Narcisa

by Jonathan Shaw

  Fuck! I wanna die! I’m never gonna make it!

  Drowning in a rancid whirlpool of morbid reverie, I parked the bike by the entrance to the monolithic shopping complex, then we staggered toward the tall sliding glass doors of the big air-conditioned consumer dungeon.

  As we stepped inside, Narcisa stabbed me in the arm with her finger.

  “Wha—?” I stopped and looked at her. “Whassup?”

  She fixed me with those big intense Alpha Centauri eyeballs. “Lissen, Cigano! We gonna make it de democratical operation now, got it?”

  “Huh?” I stood staring at her, straining my failing brain, trying to get it.

  “Come now, go, go, let’s go, c’mon, mano, these way, go go go!” Narcisa grabbed my arm and pulled me away from the door. “Lookit!” She pointed to a bench. “You gonna e’stay sit down here outside, an’ you can do whatever you wan’, okey? Go e’smoke a cigarette, read you book for a few minute, got it?”

  “Where’re you going . . . ?”

  “I gonna go inside an’ look all de thing for few minute. When I finish, you gonna buy me a little presente, an’ then we gonna go some other place, got it?”

  I got it . . . More fucking shopping . . . And me flat broke! Shit!

  I plopped down onto the bench and sat there, smoking, worrying, wondering how to get some cash. After a while, I got up and wandered through the parking lot.

  I spotted a shiny new car with a fat leather purse sitting on the seat.

  Bingo!

  I was quick. I was slick. And, then, like a ghost, I was back at my post by the door, sitting on the bench, smoking, looking around, waiting for Narcisa.

  Feeling better with a pocketful of money, I relaxed and started to scribble into my little notepad. I wrote on, glancing at my watch from time to time.

  An hour . . . Two . . . Down to my last fucking smoke . . . Fuck!

  Finally, restless and bored, I got up and ventured into the mall, looking around, upstairs and downstairs, this way and that, calling out her name.

  Then, I saw it. A flash of silver light streaking by, tearing down an aisle like a rocket ship to Alpha Centauri, as Narcisa flew past me with an empty shopping cart.

  “Oiií, Cigano! Look look, lookit these crazy thing, go go!”

  I looked. There she was, stopped in the middle of the aisle, holding some bizarre-looking kitchen utensil she’d already forgotten about.

  She gazed at me with those intense, sweating eyes that were the whole universe in a glance. “De art exist so de truth don’ destroy us, got it, Cigano? That’s Nietzsche! Thank you come again! Hah! Now I gotta go an’ deficate! Next?”

  She turned and wandered off again, talking to herself. As I listened to the words, my jaw dropped. She appeared to be reciting poetry. In French!

  “Le Poète est semblable au prince des nuées. Qui hante la tempête et se rit de l’archer; Exilé sur le sol au milieu des huées, Ses ailes de géant l’empêchent de marcher . . . Arrrggghhh! Gotta go! Tenho que defecar, porra! Where de fock de toilette on these e’sheet place, hein? I gonna e’sheet on de focking floor here! Puta que o pareu! Ninguém merece! Affffffff!”

  I stood there, scratching my head as Narcisa staggered away, talking to herself, reciting strange, anguished words, looking for a toilet. My eyes trailed her down the aisle as a pair of concerned-looking security guards followed in her wake, their walkie-talkies crackling like a soundtrack of imminent doom.

  Fuck it! Nothing I can do . . . I better just beat it.

  I slunk back outside and sat down on the bench again, hoping no one had seen me breaking into that car, praying Narcisa would be all right in there. Watching the door, I lit my last cigarette, crumpled up the pack and tossed it into the gutter.

  Finally, she emerged, wearing a shiny new green silk shirt she’d boosted right under the guards’ noses. Relieved, I smiled. Grinning like a cat, she jumped up in my lap and just sat there, just breathing, saying nothing; a rare interlude in the long, dizzy day. I was happy, grateful for the peaceful silence of the moment.

  As she finished smoking my cigarette down to the filter, a beautiful teenage girl with flaming red hair came over and asked her for a light.

  Narcisa’s eyes brightened. I was reminded how she was always a sucker for the pretty girls. Before becoming a full-time Crack Monster, she’d used to have such a great knack for reeling in cute young girls like herself.

  Smiling, Narcisa lit the girl’s cigarette, looking her up and down.

  I recalled the fun times we used to have together, twin predators out on the prowl. Now it was all just another tired old pipe dream for poor, lonesome Narcisa, long dried up and burnt to ashes. The pretty redhead smiled back, then wandered away.

  But Narcisa was happy, her insatiable ego sated for the moment.

  “You see it, how de pretty geer-ool come talk to me, Cigano?”

  I looked at and nodded. “Uh huh . . .”

  Narcisa’s face seemed to shift in and out of focus as she gushed. “Yeaa-aas! She ask to me for give it to her de fire! ‘C’mon baby, light my fire!’ Hah! Perfect, Max! Hah! So many other peoples in these e’stupid place, an’ de most pretty gee-rool with de red hair like fire, she wanna talk to only de Narcisa, got it, Cigano?”

  I got it. I nodded again, smiling absently, the way you smile at a slightly retarded child who’s doing really well.

  “Someday, Cigano, after I quit e’smoke these e’stupid e’sheet, we gonna make de big party, you an’ me an’ all de pretty young gee-rool! We gonna have a big house with a e’swimming pool, an’ I gonna invite them all come over an’ make de crazy orgía, ever’day!”

  She gave me a quick hug, pushing me away at the same time. “Okey, Cigano! Chega! ’Bora daqui! Enough these focking place now. Bo-oring! Come on, bro, go, we gotta go, ’bora, mermão, go, go go go!”

  I stood up. We strolled over to where the bike was parked. Narcisa hopped on the back and I gunned the throttle, easing out into the road.

  For the first time that day, I was feeling good. As we sped off into the mad rush of afternoon traffic, Narcisa hugged me hard, holding me tight, bathing my soul like the sun.

  An hour later, after a quick fuck-stop at home, we were back on the street again. There was no stopping Narcisa now. She had to keep going, no matter what.

  I stumbled along behind her, sweating, frazzled, incoherent. My mouth tasted like a sick Chihuahua had crapped in it before crawling off to die; my dick was numb from our endless fucking. I was her slave. Now, she insisted, we had to go back downtown, to buy her all sorts of crucial, critical art supplies she swore she absolutely needed and must have right away, right now, go go go go go!

  Ten minutes later, we were weaving through the teeming anthill pedestrian alleys of the Sahara, a neuron-shattering battlefield of crowded little discount stores.

  Narcisa vaulted off the back of the bike, before I could stop, landing cockeyed and demented on the sidewalk, knocking an old woman right to the ground.

  Looking over, I heard her cry out, “Aiiii, desculpe! Sorry! You okey, lady?”

  Before the astonished pedestrian could catch her breath, Narcisa was gone like a streak, a blazing silver phantom, flashing off into the thundering herds of glassy-eyed, zombie shoppers.

  101. OUR LADY OF ASHES

  “HYSTERIA IS A NATURAL PHENOMENON, THE COMMON DENOMINATOR OF THE FEMALE NATURE. IT’S THE BIG FEMALE WEAPON, AND THE TEST OF A MAN IS HIS ABILITY TO COPE WITH IT.”

  —Tennessee Williams

  With a weary groan, I parked the bike, then plodded along behind her.

  By the time I caught up, she’d already barged into a store and pitched a flaming red-eyed tantrum. As I approached, she was standing in the doorway, yelling at the startled salespeople.

  “Morons! Idiots! Incompetents! Troglodytes! Neanderthals! Midgets! Monkeys! Mummies! Slaves! Clones! Too e’stupid to know you alive!”

  “Narcisa! Baby, baby, whoa, calma, take it easy! You’ll bust a fuckin’ vein, ma
n! Easy now, princesa, easy, easy, c’mon, let’s go now . . .” Slowly, gently, I eased her away and down the busy sidewalk.

  On or off crack, it didn’t matter anymore. Narcisa was the same hyperactive, jittery, frustrated mess. She had the attention span of a housefly, a small tropical fish. It was phenomenal. As she ranted and raved and pouted and screeched, I regarded her in wonder . . . Jesus! She’s like a hysterical, pissed-off three-year-old!

  Heads turned on the street to gawk at the petulant brat in a grown woman’s body. Once again Narcisa was the center of attention. All eyes were upon her. In my half-delirious, sleep-deprived state, I could only giggle like an idiot, laughing to keep from crying.

  Fuck! I oughta take this pissy little freak of nature to join the fucking circus!

  All of a sudden, I could see it all clearly . . . That’s it! Hope for the future! Narcisa would make a fantastic sideshow attraction!

  Lay-deees and Gentlemen!! Step Right Up and See Her Majesty the Overgrown Baby!! O Circo Cigano Voador Intergalatico Transdimencional Ignácio V. Lobos Proudly Presents: Her Highness, Our Lady of the Ashes, Goddess of Transcendent and Savage Grace!! All the Way Live from Alpha Centauri, Faster than the Speed of Light!! This Day Only, Right Now, Go Go, the Amazing One-of-a-Kind Two-Headed, Bug-Eyed Freak of Nature, Narcisa, the Infantile, Ranting, Raging Crack Monster!! The Red-Hot Flaming Whore of Babylon!! The Genuine One and Only Princess Nobody, Sovereign Ruler of Nothing!! All the Way to Nowhere from Nowhere!! Today Only, Folks, Go Go Go!! Step Right Up and See Her Turn Purple, the Mystical Color of Transformation and Redemption!! Choking Her Black Heart Out on Crack Fumes as She Complains and Pisses and Moans and Pushes and Shoves and Smokes Herself into an Early Grave, a One-Way Trip to the Lower Regions of Hell, or a White Light Spiritual Awakening Through Great and Terrible Torment and Suffering!! That’s Nietzche, Got It? Watch Her as She Spins Out of Control in a Death-Defying High-Wire Tightrope Walk Between Hell and Salvation!! That’s Right! Senhores and Senhoras, Ladies and Gentlemen, Boys and Gee-rools, Step Right Up and See the Focking Show!! Meet Her in Person, the Inimitable, Untamable One and Only Dakini!! Exterminating Angel of Myth and Legend, the Goddess Kali, Medusa, the Snake Lady, the Serpent Girl, Our Lady of Red-Hot Smoldering Ashes, Creator of Confusion and Trouble, Chaos and Destruction!! Step Right Up into Her Mad Realm of Ashes and Ruin and Dust!! Come and Meet the Devil’s Handmaiden Herself!! Go Go Go!! Thank You Come Again, Come Again, Come Again, Come Again, Come Again!!

  Hallucinating again! Jesus! Fuck! My mind was plummeting fast, circling the bowl with Narcisa’s in a churning, burning, psychedelic nightmare stew, as we struggled and stumbled and lumbered and labored through that agonizing, endless mission. Like a pair of wobbly drunks making their crooked way along, we staggered around in a buzzing forest of insane, impetuous whims and demands as she tore through more store aisles, pestering, prodding, nagging, shouting out new and outrageous orders and demands.

  “Get me these! Go go! Don’t forget those ones too! Go, porra! Go! Go!”

  As I stood in line at a cash register, waiting to pay for another shopping basket full of useless crap, she stomped around in feverish little circles of infantile fury, coming back again and again to tug at my arm, pleading, whining, crying.

  “Let’s go!! Come on!! Hurry up, go, Cigano! I don’ wanna e’stay in here an’ look it all de e’stupid ugly fat old retard cow peoples! Go! Moo-oove, e’stupid!!”

  Narcisa didn’t give a shit who she embarrassed or offended. And, strangely enough, nobody but me even seemed to even notice her at all. As we walked away, I thought again of the Dakini. It was uncanny, the phenomena of Narcisa’s presence; it was as if people weren’t able to see her. Maybe she really was a ghost, I mused, some sort of weird, shape-shifting figment of my own deranged imagination. A prolonged, interactive hallucination.

  Finally, we made it back to the bike and took off. As we motored through Cinelândia, the Times Square of Rio, she started slapping at my back again.

  Shit! What now? Groaning, I slowed down as she leapt off the bike and ran off. I pulled over to the curb and watched as she tore off down the street like an angry wasp, dashing through the crowd, pushing, shoving, bouncing against pedestrians; tripping, stumbling, slipping and sliding out of her broken flip-flops, stubbing her toes on rocks in the sidewalk, cursing, howling, screeching at hordes of unseen ghosts.

  Shaking my head, I looked on as she stopped to confer with some ratty Casa Verde panhandlers sitting on the sidewalk like a pack of mangy dogs. It was a painful sight. Narcisa’s world on those dirty downtown streets had always been an interminable, pain-oozing rocky road of trouble. And she was an underworld legend, known to every shit-licking, piss-guzzling, drugged-out, dog-fucking loser, hustler and bum in town. Wherever she went, the subhuman scum of the greasy old streets would cluster around her, like barnacles clinging to the hull of a sinking pirate ship. Whenever she went out in public, there were always a dozen filthy, glassy-eyed derelicts orbiting around her. And wherever we went together, I always felt like a harried schoolteacher with a busload of retards at the zoo . . . Nar-cisa! Please take your hand out of the alligator pond, sweetie! That’s a good girl . . .

  Finally growing bored with running amok like a pit bull in a chicken coop, Narcisa stumbled over to where I sat waiting on the bike. Leaning back with my feet up on the handlebars, I was trying to write in my journal, to keep from passing out and falling off.

  She kicked off her ash-gray flip-flops, then plopped down on the dirty sidewalk at my feet, like a wild little flea-bitten mutt, growling and mumbling to herself, chewing on a candy bar she’d pinched from a careless street vendor. I waited for her to get up so we could leave, but she just sat there on the ground, grumbling, watching the world’s feet tramping by. When attractive young girls passed, she looked up and whistled, yelling out lewd invitations and catcalls, like a beer-drunk construction worker.

  And she never took that old helmet off . . . Shit! She’d spray-painted it pink somehow, but the black still showed through, giving it the look of a giant shaved rat clinging to her head; and she’d been wearing it all day long lately, every day for the last week. It was depressing, but it seemed oddly significant somehow . . . Whatever, who knows? Might even come in handy for the next time she loses her fucking mind, her brain pounding like an angry midget locked in a closet, telling her to mouth off to the wrong people and catch another good and proper head-bashing! Yeah, she’s all ready for her big one-way trip to Alpha Centauri now, space helmet and all . . . Countdown, ready for blast-off, three-two-one, go go go!

  I sat there, brooding, watching her and praying.

  Jesus! God help us! God? Where the fuck are you, Lord? Oh, God, please help me! Please! I am so fucking tired . . . Okay, listen, God, I solemnly swear that if you will just help me get through the rest of this horrible day, I promise I promise, I promise, I fucking promise you, Dear Lord, that I will never, ever take Narcisa anywhere again! Ever! I swear! Amen.

  102. PANDORA’S NARCISSISTIC BOX

  “IF YOU’RE DOING SOMETHING AND YOU WANNA STOP, YOU’RE NOT GONNA STOP UNTIL YOU FIGURE OUT WHAT IT IS YOU’RE ACTUALLY DOING.”

  —Iggy Pop

  A few days later, Narcisa arose from the Great Crash with another Grand Plan. She shook me from my first sound sleep in days, announcing that she had decided to “be good” now and stay off the crack. Forever.

  “Never again, Cigano! I finish with these e’stupid drug now, forever.”

  They say Denial isn’t a river in Egypt. Beaming at her through blurry vision, I jumped right out of bed to offer my encouragement. But Narcisa’s bright-eyed morning pledge would turn out to be a far cry from what I’d hoped. After walking out, bored, halfway through the NA meeting I dragged her to, she climbed right back on the good old Marijuana Maintenance Wagon. She spent the rest of the day sitting on my sofa, watching cartoons, hacking and sputtering like a broken vacuum cleaner, choking and smoking and stuffing her face.

  Whenever I
tried to talk to her, she turned up the TV and tuned me out. Once again, Narcisa was lost in a sullen, smoky weed-cloud of junk food and junk TV, only breaking her tedious vow of silence to bark out orders for more food and Coca-Cola.

  As the hours oozed by, her vacuous weirdness was wearing my nerves to a sizzling frazzle. But on some other deep, primal level, she seemed to realize she needed some sort of spiritual help. She began reading Holy Scriptures from an ash-blackened old Bible she’d pinched from another crackhead at the Casa Verde.

  “De Spirit of de Je-sooz he e’speakit to me, and de God Word it is in mine mouth!” she croaked as she stuffed her face with another handful of potato chips.

  What? Fuck! Gluttonous little freak-demon!

  I stared at her in horror as she munched and crunched, while preaching away, reciting an incoherent litany of hell-and-damnation gospel-spew.

  Shit! Narcisa had finally reverted to her fundamentalist Christian roots. Hours rumbled by as she battered my sleepy ears with a wearisome garble of weird, incomprehensible petitions to Jehovah, praying for some Santa Claus Jesus to parachute down from the sky and save her lazy, self-centered ass as she sat parroting Scriptures, begging a Big Pimp Sugar Daddy Lord to send her Magic Gringo with a plane ticket to rescue her from the rescuer I’d become, but was not good enough to be anymore, because now I existed, God forbid! Gotta go! Thank you come again! Next?

  Finally bored with preaching, she slunk over my laptop on the table. I watched from the corner of my eye, cringing inside, as she started to open all her old, unread emails. After a year spent crawling the gutters, missing in action, now Narcisa was going to renew her erstwhile whorehouse contacts . . . Great!