensible person would imagine inhaling. They were going to put their private parts in all sorts of bizarre places. And they were going to lie, telling you they were going to be home by a certain time and then showing up a lot later. Newell's lie was just another link in the chain, part of the nature of being a son, just like fathers had to look into their children's eyes, sometimes, and tell them untruths right back.
In Newell's case, the time had come to take control. Get the kid some discipline. Some therapy. Some shit. Lincoln thought of his son in platitudes. The boy just needed a little straightening, was all. If he and Lorraine handled it all the right way, this was a chance to really do something, help the kid and get him on track. A deep sense of satisfaction took Lincoln with this admission, and it was as if he'd taken care of one of the important steps in a long, detailed project, a step that didn't necessarily ensure the project's success, but ensured that the project could be completed. Lincoln felt glad to be at this point in his life, happy to have his wife and son, his family, even with all their problems and bitching. He even was okay with driving around in circles at one in the morning, bleary-eyed, waiting for the phone to bleat and inform him he should come home, all was right in the world. He thought about stopping for some coffee and a doughnut, reminded himself about calorie intake.
Hell, pretty soon it was going to be time to tell the kid about the birds and the bees.
The roar of an overhead plane shook the office to its structurally flimsy foundations. The crew was huddled, Rod Erectile swabbing his dick with a cotton ball; Jabba and the camera guy going back and forth about which lighting angle would best hide the injection mark.
On the far end of the couch, Cheri sat, quietly still in shock. Beside her, Ponyboy had his hands in his pockets, and was looking sheepish. “Apparently,” he started, “there's been, I guess, this backlash against fake breasts.”
He looked down at the carpet as he spoke. “Yeah. Looks like they only want all natural girls now.”
His hand left his pocket, scratched his ear; he still couldn't meet her eyes. “I had to cut a deal,” he said.
Silence.
“It's the only way they'd do it, baby.”
Cheri forced herself to her feet. Nothing about one second of what was happening felt unusual to her, the events unfolding as they did during any other day: Ponyboy calling her baby and reaching out; Jabba's voice directed her way as well now, asking if there was some sort of problem, which Ponyboy answered by saying he was handling it.
Cheri continued toward the little alcove outside the bathroom.
“He told me you'd gone over the details,” Jabba said.
“I'm handling it, Jabba—”
“I DO NOT WANT TO FUCK ANOTHER GUY.”
Her words echoed, faded, were replaced by the sounds of moths and flies circling the light fixture. Cheri remained rooted in place. Jabba waited, then matter-of-factly said, “It's the standard deal. We supply the cock. All the regulars: Oral. Vag. Anal—”
Cheri's mouth parted. She crossed her arms, felt her skin cold against her hand.
Jabba was still talking: “—then the money shot and good night.”
Now Ponyboy was back, out from whatever rock. “See, um, that's the other thing.”
Cheri could not look at him, could not bear what she knew would be in his face, the shame and helplessness, his apology smoothly mixing in with whatever the next thing was that he had in mind for her. She held back. Did not call him a jackoff, an asshole, a betrayer, or a Judas. She could not do these things. She was too busy letting the back wall of the vestibule support her, was too busy shutting her eyes, leaning back, resting against the wall.
“Any schlub with a video camera and a website can screw in front of the world nowadays,” Jabba continued.
“It's the only way they do tryouts anymore,” Ponyboy added, as if this were helpful.
And if her life had been a movie—not this kind of movie, but a real film, with creative, artistic and even moral value—then at this point the voices would turn garbled and fade.
On the silver screen, Cheri would not be paying attention to the Asian photographer's venom. (It's called being a professional, you fucking twat.) Instead, she would be opening her eyes. The bathroom vestibule would have a mirror on the wall and Cheri would be looking past all of the men who also had jammed themselves into this alcove. She would be looking at the mirror, noticing herself: a woman who at once looked stunning, and sexy, and—in this outfit and makeup—ridiculous.
Now a voice-over would begin, the disembodied voice of Cheri's mind, calm and smart, saying this was the last place in the world that she wanted to be.
INTERIOR. LARGE CLASSROOM OF CATHOLIC SCHOOL.
The classroom alive with laughter and jeers. Wimpled NUN stands over the child version of CHERI BLOSSOM. NUN curls lip, removes glasses. Her eyes are soft and liquidy.
NUN
To be human is to sin, my children. Perhaps you cannot understand because you are small and your lives are not hard, and perhaps you can understand because you are small and blessed are the children.
But you do need to know that Jesus or Buddha or Muhammad or Vishnu or Jehovah or the Hebrew God Yahweh, all forms of God love all forms of his children.
It is important to know this.
And so I say it again. My children, you are
human for your sins and God loves you for your humanity.
It is your sins that make you beautiful.
But this does not necessarily give us license
to do whatever we wish.
And here I want you to listen carefully. What I am about to say is very important.
7.3
Kenny's hand remained easy on the bottom of the steering wheel, and kept the car steady along the gradually curving road. It didn't take much effort for him to see the passing streetlamps as a succession of lit matches, as burning skulls atop long, thin steel pikes. Newell was numb in the passenger seat, his face glowering, unable to hide its resentment. Tell me what you want to do now, Kenny had said, issuing a challenge as much as a question. Newell had not answered, and had no idea what he was supposed to do, what was coming next. The whipping wind through the open passenger window smashed onto his face and neck. The night kept expanding around him.
Kenny took his silence as permission. For a moment he let himself wander, was distracted by the light reflecting off the asphalt ahead, all the revealed scars where tar had been poured to fix cracks.
“It'll be cool,” Kenny said, as if reassuring himself. “Just wait. You'll see.”
Newell kept decomposing in his seat. If Kenny tried any more pervy stuff, he was going to get a full-on blast of fire extinguisher. Newell would do it, too. He wasn't going to put up with any more bull, and that included the party Kenny was talking about. Newell didn't know whether to believe th
ere even was a rock show, and was worried about being taken out to the boonies for another kind of party, one inside Kenny's pants. Out in the middle of nowhere Kenny would be able to do anything he wanted, Newell thought. Then he remembered Kenny's apology, Kenny promising that he was Newell's friend. This statement held true with everything Newell knew about Kenny. Everything, that is, except one thing.
Newell didn't know what to think. This was new territory, and it had him dizzy.
“I don't have to do more gay shit?”
He meant to protect himself by taking the offensive. But his voice caught. The sentence came out without any spine or certainty. Even so, it hit home. The bad energy inside the car metastasized. Kenny felt the blood leave his face, he worked like hell to keep silent. The Reliant wheezed, lumbering as best its four cylinders would allow: through a yellow light, heading south, in pretty much the opposite direction they had been driving not that long ago.
Whatever response Newell was expecting, it was not coming. The little lesson at the end of the mistake. The attempt to right the ship and get back on course. No assurances from Kenny. No apologies. No arguments. Just Kenny, seething in his seat, not even trying anymore. It was another shattered border between them, one whose dissolution shocked Newell. For an instant he felt responsible, both dumb and chastised. He started to get pissed at Kenny for giving up on him, then made a tremendous discovery: he did not care, either. If you want to shut up, Newell thought, it's not like I give a shit. If he felt bad about anything, it was the hitch that had marred his question. Helpless was the last thing Newell was. Just try me and see.
Dirt and dead bugs splotched the windshield. Strip malls passed at something less than an antiseptic blur, including the cell phone place that used to be a video store, and then the supermarket belonging to the chain Kenny had worked for last summer—for like a week he'd chased down shopping carts, until he'd gotten heat exhaustion and thrown up all over the parking lot.
Kenny's recognition of these places did not go so far as to be recognition, but was just a low hue, a tint in the background of his thoughts.
Everything is fucked, he was thinking.
It seemed to him that he and Newell had been in this car forever; that he'd shown his drawings to Bing Beiderbixxe during a different century. The smell of sweaty clothes wafted momentarily to his nostrils. He tried to rally, reminding himself that Bing Beiderbixxe would not have shown him that pencil grip just to be nice, pros like that just don't give away their secrets, not if they don't think you have something going for you.
It took a Herculean effort for him not to look over at Newell. Kenny felt as if his body were held together by a framework of chicken wire, as if his bones and organs would collapse at any moment. Newell would tell someone what he'd done. It would happen sooner instead of later.
Kenny ignored the goose bumps that came with this realization, and kept trying not to freak. One thing at a time. Let's just get this party thing over with.
In the mob they took people out to the desert and dealt with them.
Yeah. Right.
Then another thought: it would be the boy's word against his.
And Newell wasn't the most believable person, was he.
Extending through the darkness, all the high walls and gated communities joined together, shimmering as if they were the surface of a translucent ocean. Through the passenger window, the colored towers of the Strip appeared to Newell as a distant row of glowing toys. When they'd gotten so far away, he did not know. But the distance felt appropriate. The hotels could catch on fire and crumble into dust for all he cared.
On the playground in grade school, once in a while, he and the other kids talked about what they would do when they grew up. Teachers, too, asked Newell what he wanted to do with his life. And his mom, approaching her breaking point, would challenge him, asking if Newell wanted to spend the entirety of his adulthood digging ditches, because if he didn't, he better get his little rear in gear. More than once Newell answered that he actually did want to dig ditches. In fact, he'd tell his mom, just now he'd started on a ditch to China that would get him the hell away from her. Newell would tell his teacher that he had his future all figured out. He was going to be a mattress tester, that way he could sleep all day. Actually—serious though—he hadn't decided yet. He was torn, policeman or astronaut? Right now, he'd said, his plan was to combine them and fight crime in outer space. First priority, he said, is getting rid of the Klingons around Uranus. The class had roared, and their laughter had been more than worth the trip to the principal's office, and afterward, Newell had added the possibility of being a comedian to his list.
His other possible careers included: jet-setting billionaire secret agent with a heart of stone; superhero who sneaks around in darkness and comes up behind terrorists and slits their throats; international jewel thief on a Harley with mounted laser guns. Newell was going to climb the highest mountain on earth in his special mountain-climbing submarine, and he was going to vomit down on a passing troop as they sold Girl Scout cookies, and if anyone fucked with him, they'd pay, oh yeah, you best believe his enemies would be punished like nobody had been punished before.
Only there was something else, too. Loosely connected but still coming to mind.
When his father would take him to Rebels games at the Thomas & Mack. The part Newell always looked forward to the most. It came after Newell had abandoned his dad in section 119 (See you at ten, his father'd say, meaning that Newell should be back when the game had ten minutes left), and after Newell had met up with a couple of jackasses from school, kids who didn't pick on him that much while he tagged along with them. When it got to be too much work for Newell to wedge a word into their conversations, he'd mumble an excuse and give a halfhearted wave. Dropping from the end of their pack, he'd then wander the loop around the arena's mezzanine. It was pretty excellent: except for the vendors going back and forth to refill their trays, and dudes heading to the bathrooms to whiz out their beer, Newell pretty much had the whole mezzanine to himself. He could listen to his own footsteps echo off the concrete, and at the same time, was able to hear the roar of the crowd. Sometimes Newell would sneak peeks inside the tinted windows of the luxury boxes, just to see what things looked like when you were living large. Sometimes he went to a concession stand and pretended he was mute and mimed out his order for a medium popcorn or hot dog. The loge level was rarely more than half-filled, and it wouldn't have been too difficult for him to sneak down and snag himself an excellent seat, but Newell never did. Instead he stayed out of sight of his parental unit, away from the bullying reach of any jerks from school. Upper deck was where all the fun was. Some bereft section. Away from the blocks of underprivileged and sick kids here through charity programs. Newell would kick back in an empty seat and take in the spectacle below him, the game and the dynamics of the crowd. Idly picking at his stale popcorn even after he was full, he might get some peanuts from a passing vendor for good measure. Once settled, Newell would rip pages out of his official game program and take the glossy sheets and fold them into paper airplanes and try to float them down. The best got some air under their makeshift wings and rode in delicate, arcing paths. A chosen few even caught a second gust and kept going, beyond the rim of the upper deck, over the plastic red seats of the mezzanine, the politely attired season-ticket holders, the corporate bigwigs. It became a game for Newell, watching his planes glide deliciously toward the edges of the basketball court. Seeing just how far they could go. Old farts sometimes tossed uneasy looks his way, or warned him to cut it out. Newell ignored them, or stared lasers in return. Gathering his stuff, it would be time to get moving, to climb higher, into the nosebleed seats and rafters, continuing his exploration, his adventure.
7.4
The void was no longer foreign, no longer a fresh sensation, but constant, second nature to the point of becoming unnoticed in their lives, the axis for all their comings and goings. Lincoln still returned home each night—it was a matter o
f personal pride—but he often stumbled in around or past midnight, with one or two drinks under his belt. For her part, Lorraine was gone with the dawn, out at yoga, or at the local coffee nook, poring over her notebooks and papers, throwing herself into her project of raising money for the Child Search. Their daily lives were almost wholly separate now; and even when they found themselves under the same roof, the house had more than enough space and freedom for each. And though the air between them was stale, without the slightest charge or energy, the signs of effort and consideration were still there, numerous, if you wanted to see them. Lincoln made sure to pick up towels and keep things neat in his bathroom. He clipped articles he thought would interest Lorraine, leaving them on the kitchen table, or e-mailing her the links. Lorraine returned the considerations, taking care of his dry cleaning, making sure the fridge was stocked with his favorite comfort foods.
They ran into each other, obviously, they had to—on the stairs, or when the television was on and each happened to be nearby. Thankfully, their exchanges featured little drama or strain. Lorraine might ask, with the utmost sympathy, about the extra pounds that the cut of Lincoln's suit could not hide. Lincoln might walk behind her, put his hands on her shoulders, and try to massage away some of her tension. They'd talk about small things—payment schedules for the pool cleaners, or someone wanted to pass on a greeting. Now and then Lincoln and Lorraine even managed the courage to look into each other's eyes. Sustaining their gazes, they'd transcend their fragile truce, moving beyond the polite balance of all the responsibilities expected of each of them, beyond the toil necessary to fulfill those responsibilities and the exhaustion they felt through their bones. Holding the marriage together took so much time and energy. Keeping things from not getting any worse took every bit of emotional strength either one of them had, and more than that. But Lincoln and Lorraine would look into each other's eyes and all of the pain and the wear and the fear would be there, all the stuff there were no words for, the stuff they just felt, which made them keep looking, afraid to blink, even as they knew someone had to, something had to happen.