Beautiful Children

by Charles Bock

  7.5

  The ice cream truck stopped rocking with an abruptness that suggested its plug had been pulled from a socket. The back doors creaked open and a figure stumbled into the opening—a shadow of broad shoulders against the dark night air; a chest bare and gleaming with sweat. One arm, thick and raised, showed a musculature as pronounced as the cords on dock rope. Facial studs glistened then disappeared.

  Ponyboy rubbed his eyes and ran his hand back over his forehead, up through thorns of matted hair. His opposite hand remained on a flimsy set of cutoff sweatpants, making sure they didn't fall below his waist. From a middle distance, instruments were being played without syncopation. A stench reached him: like being downwind from the worst fart in the world. From the same direction came the uneven sound of footsteps, someone favoring a bad leg.

  “Pony?” the newcomer's voice showed surprise. “Yo man, I don't want to disturb nothing. I didn't know you was in there.”

  Ponyboy calmly closed the door behind him and hopped down from the rim of the ice cream truck, landing with a soft thud.

  “Ain't got time for your shit right now, El.”

  Lestat's hands rose as if to show he was not armed. “Bro, I'm just looking for that cell? From earlier tonight?”

  Ponyboy scanned the immediate distance—over the little vampire's right shoulder, toward the direction of the show. “Phone's not in there, El.”

  “Right. Just thought, maybe I saw it in there on the way over, was all.”

  Ponyboy's head tilted to the side, he started tying the drawstring of his sweats. “What, you gonna cry to your folks some more.”

  “Yo, Pony, I said I don't want any trouble.”

  “I ain't got time for you right now, El. Go check with your old lady if you need something to do. Last I saw, she had it.”

  “Daphney?”

  “Borrowed it when we got here.”

  “Daphney has the phone?”

  “Word as bond, man. I guess she wasn't feeling so good. She needed to make a call. Go spec her out.”

  Lestat tried to measure if anything Ponyboy was saying was straight. His experience was that the guy was so full of shit that it usually came straight out of his throat. At the same time, Ponyboy was vibrating with menace, bearing down on Lestat, not warning him, but trying to convince him through sheer force of will. Whatever was happening in that truck, Lestat understood it was heavy enough that Ponyboy would do anything to keep him out of there. Even maybe tell the truth about Daphney.

  Lestat nodded and kept his eyes trained on Ponyboy and back-pedaled, taking two careful steps. When he started back down into the desert, a hand grabbed his neck. “Good luck with that,” Ponyboy said, shoving him. “Make sure you let me know how everything turns out.”

  Ponyboy kept his eyes on Lestat all the way to the outskirts of the quad. And when that little bastard was basically out of the picture, and Ponyboy was satisfied that all was copacetic, then it was time for him to start hauling ass: sinking ankle deep into the sand and kicking up explosions of dirt, beginning a sprint down the length of parked cars. The pungency of sex still lingered in Ponyboy's nostrils and tasted acidic on his tongue, and although Lestat's appearance had been a little too close for comfort, and their conversation had sapped some lead from Pony-boy's pencil, he was still hard enough, his dick slapping between the fabric of his cutoffs and his thigh, the physical activity of running providing his body with a release that was satisfying, but not what he needed.

  Sand burned beneath his feet like he fucking cared how it felt, and Ponyboy veered near an abandoned old couch, where he bulled through a bunch of nimrods, spilling their paper cups. Without saying thing fucking one, he continued, scoping shit out Terminator-style, eight directions at once. A grim clarity had Ponyboy now. Each second the ice cream truck remained unattended was a second his new plan could fall apart. Countdown was at T minus hurry the fuck up. All kinds of reasons for him to give up the fucking ghost on this one, just head back to the ice cream truck, cover his tracks as best he could, and get the hell out of Dodge.

  All sorts of warning signs. Any rational idiot would stop here.

  Motherfuckers yap about the moment of truth, but what happens when there's all kinds of truths in the moment? Door number one, door number two, door number three—and every door has its own merits, right? But at the same time, the merits of each door affect the bearings of the next.

  At the tryout, Ponyboy and Jabba had been in this little alcove by the bathroom, trying to get everything back under control: Jabba was talking to Cheri, explaining the way the porn business works. And at first glance Cheri looked like she was following every word; but really, Pony-boy could tell she was somewhere else. In fact, ever so slowly, Cheri was, like, inching down the wall, her skin making this sick sound against the wallpaper. Finally she sank onto her ass and sat in a messy heap on the industrial carpet. Her legs were spread and her hands were on the floor between her knees and she was looking out at nothing, her eyes all glassy and distant. And then, like she was talking to herself, she whispered something, one word. Again and again Cheri said it, each time more softly. No.

  In the doorway: Rod Erectile had been wild-eyed and jittery and stiff as a diving board. He had come a long way just for this shoot, and he had a plane back to the valley in four hours, and he didn't give a flying FUCK what the holdup was. It's not like this broad's a virgin, right?

  Jabba rubbed the back of his neck, studied the fixture above them. “Hiro. This light's strong enough to shoot in?”

  The Jap sneaked into the doorway, checked a viewfinder. “Maybe. Probably.”

  “Set up a pod, just to be safe.” Turning to Rod now, Jabba said, “Put her on the counter if you need to. That's always hot.”

  They moved equipment and reblocked the shoot, acting like nothing unusual was happening, like Cheri was an obstacle they had to work around. A yellow, bilious taste crawled from the bottom of Ponyboy's stomach. If there were ever a time in his life to grab his light saber and adjust the kung fu grip, he knew this was it.

  And he did it. He said, “Don't think so, Jab,” and felt his stomach hardening, the bile in his throat turning dry.

  His first step wasn't the steadiest step he'd ever taken but it did the trick. His next step was not a lick easier. Just what the fuck are you doing, Jabba wanted to know. Ponyboy answered by reaching for the woman he loved, getting close enough to her cheek to smell her perfume. He whispered her name and kissed her forehead. He was going to take care of everything, he said. On the count of three she should try and get up.

  His arms went underneath hers and he counted one and Jabba repeated his desire to know what was going on. A contract was a contract, Jabba said.

  From over his shoulder, he heard Rod Erectile cuss and snort. He heard Jabba rustling. Cheri's body was warm, responsive and pliant. Ponyboy lifted her, and she followed his guidance once more, into the open main area of the vestibule, where a human wall had formed: the Jap dead of expression; Rod Erectile, his eyes buggy, all twitching and tweaking. A moth flew down from the lighting fixture. Jabba was behind his goons, waiting.

  “You sure you want to cross me, boy? All that's going to happen is that we snap every bone in your body, she ends up getting fucked anyway.”

  The guy was as close to a fucking dad as Ponyboy'd had since he'd been out on his own, and he was grinning. “Maybe when I'm done with her, I'll take care of you next. Way I remember it, you don't exactly mind having my dick in your mouth.”

  Ponyboy kept staring straight ahead. He clenched his fists, waiting for shit to go down, for the beginning of the end of life as he knew it.

  And so occupied, he wasn't exactly tuned in when Cheri's hand lifted from his shoulder.

  Indeed, it wasn't until she took that first tentative step toward the sink counter that Ponyboy recognized she was moving.

  Motherfuckers talk about the moment of truth and they think they fucking know, and the truth is, they don't know dick. Meanwhile, when
all the fucking chips had been on the table and Ponyboy had been staring into the face of the devil, what had happened?

  What had happened was that Cheri had gathered up her blouse, and then her silky sweatpants.

  She was wobbly, composing herself, holding her shit in this messy bundle in front of her chest, with her hair falling down in front of her face.

  Turning toward the exit, she ducked her head, and started forward. She looked small, damaged, catatonic, teetering on her high heels, her steps uneven and slight.

  Jabba's eyes stayed trained on Ponyboy. Ponyboy stayed focused right back, at the same time very much aware of his girl.

  And what happened was, Cheri kept walking.

  Right past Jabba. Through the henchmen, who all made a point of looking fierce and leering at her chest and shoving out their bellies so they rubbed against her. She walked right out of the office and Ponyboy followed behind and turned back to watch them to see they didn't follow.

  The Jeep was right where they'd left it. The compact disc player started up at the same point in the song where it had been when the engine shut down.

  Look, a man fucks up, there's a price. Anyone worth a piss understands as much. This price gets paid in the airy static of an expensive stereo system through a wordless drive home. It gets paid in the slamming of doors. Or it's worse: not one door gets slammed; her voice doesn't raise so much as an octave; she does not utter one word in anger, or spite, or anything except a tight, controlled politeness; the door to her bedroom behind her shuts gently and then there is no sound, no response. You put your woman in a situation the way Ponyboy did, you deserve what you get, and he could accept that much. Ponyboy took responsibility. He slept on the couch without complaint, telling Cheri that if she wanted him out, that was cool, only could he borrow a few bucks to get a room? Cheri did not so much as crack a smile. Which was understandable. She'd been through the wringer. There had to be some kind of decompression period.

  When Ponyboy had been planning the tryout, he'd told himself that the difference between him and Jabba—between him and anyone involved in the porn industry—was that they were the products of what a life without love did to you, whereas he had his Cheri girl. Even when the shit had gone down, when Ponyboy had faced his moment of truth, he'd picked the right door. Using the kung fu grip, he'd drawn an inside straight on the devil and triumphed over Darth Fucking Vader. Pony-boy had rescued his lady from the insurmountable clutches of evil. Only, now it turned out, there wasn't no ride off into the Technicolor sunset while the credits rolled. He didn't get no big fucking party with Ewoks waving into the camera and licensed movie underwear. No. His big moment of truth and he'd done the right thing, and after it all was said and done, his Cheri girl had not decompressed, his Cheri girl had closed down to him. Something inside the woman Ponyboy loved was shut off, locked away, and meanwhile here he was, running through the middle of the desert, into the crowd, wading through waves of people who had come out here looking for, maybe even finding, some kind of salvation; yeah, that's what they wanted, that's why these motherfuckers were out here, the pretty girls basking in their own beauty and the attention it brought; the nonentities finding something in the scene that brought out the kind of person that maybe they thought they wanted to be; the skinheads finding some sort of salvation through hatred and confrontation and the violence of the pit. But something, some damn thing, whether temporary or permanent. Every one of these sinners, out here in the night, standing in Ponyboy's way, talking, watching the band, tripping out, zoning, whatever the fuck, all of them looking for something that might sustain them, that might keep them going the way that a cold hard motherfucker was sustained by the voice of the girl he loves, by the feeling that he was the most special and important person in the world to her. This is what any strong relationship provides, allowing a human being to survive in this miserable and fucked-up world.

  You fuck that up, all bets are off.

  Ponyboy's dick was in a medium state of hardness, not raging or anything, but still in working shape. Toward the side of the stage he plowed through some scrawny fuck, knocking the green wool cap from his head, leaving the guy in a puddle of pain. Ponyboy looked in all directions, hurried now, a bit of panic setting in. Then he saw the blonde with pink streaks in her hair. Swaying side to side, she had a deadly rack. Best of all she was carrying a digital camera. Just what he was looking for.

  7.6

  Consciousness announced itself with pressure. Throbbing, from behind her eye sockets, worked outward. Keeping her eyes closed allowed her to block out the pain, almost, and the girl with the shaved head kept her eyes shut. She tried to give herself to the blackness, letting go until the borders of her physical form no longer existed. The blackness tempted her, flirting; she felt solitary, disembodied. Then the pressure came back, pounding with more intensity.

  She became aware of a muted warmth down the breadth of her back, of heat, thick and heavy in the air around her. For the first time she noticed the droning sound, carrying through the space above her, from someplace far behind her. The girl lay in the darkness and listened for a time, but time did not prepare her for even more blackness when she opened her eyes, a darkness so complete that she could not tell if her eyes indeed had opened. The girl became confused as to whether her body could even follow basic commands. Panic garbled any logical counters, any answers. But soon a thaw began as well; her eyes adjusted a bit, differentiating shapes—the impenetrable roof and walls that framed her confines, the shade of what might have been the evening sky, apparent now through what must have been some sort of window.

  Looking beyond the length of her body, she successfully made out more shapes—the outlines of a number of short square objects, and then the table around which those crates were positioned. Pressure crawled to her temples and bore outward and she was sure it would emerge from the front of her skull. Instinctively, the girl started her hand toward the pain. But was restrained—around the wrist. She pulled a second time, confused now, her eyes following the roll of her shoulder, her head turning.

  Suspended in a dim, flickering crimson light, she saw her arm hanging limply behind her, connected to a long crate, attached to some sort of handle. Metallic heat, like a thin bracelet, ran across her wrist. The rest of her hand tingled, was numb, and looked to be smothered inside a folded black cloth.

  Panic rushed her. She pulled at the restraint again and the fabric stretched and the knot slipped, then held. The girl tried once more and failed—but wait, something jiggled that time, atop the crate, the red light toppling now, landing with a sick thud.

  It wasn't much—maybe twenty watts, flickering from a lava lamp with drained batteries, but the light flickered along her right like an asp, allowing the girl to see more of her predicament: her summer vest unbuttoned, its left flap folded on itself, its stitching apparent. The cup of her bra was misaligned and mangled, she saw, and a swell of her flesh was peeking out from the mashed wire edge. She saw the hollow of her belly, slick with sweat. And her skin. It was smeared with crimson that had nothing to do with illumination.

  Percussions continued through the background. Outside the nearest wall, two guys were talking. The girl did not cry out to them. The light dimmed around the area where her hips began—right where her skirt was bunched, askew, turned half backward. The girl kept staring at her body. Moving her left hand, she discovered it was not bound. She found that her feet and legs were also free. The girl tentatively started to sit up. And felt a spasm of pain, sharp and white, in her core.

  And then a great wail cleaved the night, piercing at first, fanning out from the stage in all directions like beams of the sun through a downtown skyline. The tones and feedback altered as they carried, creating their own effects and grades. Sweaty strands fell in front of the guitarist's face and he addressed his strings and frets and whammy bar, wailing, keeping his pick against the uncoated third string, extending and then bending each played chord, repeating the song's central riff, but chan
ging it for his own purposes, easing from it a vulnerability, the fragility that by nature must lie beneath so much bombast—this exquisite sense of despair.

  Flickers now: a few thumbs pressing down onto plastic ignition wheels, flames dancing atop disposable plastic, hands rising into the night, the time-honored arena rock tradition that borders on a parody of itself, the virtuoso getting his props from the appreciative and the knowing and the poseurs who wanted to look like they also were in the know—as many as ten lighters flaming up. Maybe twice as many people had their eyes closed, were giving themselves to the groove.

  Chewing the end of his swizzle stick, Bing Beiderbixxe did not acknowledge the waitress's impatient posture, nor her withering glare. Instead he looked toward the mouth of the small booth, and the black curtain at the entranceway.

  Just wait here, the stripper had said, three ten-dollar Pepsis ago. I'll be right back.

  The Library strip club came and went, as did the Gambler's Book Shop, the Liberace Museum, the Pinball Hall of Fame, and that indoor shooting range where a hundred bucks got you a half hour with an automatic rifle. Places Newell had never been and places he did not recognize and places that passed without thought or notice. His attention was occupied by a peculiar kind of righteousness: the angry certainty that comes from basking in the knowledge that you have been wronged; the cynical defiance of a person who finds his pain to be an excuse, whether he knows this or not. A damaged person intent on ignoring his own mistakes, refusing to examine anything he's said, anything he'd done. (Why should I? Why?) Newell's thoughts were soupy, numb. But something else was stirring within him. Growing out of the muck, it was the smallest of sensations, but was quickly increasing in intensity, this molten warmth.