She claimed she would soon invent a scientifically sound method to do just that, then become obscenely wealthy from selling her smokable meals to all the other unfortunates like herself stranded on this stupid, backward planet.
Only problem was, there wasn’t anybody else like her.
She scoured the Internet for weeks on my little laptop, searching for a global market for her grand idea—until one day the terrible reality of it all sank in. Then she sulked and pouted for days on end; a very rough time for poor Narcisa.
“Everything’s going to be all right, princesa.” I tried to console her.
“Is never gonna be all right! Nunca!” She howled like a dying coyote.
And for just that moment, I almost believed her.
Contrary to the malevolent, badass image she projected to the world, though, Narcisa was essentially good. And it was that native goodness, more than anything else, that made her life a raging battlefield.
Narcisa was a walking, talking, living, breathing mystery to me; one that, as time went on, I became more and more obsessed with solving.
One day, she explained what she’d meant the night we’d first met, when she’d said, “If you de devil or something, you can do whatever you wan’ with me, but don’ hurt nobody else I know, cuz they no got nothing to do with all these.”
Turned out she’d been tripping on acid. Seeing my gold teeth and dark goatee, she’d come to the logical conclusion that I must have been Satan himself, the Dark Angel she’d once made some stoned-out “pact” with.
When she told me she’d thought I was the devil, come to take his due at last, I didn’t know whether to feel insulted, flattered or afraid. When Narcisa was high, she was generally creepy, if not more or less criminally insane.
When she wasn’t high, though, she was often even worse. And she seemed to know it. Drugs were important to Narcisa, so she did anything in her power to never be without them. Including selling her body.
One time, after hours of sweaty, marathon sex, during which she suffered the humiliating indignity of having multiple orgasms, I made the mistake of asking her if she liked me . . . Maybe just a little?
Narcisa glowered at me with the coldest, most jaded look of disdain she could produce and snorted like a haughty Thoroughbred.
“Hah! Only de queer like de mans! I like de money, bro. Got some for me?”
Although she could never quite openly admit to being a straight-up whore—even to herself—at that moment, the penny finally dropped for me.
Of course! That’s where all the money comes from!
Knowing Narcisa, it made sense.
After all, how else would someone like her get the cash to pay for all those drugs and the endless, shape-shifting array of expensive designer clothing she always wore, then threw out or gave away as soon she grew bored?
Yes. Narcisa turned tricks.
10. DICKLESS TRICK
“THERE ARE SOME SOLITARY WRETCHES WHO SEEM TO HAVE LEFT THE REST OF MANKIND, ONLY, AS EVE LEFT ADAM, TO MEET THE DEVIL IN PRIVATE.”
—Alexander Pope
I hadn’t seen Narcisa in about a week when I spied her standing on the sidewalk on the Rua do Catete, talking to this weird old nerdy-looking fellow.
I’d been having lunch in a little boteco across the way. As I watched from the counter, she appeared to be bitching the guy out about something I didn’t quite get.
Curious, I stepped outside and called her name. Narcisa’s face lit up like she was surprised to see me. She halted her harangue and left her victim standing alone as she came running over.
“Oí, Narcisa, tudo bem? Who’s the old guy?”
“Oh, is only de Doc, Cigano.”
I raised my left eyebrow. “Doc?”
She laughed. “Yeh, brother! D-O-C. Hah! It mean ‘Dickless Old Cushion’!”
I raised my other eyebrow.
“Is de apelido I give it to him, de nicknames, got it?” She gave me an evil wink. “Lookit de guy, Cigano! Don’ he look just like de almofada?”
I glanced over to where the pear-shaped little man was standing. He did look kind of like a pillow. I shrugged, waiting to hear more.
Narcisa grinned with pride. “Hah! These guy, Doc, he is my zumbí, got it?”
I didn’t get it. “Your zombie?”
I looked over at the odd little fellow again. His thick black hair had a skunklike white streak at his balding forehead, which gave him an overall Bride of Frankenstein look. Creepy.
“Ya-ah, is like my e’slave, Cigano, got it? Um zumbí. He always do whatever little thing I wan’ for me! An’ whenever he got some money, then I make him give it to me. Hah! Thank you come again!”
“You’re fuckin’ that old creeper?”
Narcisa burst out cackling like a mad crow. “Hah! No way! Porra, cara! How I e’suppose to fock some guy like that? Como? He is gay, or whatever, don’ got no focking dick, e’stupid old e’sheet! Crowwn crowwn crowwwwn, ha ha!!”
“Well ya must be doin’ something for him.” I scratched my head.
Narcisa glared at me, hands on her hips. “Nada! Porra nenhuma! I never even kiss he ugly face! Nunca! Fala serio! I never would fock such a guy, no focking way! No even in he ass-hole with you dick, Cigano! Forget it! Eu hein!”
I watched the pudgy, pallid little pillow-man shuffle off down the street.
Narcisa told me she was famished, so I brought her into the bar and got her a plate of beans and rice with spicy rabada stew. I watched her eat as she told me more about this mysterious Doc character.
“These guy, mmmh,” she mumbled, attacking her plate like a starved pit bull, “I meet him first time, I donno, mmh, nhmm, was long time ago, when I first time come de Rio. Maybe I thirteen, fourteen year old then, I donno, whatever. One time I help him out with, mmmh, nyamm, ah, some little thing, got it?”
I didn’t get it. “Helped him out?”
“Never mind about all these, Cigano. Don’ interrupting me! Is irrelevant these e’sheet. Just shut de fock up an’ lissen, porra!”
She babbled on breathlessly, spitting scraps of rice across the counter as she shoveled food into her machinelike mouth. Her bright, stoned-out eyes flashed like tumbling neon dice as she told me all about her weird, mutually parasitic relationship with her old “zombie slave.”
“From first time I know these Doc, mmh, nhmmm, de guy always e’saying he wanna adopt de Narcisa, like de daughter, got it? Hah! But I don’ wan’ nothing with him! He don’ got enough money for do nothing for me! Crowwn crowwn crowwwwn, ha ha!! Next?”
“So what were ya yelling at him about just now?”
“Agghh! Only sometime I need some little thing, so then I call him, got it? An’ when he e’saying me he don’ got de money, then sometime I gotta get, how do you e’say it, heavy! Hah! He just de dickless old cushion for de Narcisa.”
From what she told me, this poor old do-gooder seemed to fancy himself Narcisa’s Personal Savior. And he’d maintained a strictly “platonic” relationship with her the whole time, too, spending a small fortune over the years, bailing her out of every sort of self-inflicted crisis and drama—all the while claiming to be “in love with her mind rather than her body.”
She, in turn, returned his fanatical devotion by gleefully nicknaming him Dickless Old Cushion. This Doc was pussy-whipped by little Narcisa, apparently. Well, just whipped. No pussy. I didn’t get the whole “platonic” bit. At least I had an excuse for putting up with her crap. This poor soul just lapped it up for giggles.
“So, what’s th’ guy’s angle?” I looked at her, wondering how she did it.
“Donno, bro, mmh, nhmm . . . I guess he think he my daddy or some kinda e’stupid e’sheet, an’ so he wanna save de Narcisa from all de bad thing in these bad bad world. Hah!”
“How’d ya meet him?” I prodded.
He was just some lonesome old loser, she shrugged, who’d appointed himself her benefactor, right from the time she’d first hit town. For his troubles, she’d
worked the silly bastard to death over the years. She bragged about calling on him for all sorts of unneeded assistance, pretending, whenever it suited her purposes, to give a shit whether he lived or died.
This fool was on a holy mission, apparently, to get Narcisa to go straight. As she talked on, I could see it was a real give-and-take relationship she had with her obsessive, dickless zombie. He gave, and she took . . . Thank you come again!
The dickless cushion fancied himself some kind of brilliant mind, she snickered, laughing him off as an “Intellectual,” a lover of “European Classical Culture” and “the Arts.” From what I gleaned from her derisive depictions, he was some kind of wannabe bohemian, an aging closet hippie, waxing nostalgic for the sixties. A nine-to-five drone of polite society, old Doc seemed a bored, solitary little weekend warrior; a dabbler on the wild side of life—other people’s lives.
His biggest thrill, she scoffed, was living vicariously through all the drama, mayhem and confusion created by her and a few other not-so-beautiful losers who dubbed themselves “anarchists” and “nihilist punks”—inhabitants of the Casa Verde, an infamous local squatters’ refuge. Doc was endlessly fascinated with that whole crew of career fuckups, unwashed underground reprobates who seemed to always orbit around Narcisa like bits of toxic space debris.
As time went on, whenever I got fed up with her shit and put the boot to Narcisa’s perky ass, this Doc would always seem to be right there, somehow; forever lurking around like some lovestruck old cartoon buzzard, waiting to take her in and pick up the pieces.
A very bizarre cat.
One day, a few weeks later, I met old Doc in person.
He was escorting Narcisa down the street, his hand on her elbow, as if he were taking a prized toy poodle for a stroll; corralling her along with a proud, dainty, self-important stride. With his jaunty, slightly effeminate gait, he came across like a pudgy, homosexual clown, all pimped out in white cotton socks, a pair of shiny brown open-toed sandals, plaid Bermuda shorts, and a starched white shirt; a bow tie completed the whole surreal picture.
They were on their way to a classical cello concert or some pompous horseshit event; whatever the latest wholesome “cultural activity” this fine, upstanding fellow had cooked up to stimulate Narcisa’s brilliant young mind.
Unfortunately, her pillowy, pear-shaped escort was blissfully unaware that she’d already made other plans with me. As they approached the corner where I waited on my motorcycle, Narcisa broke away from her puffed-up little chaperone.
She ran over to where I sat lurking like the Angel of Death’s bastard spawn. Jumping on the bike behind me, she squeezed me so hard I thought I’d puke.
“ ’Bora daqui, Cigano! Let’s go! Go, go, go, go, go-ooo!”
Narcisa was wearing this fancy new purple denim jacket I knew she’d been wanting, and a brand-new shiny pair of expensive-looking pink sneakers. I gathered she’d already gotten whatever cash and goodies she could squeeze out of her victim. She was ready to move on now, tossing him aside like a used-up snot rag, without so much as “bye.”
I fired up the motor and started to pull away.
That’s when Doc lost it.
He ran up, sputtering, hollering his tonsils out. “That’s it, Narcisa! Puta! After all I’ve done for you, you’re still nothing but a dirty, degenerate little slut!”
I couldn’t believe my ears. The poor old chump was so pissed-off and poisoned with the bitter disillusionment of years of self-imposed, thankless sacrifice and martyrdom, he couldn’t restrain himself. Even in front of me—a six-foot-three, 240-pound tattooed gypsy thug, who looked like he was late to a knife fight, but would be glad to take a minute to slice off your face.
“Puta-aa! Vagabunda-aa! Piranha! You were born to be a whore, Narcisa!”
As he ranted on, he was turning so red with rage I worried he might try a grab for my little chicken. “Your mother’s a dirty, diseased whore, and you’re a whore, and you’ll always be a filthy little whore! Puta-aa! Ordinaria-aa!”
Narcisa rolled her eyes and nudged me in the ribs.
I shrugged . . . Shit . . . Guess I gotta go do the right thing.
I cut the motor, got off the bike and stomped over to where Doc stood spewing. He ranted on, as if in a trance, oblivious to my presence. He seemed possessed, so obsessed with Narcisa and wound up in his own raging, self-righteous indignation, he didn’t even see me. He really reminded me of an angry pillow. I could feel Narcisa’s eyes boring into the back of my skull, egging me on.
Like a well-trained guard dog, I bared my gold-toothed fangs and growled.
“Eí, maluco! Segura aí, mermão! Porra! Que merda é essa, hein?”
The blustering, pissed-off pillow-man stopped, as if suddenly seeing me for the first time. His sputtering tongue froze like a woodchuck in the path of an oncoming truck as he stood there, regarding me in mute shock.
I put my battle-scarred mug an inch from his smooth, beet-red, double-chinned face, sneering. “Easy there, tough guy! Or ya need me to teach ya some fuggin’ manners?”
His eyes trembled with fear. “Wh-who, who are you? What do you want?”
“Ya shouldn’t be talking all that kinda rude shit to my lady friend,” I hissed, “cuz you’re being disrespectful to me, too, got it?”
He got it. He started whining an apology. “Ahhh, me perdoe, senhor!”
Weak-kneed, whiney, whore-bullying bitch! I glared at him, taking a step forward, ready to knock him on his ass.
“I, I didn’t know . . .” He backed away, mumbling. “I mean, I, I was only—”
“Chega! Just can all that noise, man! Even if it is true! All right?” I gave the old stuffed shirt a playful shove and a sharky devil’s wink, then turned away.
Sauntering back to where Narcisa sat watching the show, I grinned at her, my gentlemanly duty fulfilled.
As I blasted off into the sweaty afternoon traffic, with his prize prodigy smirking from the back, I had this funny feeling that she was sticking her tongue out at him.
Doc just stood there, rubbing his lonesome, mad, balding head.
11. WILL TO POWER
“THE LUST FOR POWER IS NOT ROOTED IN STRENGTH, BUT IN WEAKNESS.”
—Erich Fromm
Later, back in my place, Narcisa reached into her ever-present purple Coleman knapsack. I watched her in wonder, scratching my head . . . Where the fuck does she get all this expensive imported shit? Did this Doc buy that thing for her too? Whatever . . . Probably just a souvenir from some unlucky gringo trick.
Grinning like a fox, she produced a big can of shoemaker’s glue from her magical bag of tricks. The chemical stench was overpowering as she popped the lid with a long, deadly-looking screwdriver she also just happened to have in her possession. She proceeded to huff the horrid, eye-watering paste from a plastic bag. Within seconds, she was high as a satellite orbiting Alpha Centauri. Then, she began rambling about her mysterious little weirdo again.
“These e’stupid old almofada,” she yelped, “he so-oo ignorant, Cigano!”
I stood staring at her, shaking my head.
“Na moral, cara, he really got de big obsession in his retard brain.”
“Why’s he so hung up on you, Narcisa? I mean, ya told me you never even had sex with the guy, so what’s his deal?”
“Donno, mano. He believe de Narcisa got some kinda e’special lucky magic powers. An’ he e’say he get it all de time de telepathic communications from me in de night when he no can e’sleep. He e’say he need me e’stay all de time around him for give it to him my occult powers!”
I lifted an eyebrow.
She laughed. “Is truth, Cigano! Porra, cara! From de first time he e’say it to me these e’sheet, I know de guy maluco! But maybe he no so crazy he gonna eat de dog e’sheet or burn all his money, so I e’start think, hmmm, an’ I e’say to him, ‘Okey, Doc, you gotta go an’ bring it to me de jin-jin, got it? An’ now you gotta do whatever little thing I e’say, got it? An’ if you don’
obey to me, then I gonna make de big curse on you, an’ you really get fock up ba-aad, got it?’”
I got it. Narisa was an emotional terrorist.
I stared at her in awe . . . How does she get away with this shit?
“Papo serio, cara! An’ now de Narcisa got it de own personal zumbí, see? Hah! Is pretty good job for me, hein, Cigano? Perfect, Max! Next?”
Suddenly, she changed the subject. “Oiii, Cigano! You got some cigarette paper here? I wanna roll a big basiado! ’Peraí. Maybe is better you make it de joint for me . . .”
“Ya can’t do it yourself?”
“Hah! I too fock up to see good.”
I kept gawking at her.
“De altered perception don’ affect de human emotion an’ feeling, Cigano, but is better when you got de physical help! Crown crowwn, haha!”
Her stoned eyes seemed to roll in different directions at once, like a shaken doll.
“Huh? Whaddya talking about?”
“De explanation only exist to confuse, bro, got it?”
Got it. Narcisa philosophy. Nietzsche on bad acid.
I cocked my head and sat watching, fascinated, as she dropped a handful of dirt-brown marijuana—stems, seeds, dirt, pocket lint and all—into a crumpled-up paper bar napkin she pulled from her jacket pocket. Then she proceeded to roll up the most crooked, fucked-up joint I’d ever seen. When she was done, the thing looked like a cross between a Fidel Castro cigar and a dried-out dog turd.
As she reached for my lighter, I wondered if she might set herself ablaze from the volatile glue fumes oozing from every pore, like a suicide bomber going to paradise in a flaming flash of glory. Narcisa lit up and smoked, then started coughing and choking like a tubercular old geezer. The stench of the burning weed filled the room like a diseased elephant’s fart.
I ran over and opened the window.
After catching her breath, Narcisa rambled on about her dickless zombie. “One time, Cigano, these e’stupid almofadinha, he take one big acid trip. He don’ never know it, bro, but I put de micro-ponta, de gringo LSD in his hamburger!”
Narcisa Page 5