by Owen Egerton
After a year or so the staff knew Milton by name. He’d stick around after hours, help bus the dishes and clean the floors, and then sit drinking beer and talking films with the waitstaff and cooks. Even the owners, Dag and Chloe Jones, knew Milton and more than once comped his bill.
One night, after a screening of a documentary about a man who legally married his full-size sex doll, Dag and Milton stayed up talking in the lobby. At first it was small talk. “How’d you like the film?” and “Ever used a sex doll?” As they talked Dag kept refilling both his and Milton’s glasses from a bottle of tawny port. The conversation moved from sex documentaries (Twisted Sex, The Lifestyle), to sexploitation films (Swinging Secretary, 99 Women), to blaxploitation films (Dr. Black, Mr. Hyde; Cotton Comes to Harlem; Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song), white trash–sploitation (The Preacher, The Passing), and finally on to good old-fashioned horror. H. G. Lewis’s low-budget masterpieces, the Italian gore classics, the genius of George A. Romero. By 3:00 AM the bottle was empty and Dag was offering Milton a job.
“I just bought two hundred unmarked prints from a bankrupt drive-in in Kansas. Drove up there, paid cash, drove them back. Killed my truck with the weight, but so worth it Should I open another bottle?”
“No thanks, Dag. I’ve got to bike home.” Milton could feel his tongue stumble. “So what movies?”
“Don’t know. Unmarked, mismarked. It’s a mess. Drive-in movies. Mainly from the ’70s. I want to show a different one every Thursday night. I see you staring at my glass. Come on, I’ve got a bottle right behind the counter.”
“Really, I’ve had enough.” Milton rubbed his head. “So you want me to watch them?”
“Yeah. Help me pick out the ones worth watching. Then introduce them to the audience. You know, say a few words, spill some trivia. It’d be fun,” Dag said, ducking behind the bar. “And I’ll give you 100 percent of the door.”
“Wow.”
“But it’s free to get in.”
“Oh.”
“So I’ll pay you in beer and food and any movie you want to see. Here, hand me your glass.”
Milton had been hosting the Thursday Freak Show ever since.
Milton had never been late for any Thursday show. It was matter of respect—to the audience, to the film, to the Crockett. Milton was speeding toward Riverside, his bike wheels emitting a high whine. Just as he passed a custommade boot boutique, a flash of pain shot through his eyes. He screeched to a stop and threw both hands over his eyes. The pain was an expanding pressure, as if someone were pumping fluid into each eyeball. For a moment Milton feared they’d both pop. He opened his eyes and the night sky was now day bright. He stared down Congress Avenue and saw suns, a dozen miniature suns bouncing like basketballs. Buildings melting like butter. Birds, bats, insects flying up and blackening the sky above the suns, above the burning.
Milton squeezed his eyes closed and gasped. When he opened his eyes again the vision was gone. Just the dark road, just the city lights. People crossing back and forth, cars wheeling by.
It was surely past ten now. He put his feet to his pedals and aimed for the Congress Avenue Bridge. Each time he blinked he saw the colored shadows of the bouncing suns. It’s all right, it’s all right, he told himself.
As he reached the bridge, the pain pierced his head again, fiercer this time, hotter. Without stopping he slapped his hands over his eyes. The handlebars twisted and Milton lurched over them and onto the road, knocking the air from his lungs. He opened his eyes and the sky was dripping fire like burning plastic. The waters under him bubbling and black. People dancing. Skin falling from their bodies as they moved. Whoosh. A long, hot wind, and all was dust.
The horn knocked the vision from his head. He was kneeling in the road, his hand bleeding.
“Hey, you okay?” someone shouted.
Milton didn’t answer. He struggled to his feet, climbed on his bike, and darted on. His ankle ached. His head felt heavy, waterlogged. But it wasn’t real. Just pictures.
He pedaled up to the front of the Crockett and realized he had left his bike lock at home. Shit. He quickly removed his belt, strapped the bike to a parking meter, and ran inside.
“Get your ass in there, Milton. It’s 10:09,” the manager said as Milton stumbled in. “What the hell happened to you? You’re bleeding on the handrail.”
“Sorry, sorry.” Milton rushed past her and down the aisle to the front of the theater. The visions, the Floaters, the thoughts would all have to wait. He had a job to do. A microphone was waiting for him. Milton picked it up with one hand and used the other to hold up his pants.
He knew a crowd of at least a hundred and fifty was watching him, but he refused to look. He feared the faces. He loved his job, loved sharing whatever he knew about the obscure film featured, but if he saw those faces watching, waiting, judging . . . it would kill him. He didn’t close his eyes as he did in the Pearl-Swine days. He had worked out a different method of avoiding eye contact. He found a point or object, anything other than a person, and aimed his words there. Tonight it was a pint of dark beer.
“Hello, everyone, and welcome back to the Thursday Freak Show,” he said to the beer. “Tonight’s film is the 1973 classic Invasion of the Bee Girls, a.k.a. Graveyard Tramps.” Milton paced in front of the screen, glancing up every few steps to see that the beer was still paying attention. “The plot’s as old as Shakespeare. Hot radiated housewives kill off the men of their community by screwing them to death.” The beer chuckled at the concept. Milton’s head started to ache. Not the expanding-eye pain. This was his whole brain filling up like a water balloon abandoned on a sink’s faucet.
Say it. Say it.
“William Smith stars as the FBI agent called in to investigate. You might recognize him from his later role as the Marlboro Man or as the bad-ass Russian commander in Red Dawn. The screenplay of Bee Girls was written by Nicholas Meyer.” Clapping. The beer must know his stuff. Under the smell of popcorn and pizza, Milton noticed a sweet burning smell. “That’s right, the writer and director of Star Trek II and VI, i.e., the good ones.” Milton’s head was pulsing now.
Say it, Milton.
Say what?
You won’t know until you say it.
“There’s some nice nudity in this one and lots of whipped cream.” The beer hooted. “Apparently the ladies use Cool Whip to radiate—” The beer was rising from his place. Floating up. To a mouth, a nose, a face. Milton made solid eye contact with a complete stranger. Milton froze. His head beating like an elephant’s heart. His jaw tightened.
Say it now.
He saw them all now. Hundreds of eyes watching. A fear, like waking up to find yourself standing on the edge of a skyscraper, squeezed Milton. And there, behind the crowd, in the back row of the theater, was the blue screaming expression of the Floater, its thin naked body a foot taller than the people sitting beside it. The same Non-Man. It stared at Milton. No one else moved. No one seemed to notice it.
And Milton knew.
Say it!
“And I should also tell you,” he said, stuttering slightly, “that is, I think you should know . . . the world is going to end. Probably Sunday. Monday at the latest. So, you know, be ready for that.”
The crowd chuckled.
Milton squeezed his eyes and opened them again. The Floater was gone. A mass of amused, expectant faces. Milton gave the projectionist a nod and the room fell dark. The audience cheered and Milton walked.
“Not staying, Milton?” the manager asked.
“Can’t,” he said, walking past. “End of the world.”
He hadn’t understood until the moment he had announced it. The visions, the dread, the message the Floater was telling him.
His bike was gone. So was his belt. Milton started walking south, holding his pants with one hand and tugging on his beard with the other. He walked slowly. Beautiful people with tight clothes and perfect hair brushed past, smelling sugary and strong, laughing, touching each other, disappeari
ng into bars from which music and chatter poured. In three days you’ll all be dead.
On the sidewalk in front of him, a blond girl stood at an ATM. Her shirt ended just over her navel. Her breasts seemed to float, holding the rest of her up. Milton watched them. Magical, happy orbs. He wanted to hold them, cradle them like orphaned rabbits, tell them it would be okay.
“It’s all right, little ones,” he said. They nodded back, telling Milton that, yes, it was all right.
“Uh, excuse me?” a voice above the orbs said. “Can I help you?”
Milton looked straight into the deep-blue eyes of the girl. “No,” he said. “I’m afraid you can’t.”
He walked on, out of the noise and crowds. On the steps of city hall, a man in stained jeans and no shirt asked Milton for some change. Milton pulled out his wallet, took out all his cash, and placed it in the man’s hand. It was $47.
“Thanks, dude,” the man said. “Made my day.”
Buttered
HAYDEN BROCK LEANED back against a pile of Hilton suite pillows and studied his new collection of Catholic literature. Page by page, dogma dictum by dogma dictum, a picture of his chosen faith took shape. Faith, Hayden concluded, was the act of believing in unbelievable things. The more unbelievable, the more profound the faith.
Wine becoming blood. Pretty unbelievable. Good.
Bread becoming the flesh of a man. Even better.
The man whose flesh becomes bread actually being God disguised as a human. Excellent.
Hayden now understood why Catholics were so sure of their prayers. Once you bought the bread turning into the flesh of God stuff, believing God hears your prayers was easy.
Hayden ordered some rolls and a bottle of wine from room service.
“Fine, sir,” said the voice on the phone. “And what kind of wine would you like?”
“Red. Most definitely red.”
“Any particular red?”
Hayden thought for a moment. “What’s the most blood-looking?”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. “That would be our malbec, sir. We have a ’92 . . . ”
“That’ll do fine.”
When he opened the door a few minutes later, a young woman holding a tray gasped. She had fair skin, dark eyes, and a chin like a scoop of ice cream. Hayden flashed his finest TV-star smile, took the tray, and, without having to be asked, signed a napkin as a tip. The girl blushed and made her way down the hall, glancing back every few steps. As he closed the door, Hayden noticed that the girl walked with a limp. Sad, he thought as the door clicked closed.
Hayden sat on the floor with the tray. Then he readjusted himself to a kneeling position. He laid the rolls out on the tray in front of him and picked up the bottle of wine. A ’92 malbec. Not a great year, he thought. Of course it doesn’t matter. Soon it will be 33 AD. That’s a good year.
He popped the cork and whispered a prayer. “God, make this into Christ, please.”
He was quiet for a long moment. Finally he reached for a roll and took a bite. It was buttered. That seemed wrong. It’s one thing to eat the body of Jesus. It’s another thing to first cover that body with butter.
He poured half a glass of wine and sipped. Nothing tasted different. It was bread and it was wine. It was nice how the bread soaked in the wine. It was pleasant how still the moment was. But nothing supernatural was happening. He closed his eyes and remained still. The room’s air-conditioning hummed, and stories below, there was a gentle buzzing of traffic. Hayden listened to the soft noise. He let all his thoughts float past and felt his heart slow. He knew he was experiencing something very near to peace. A quiet sort of feeling, like waking up in the middle of the night and not minding that the lights are out and you’re alone.
Hayden remained on his knees for six minutes. Then a knock on the door punctured the stillness. He opened the door to find the pretty girl with the limp.
“I just got off work and thought you might like some company,” she said. In her hand was a half-full bottle of Jack Daniel’s. For a moment Hayden hesitated. He was trying to be a Catholic saint. As far he could recall, Mr. Daniel had never inspired a saintly act. But the girl smiled, a sort of crooked smile. That was enough. Hayden smiled back and ushered her in. He liked how she limped. It had a certain sexiness to it. It also reminded him of episode 35 in which Saint Rick convinces a recently disabled Olympic gymnast to begin a career in pottery.
The girl stood by the bed. “Mind if I get a little comfy?”
“Be my guest.”
She giggled and removed the small, blue Hilton vest and sat on the bed. She shook out her hair and stretched out her arms. With her eyes fixed on Hayden, she unscrewed the Jack Daniel’s cap with her teeth and spit the cap across the room. It bounced against the air conditioner. She passed the bottle to Hayden who suavely swiped it from her hand and took a swig. She then rolled up her left pant leg. Something about the color and shape of her leg seemed out of place. Hayden leaned in closer and took another sip.
“This thing has been rubbing on me all day,” she sighed. With two fast snaps she disconnected her leg at the midthigh.
Hayden squealed.
“Did you just squeal?” she asked.
“I did.”
“You have a problem with prosthetics?” she asked.
“No, no. Not at all,” Hayden said, staring at the plastic leg lying on the floor. “I just love whiskey!”
He pushed the bottle back to her. She smiled. “Go fetch a glass or two, will ya?”
Hayden grinned. He swaggered into the bathroom. I can do this, he told himself in the mirror. It’s kind of kinky. I like kinky.
He reemerged with two water glasses and a warm pair of bedroom eyes. He was pretty sure he knew what would be happening next. Hayden Brock had made love to three hundred and eight women. Possibly one goat. He believed himself to be a master of seduction. He took great pleasure in how his eyes and witty remarks wooed the women he desired. The truth that he only suspected in his darkest moments was that it was his fame and not his sexual allure that won women over. The same people who long to rub elbows with the rich and famous are even happier to rub other body parts. In his heart of hearts, Hayden knew, Chris Elliott probably got laid just as much as he did.
But sitting on the bed with Melinda, that was the girl’s name, Hayden shoved all doubts from his mind and enjoyed the erotic-ego-adrenaline rush of being wanted by a stranger.
The two were quickly and pleasantly drunk on whiskey and pheromones. A shoe, a leg, and the remains of Hayden Brock’s first communion lay scattered on the floor. Melinda downed the last swig of the whiskey and tossed the empty bottle against the wall. It clanked and fell to the floor unbroken.
“So, Saint Rick,” she said, pushing him onto his back. “Shall we lay hands on each other?”
“Ohhh,” Hayden said with a giggle.
“Or”—she delicately straddled him, her leg nub rubbing on his outer thigh—“do you want to speak in tongues?”
She lowered her face to his, a tongue darting out to wet her lips.
“Wait!” someone said. To his surprise, it was Hayden. “Wait, wait.” He pushed Melinda off of him and stood beside the bed. “We can’t. I mean, I can’t do this.”
“Can’t?”
“I’m sorry. I’m trying to be a saint. A real one. A Catholic one.”
“I’m a Catholic,” Melinda said, reaching for his thigh.
“But I’m different. I don’t believe in God.”
“Neither do I.”
Hayden stared into her wide eyes, tree-moss green. “Honest?” he asked.
“Honest to God.” She flashed her crooked smile.
The two embraced.
Same source as the wound
CROSSING THE FIRST Street Bridge toward home, Milton kept his eyes on the watery mirror of sky and skyline below him. Milton felt the distinct desire to pray. He fought the urge like an alcoholic refusing a shot.
Years before, only months after
Milton had abandoned Dr. Sang’s class, Roy presented a bold plan to cover some of their college expenses. A tiny tutoring business.
“We’ll aim our advertising at the ladies! Just think, sitting in pink, puffy dorm rooms explaining the mysteries of math to some lost coed! We’ll meet girls, Milton! Women!”
True to the plan, the boys stuck fliers to walls of Littlefield women’s dorm, Gregory Gym’s ladies’ locker room, and the World’s Best Frozen Yogurt shop on the Drag. Soon enough both boys had a full dance card of eager young women begging to be enlightened to the mysteries of math. Or just to have their homework finished.
In their second week of tutoring, Roy came back to the dorm room he shared with Milton and related what he called “the most magnificent moment of my life!”
That evening he had been tutoring a plump art history junior on the nature of parabolas. Roy, thrilled simply to be in the presence of a woman, was at first unaware of her hungry, predatory expression. When he finished the last equation, she smiled, asked him to sit beside her on the futon, and put on a Morrissey CD. Before the third song, the art historian had straddled Roy and gobbled up his virginity as if it were a leftover tater tot from a Sonic takeout. Her girth and Roy’s less-than-stellar stature made for an awkward matching, like a pro wrestler riding a bucking miniature pony. But there were no complaints. Roy was left dazed, delighted, and grateful. He collected his things and readjusted his belt, grinning like a villain. The art history major giggled and scheduled another tutoring session for the following week. On his way out the door, she handed him his tutorial payment in cash.
She was the first of many. It was as if some secret, underground network of adventurous women had put out the word on all channels that Roy was a willing sort. Or perhaps it was something in Roy’s newly deflowered demeanor that alerted ladies to his gleeful eagerness to play.