‘Don’t smoke, do you?’ Friend asks. His eyebrows shift in a way that indicates he isn’t talking about tobacco.
‘When it’s available.’
‘Then this shift won’t be too bad for you. Let me show you what we do real quick.’
Friend seems relatively easy to get along with. He’s unshaven and paunchy at the waist. He’s a Texas native, but never quite absorbed the twangy Texas accent.
‘The shifts are always the same,’ Friend says. ‘Here’s what I’ve learned – don’t worry about shit. Well, that’s more of a life lesson, but yeah, it applies here too. Sure, I’m your supervisor but that’s just on paper. I probably get like fifty cents more per hour than you, which is nothing to write home about. So, let’s just get it done and kick it like some villains after that.’
‘Okay,’ Boy says. ‘Villains.’
‘Make sure all the print orders in this bin are complete by five. That’s all that really matters. Me and the dude who used to work here could usually finish them by two and just chill from that point forward. Once we get our rhythm down, we will likely do the same.’
‘Okay.’
‘Finally – in an effort to forge good employee relationships and to make this shift pass as quickly as possible – I schedule two joint breaks during the shift. The first one is at midnight. The second one is at three and not a minute later. You’re always invited. We cool?’
‘Sure,’ Boy says, relaxing a little.
‘All right, let’s get started,’ Friend says.
₪₪₪
Ghost is in the living room of Boy’s tiny apartment the following morning. Boy is tired, a little hungover from the two joints he toked with Friend. His head is crowded like someone shoved an arm in there. You’re only as healthy as you feel.
He tosses his work shirt on the couch next to Ghost, careful not to touch her. He falls onto his bed, arms spread wide and his shoes still on. Hard to sleep with his face buried in a pillow. He turns just in time to see Ghost sit down in her usual spot.
‘Go to hell,’ he says to her, just to see how she’ll react.
She looks over at him and hisses.
He sits up, frightened by the sound she has just made. His heart leaps into his mouth and he swallows it back down.
‘…Told Lucy that truck wasn’t…get inside but she doesn’t listen…her mouth and she’s got idle hands…bidding so what can I do…’
‘Shut the hell up!’ Boy says again, louder this time. Ghost stops speaking and glares at him.
‘What? All the sudden you understand me?’
She hisses again.
‘...Didn’t see that pretty girl there with…all the time I thought about it…he picked up that hat of his…made me say it just because I was planning on…’
The image of Philly Ghost comes to him, the one who saved Boy and his sister. That ghost was at least quiet. Glass Wings. Just thinking about the wretched creature that would come into his bedroom at night and lick the insides of his sister’s legs sends a jolt of fear down his spine. That fucked monstrosity got what it deserved – a baseball bat to the face.
‘…Doesn’t really matter about Old Tom…does have a nice car big enough to fit…really mean anything but it is something…’
Boy sheathes his pillow around his head and eventually falls asleep.
He wakes up to his phone ringing. It is late in the afternoon and his overnight shift will start soon. The sun is cornflake yellow, Rothko demarcated. It eyes him through cheap venetian blinds. He answers his phone, groggy and confused, as if he’d just woken up from a prolonged nap.
‘Hi, Mom.’
‘…I didn’t see him standing there...big black boots come down hard …thought it would come in waves…’
Boy puts his hand over the receiver. ‘Shut up!’
Ghost hisses as he walks by.
‘Nothing, Mom. Yeah, I told you I tried to call her yesterday. Her phone’s off. I called Anna and Jenny too. No, they didn’t know anything, or at least they didn’t say.’
He sits down in his living room. An empty glass that used to contain orange juice rests on the table. The rim of the glass is covered with caked-on pulp to the point where it looks like the inside of a petri dish.
Mom doesn’t like Girl’s boyfriend, Clint, and had forbidden her from seeing him. Of course this only made her see him more. Logic and teenage love will forever be at odds. So his sister, already a cutter, is now a fifteen-year-old runaway. Her CV is developing wonderfully.
Mom hangs up the phone after a few more minutes of worrying and blame placing.
‘…People were trapped in there with…the nurses were overworked…doesn’t really matter how many…’
‘What do you want from me?’ Boy stands and Ghost hisses again.
‘Oh yeah?’ he says, walking over to her.
Ghost trembles and pulls her knees to her chest. Her weakness only makes Boy angrier. He towers over her now. She seems real, tangible even, but he’s still afraid to touch her.
‘I want you to leave!’ he drops inches away from her face.
He’s never been this close to her before and he now notices soft tufts of blonde hair on her cheeks. There is no discernable scent to the ghastly woman. She turns to him and their eyes meet. Hers dead, his dying, and after a long pause, a dreadfully long pause in which Boy isn’t sure if she is going to lunge at him, she hisses.
‘That’s it!’
Boy latches on to her bony wrist. A type of coldness he’s never felt before glaciates his body. He recovers and starts dragging Ghost into the bedroom. She hisses, twists slightly, and falls limp after Boy has pulled her past the threshold of the closet. He tosses her into the closet and slams the door shut.
‘There,’ he says, sitting down on his bed. He looks at the hand he grabbed her with to see if it has changed in any way. Everything seems to be intact.
‘You’re staying in there,’ Boy says after the door handle starts jiggling.
He hears her hiss from inside the closet.
₪₪₪
The next morning, Boy gets off work and heads for breakfast at a place called The Omelettry. He orders bacon and gingerbread pancakes, drinks three cups of coffee, works on some sketches, observes his high change from marijuana to caffeine. STD appointment at nine. He feels up, feels down, feels in between, feels tired, wants rest, wants a new life, wants a new family, wants some more coffee, wants to paint.
His first one-night stand, also the first time he’d officially been laid – official as in actually putting his dick in – and he gets an STD.
It’s his fault.
He didn’t use a condom because she said she was on the pill and he wanted to know what it actually felt like for his first time and she didn’t seem to care. He doesn’t want to think about her anyway. Besides, she’s in Seattle by now. God is cruel, the world is crueler, and the spread of STDs are proof of this.
Boy drives to the clinic wishing he were high again. A Daft Punk song radiates from the radio and it seems to never end. Outside Spring colorful damp. That Texas heat is lurking around the corner, ready to make life unbearable. Keep Austin Scorching.
Red geraniums line the flower bed at the STD clinic like a bad rash. Boy feels shame as soon as he opens the door to his car. He hurries inside, fills out his paperwork with a shaky hand, takes his number, sits. A blonde girl nearby wears a pair of oversized shades. The poster above her says something about HIV.
A teenager exits with a nurse on her arm. Her eyes are puffy from crying and Boy looks away. Can’t stand seeing people cry. Reminds him of Mom, of Girl.
‘This place blows,’ the guy next to him says. Jumbo shorts hang well past his knees. A matching baseball hat with a foil sticker on its brim sags low over his brow. Boy nods in agreeance.
A Mexican lady plops down across from the two blabbering in Spanish on her cell phone. Her pair of cut-off jeans barely contain her big bubbly gut. The guy sitting next to Boy mumbles something about speaking
English, which Boy finds ironic because all three of them are in the exact same boat at the exact same place – a charity STD clinic on the East Side.
The irony of the people living in Texas and their fear and hatred of the country next door never seems to amaze him. It reminds him of Mom and her feelings about Santiago, Girl’s estranged father. Used to love him, now hates him and anyone like him. First acceptance, then scorn. The cycle of humanity hits a border-sized pothole; a flaming vehicle stumbles forward into the abyss of ignorance and fear.
Boy wishes he’d brought a book. Instead, he reads a pamphlet called Gonorrhea and You and wonders if his current employer, Plentiful Prints, was responsible for printing it. He makes a mental note to ask Friend if he’s ever made STD pamphlets.
₪₪₪
His number is called fifteen minutes later, after he has learned all there is to know about Gonorrhea. Boy makes his way down a narrow hall painted sea foam green escorted by a thin intake nurse with a curious skunk spot. The smell is antiseptic and stale bread, the hallway lined with motivational waterfall posters about overcoming adversity. It is truly frightening.
He sits down at the edge of the examination table, onto a fresh sheet of white paper. A medical printout of a penis is tacked on the wall in front of him. It’s colorful, filled with veins and muscles Boy didn’t know he had. The corpus cavernosum fills with blood and wallah!
With its two wide passageways and the urethra opening, the sliced diagram of the penis almost resembles a cross section of a fly’s face, that or a goateed man with a pair of giant aviators. Boy likes the color they chose for the urethra, Pepto-Bismol pink.
The door swings open.
‘Hi,’ Boy says meekly.
A stubby woman with her hair in a ponytail enters carrying a small device that looks like a glue gun. She asks him some questions, starting with how many sex partners he’s had. One. Did he use protection? No. She clucks and shakes her head. She moves on to a prepared speech about safe sex.
‘I know,’ Boy says. ‘I’ll use a condom next time.’
‘You’re lucky, you know.’ She drops her clipboard into the plastic bin hanging from the wall. ‘This isn’t so serious, but it doesn’t mean you’re in the clear. The warts can come back, in which case, you’ll need to come back. Got it? Go ahead and remove your pants.’
Boy begins fidgeting with his belt buckle. He wants it to be over already. Freezing genital warts off dicks and vaginas all day must be an absurd job.
‘It’s okay, don’t be nervous.’
‘I’m not,’ he clears his throat.
‘Ah, I forgot,’ she says, retrieving her clipboard.
Boy’s pants fall to the floor. The doctor makes a map of the location of the warts – six in all – on a piece of paper with the blackened outline of a penis. Boy closes his eyes, waiting for it to be over. The clipboard is deposited back in the plastic bin. Her gloves snap on.
‘You can open your eyes now,’ she says. ‘Nothing to be embarrassed about.’
‘Okay.’ He keeps his eyes closed. A cold blast hits the soft spot just above his penis. He winces. It doesn’t hurt in the least bit, yet the sting of humiliation is relentless.
‘One,’ she says.
Boy cringes harder at the fact that she’s counting.
‘Two.’
He recoils.
‘Be still. This won’t take much longer. You can open your eyes, you know.’
‘…’
‘Three. Four. Five. And Six.’
‘Finished?’ he asks.
‘Finished.’
Relieved, Boy pulls his pants back up.
The doctor says, ‘Now you’ve indicated on your intake form that you don’t want an HIV test. It won’t cost you anything.’
‘It’s fine. I don’t have HIV.’
‘Most people…’ she begins, and Boy listens to her spiel for the next five minutes. The never-ending battle against STDs wages on.
₪₪₪
Home is where the ghost is – no better way to describe it than that. Outside light showers gray morning humid.
Boy opens the front door to find nothing out of place. The glass of orange juice is still there. The light in the kitchen is still on. Plates are still piled high in the sink. A few canvases are still leaning against the wall.
Lately, Boy has been painting found objects on toned paper. He’s already finished a crumbled juice box, a water bottle filled with cigarette butts, melted skittles on a dried leaf and a broken comb. All the pieces are on twelve by ten canvases. A semi-opaque wash over an opaque wash gives them a textured appearance. Naturally, the toned paper calms the paint.
His ears alert him – the closet door knob is still jiggling. ‘I’m going to let you out now.’ Boy hears a hiss followed by a hiccup.
A hiccup?
He opens the door to find two ghosts standing in front of him.
‘Oh, you’ve got to be shitting me.’
The second ghost is a teenager with blackened slits for eyes and a single dimple. Chalky skin and matted strawberry blonde hair. She looks like something out of a pleasant dream turned nightmare. She’s hot in a ghoulish way.
‘Who’s she?’ Boy asks. The rain outside lashes against the bedroom window in angry shrieks.
‘…Lucy told me she’d come but…was busy with Old Tom in the backroom….didn’t like the shed because it smelt like wet puppy…’
‘Lucy?’ Boy asks Ghost. ‘Is this the Lucy you’re always rambling on about?’
Lucy hiccups.
‘Well, damn.’
Boy pulls off his shirt and tosses it onto the floor. He sits down on his mattress, feeling it sink. He hates the mattress. It’s worse than sleeping on a melted marshmallow.
Ghost and Lucy share the single sofa chair near the door. They look over at Boy and he stares right back at them. Lucy twitches. She turns around slightly; Boy can see part of her ass cheek peeking out from beneath her dress. He stares a second longer than he should.
‘…Figured it out that there were…didn’t know how he would react to…he mostly kept to his bourbon and…’
‘Are you mad at me?’ Boy asks Ghost.
Ghost hisses, Lucy hiccups. Boy falls backwards onto his mattress. ‘I will deal with this later,’ he says, drifting off.
₪₪₪
The phone wakes him.
‘Hi, Mom…’
‘…Washed dishes almost nightly…Lucy didn’t mind washing…not too many visitors unless it was…’
‘Damn you both,’ he says with his hand over the receiver. A hiccup and a hiss.
‘What did the e-mail say?’ Boy asks Mom. ‘Just an address? That’s strange. Nothing else? Well, forward it to me.’
Boy rubs the sleep from his eyes. His boxers come down and he looks at the places where his genital warts used to be. Gone. He quickly covers up, realizing he’s just shown his crotch to Lucy. Ghost has seen it plenty of times, seen him whack off too, but he suddenly feels embarrassed being naked in front of Lucy.
‘So you aren’t going to drive there?’ he says into the phone. ‘Yeah, I know it’s far from St. Louis. Well, I just started a new job too, remember? Of course I care! I can’t just take a few days off. Texas is huge, you know? I’m probably further away than you are. It will take a day and a half just to get out of the damn state. I know she’s my sister!’
‘…Old Tom’s garden was in full bloom…growing and growing pumpkins…Lucy liked to play in the patch…’
‘Don’t get mad at me! What am I supposed to do anyway? It’s not like that! I didn’t move here to get away from you, you know that. Hey! Don’t hang up!’
Boy looks at the phone and sighs deeply. He knows better than to call Mom back. No sense in it.
‘Lucy,’ Boy says, looking directly at her black slit-eyes.
She hiccups and her small chest moves up and down.
‘Go and get me a glass of orange juice. Now.’
Lucy cocks her head to the left.
Lucy stands and walks to the kitchen. Boy watches her walk, watches the way her legs move under her short dress. It worked! Boy looks at Ghost.
‘…Many times I sniffed those flowers and…eating breakfast alone is like…difference is we always tried to provide…’
‘Make my bed.’
She hisses.
‘Quit your damn hissing and do it.’ He stands, pointing at the bed. ‘Now. I’m going to check on Lucy.’
Boy walks past Ghost and into the kitchen to find Lucy pouring a glass of orange juice.
‘Thanks…’ He places one hand on her back and feels a surge of coldness. She shrinks inward, squeezing her shoulders together.
‘Sorry,’ Boy says as he removes his hand.
He goes back to his bedroom to check on Ghost. Sure enough, she’s making his bed and hissing. As soon as she steps into the room, Lucy begins helping her. Ghost ruffles one of the corners to spite him. Shaking his head, Boy drinks his orange juice and watches them finish. He gets this sudden sense that it was he who made the bed, but he discards the thought.
‘So you two can understand me?’ he asks. A hiccup and a hiss.
He goes into the living room. ‘Lucy, come in here.’
Lucy walks in the living room and stands near the couch.
‘Lucy, sit down.’
She sits down, and her dress slides upwards, barely covering her crotch.
‘Lucy, stay here.’
Boy slides into his bedroom to check on Ghost. She has finished making his bed and has sat back down in her usual place. ‘Ghost,’ he says, ‘go to the living room.’
She hisses.
‘Now!’ he shouts, pointing his finger in the opposite direction. Ghost stands with her arms crossed and walks into the living room.
‘Sit down next to Lucy,’ he says.
She sits down with a hiss. ‘Oh, and stop hissing all the time.’
₪₪₪
Boy and Friend are in the parking lot sharing a three A.M. joint. Boy can still smell the rain from the morning, musty and fresh. Texas craves rain like fiends crave veins. The trees have that healthy verdant look they tend to get after a good shower. He could capture it, monochromatic brushwork. White on cobalt.
Boy versus Self: (A Psychological Thriller) Page 3