Boy versus Self: (A Psychological Thriller)

by Harmon Cooper

  ‘Surprised?’ she asks. Boy sets the bag of trash down on his front porch. Her perfume reaches his nostrils, a floral powdery scent.

  ‘A little,’ he says, trying to fix his hair. ‘Aren’t you cold?’

  ‘No. Like my cowgirl outfit? Trashy, huh?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I don’t have the hat, but I’ll find one before I leave Austin. Anyway, I just thought I’d stop by. I was in the neighborhood; there was a rumble sale nearby that I wanted to check out.’

  ‘Rumble sale?’ he asks.

  ‘Rummage sale.’

  ‘Oh you mean garage sale.’

  ‘Whatever you Americans call it.’

  ‘Anything good?’

  ‘No, just people’s junk that nobody needs. I always go to rumble sales thinking I will find something unique and wonderful. Instead I find piles of useless shit.’

  Boy notices a puddle forming underneath the trash bag. He quickly takes the bag to the curb and returns. An older man jogs by wearing a reflective vest over a t-shirt that reads AUSTIN MARATHON.

  ‘So, what are you reading?’ Boy asks.

  ‘You really want to know?’

  ‘Yeah, why not?’

  ‘Okay, but don’t judge me.’

  ‘Oh, come on.’

  ‘Erotica.’ Her face goes red.

  Boy tries to catch his reaction before it can leak across his face. ‘Who’s the author?’ he asks.

  She ignores his question. ‘Lately, I’ve been into these erotic bible stories. They’re in a collection called Missionary Style. It’s my guilty pleasure…’

  ‘No way,’ Boy says, trying to keep his mouth from falling open. He gulps, slips his hands into his pockets. Maeve is reading Salome’s erotica.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I mean, it’s fine.’

  ‘Just because I’m Irish doesn’t mean I’m a hardcore Catholic. That’s my parents, not me.’

  ‘I didn’t say anything about being Catholic,’ Boy says. What are the odds?

  ‘Anyway, I found out about this author and her work a couple months back,’ Maeve says. ‘Apparently, she lives here in Austin. You want to hear some?’

  ‘No! No, I really don’t.’

  ‘Why are you all the sudden so defensive?’

  Boy says, ‘I’m just not into erotic writing.’

  ‘Well, it’s a type of art, just like your sun paintings or whatever else you have in your little studio.’

  ‘Uh… it’s different.’

  ‘Yeah, I guess so. People actually make money writing erotica,’ she says sharply.

  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘Just saying. When was the last time you sold something?’

  ‘Last month I sold two pieces. I told you.’

  Right before Valentine’s Day, Boy had sold two of his paintings after being displayed at Epoch Coffee. The paired paintings, Coffee and TV, were still lifes that morphed from charcoal scratches to full blown oil paintings of an old table filled with wilted flowers, cigarette butts and a toppled coffee mug chipped and rimmed with lipstick marks.

  ‘It’s just not sustainable, that’s all I’m saying,’ Maeve says, with a wave of her hand. She stashes her Kindle into her purse and smiles up at Boy. ‘Isn’t there anything else you’d rather do? You’re a talented guy. You should apply those artistic skills to something else, something profitable.’

  ‘What should I apply them to?’ Boy clenches his jaw. Lately, she’d been giving him more and more shit about his art and he was growing tired of it.

  ‘There are many jobs that require an artistic mind,’ she says. ‘That is what you call what you have, right?’

  ‘Ah fuck, whatever.’

  ‘You don’t have to get angry.’ Her face twists into a curious grin.

  ‘I’m not getting angry. I just don’t think you understand how long I’ve been doing this.’

  ‘Well, how long is long enough to realize it’s a useless endeavor?’ she asks.

  ‘A lifetime.’

  ‘So you’d spend a lifetime painting silly pictures and hoping someone somewhere buys them?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s so stupid.’

  ‘Why? Other people have done it, and it worked out for them.’

  ‘Well, other people aren’t you.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean anything, if you think about it.’ Boy’s voice trembles with resentment. ‘At some point, these other people were struggling just as much as I am – or anyone else is – to make money doing something they love.’

  ‘It just seems like a glorified hobby, that’s all. There must be a better way to waste your time,’ Maeve says, giving him a dark look.

  ‘Waste my time? So now I’m wasting my time? Well, how about you fucking leave so I can waste my time without you here.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be a dick.’ She stands, approaches Boy while unbuttoning her shirt. ‘I’m just playing with you.’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Let’s…’

  ‘What? Right here?’ he asks.

  ‘Why not? I’ve never seen you get angry. It’s kind of hot.’

  ‘I’m not angry!’

  ‘No one is watching... We could easily just do it on the porch here,’ she says, her hands stopping just above her belly button.

  ‘You’re crazy,’ Boy says, and he means it.

  ‘Oh come on.’ She presses her body against his chest. ‘I wore a skirt to make it easier. Don’t tell me this doesn’t turn you on.’

  ‘So this was your plan all along?’ he asks. A wave of heat rolls over him.

  ‘Why not? I feel like being risqué this morning. Sit down, shut up. No one will see. I’ll just sit on your lap…’

  Boy sits down onto the rocking chair. He pulls his sleeping pants to his knees. His anger spreads down his torso and metastasizes at the base of his prick. Maeve slides onto his lap with her back facing him. She bends backwards, kissing him over her shoulder. Her kisses are soft yet fierce, accented by the flick of her tongue. She moves her body back and forth as she bites at him. She’s extremely wet; he easily slips inside her.

  Placing her hands high above her hips, she begins gyrating her body in a circular motion. Boy tries to come to his senses, but knows it’s impossible now. I hate you. I want to fuck you. The thoughts make him realize how pathetic he is to be so easily swayed in an argument by the slightest hint of flesh.

  Maeve starts to moan.

  ‘You have to be quiet if we’re going to do this,’ he whispers.

  ‘Oh, no one will see. No one’s even awake.’

  ‘Yes, they are,’ he grunts. ‘There was a man jogging by not too long ago. You’re crazy.’

  ‘No, I’m horny. There’s a difference.’ She kisses him again. ‘Or maybe there isn’t a difference. Am I turning you on? It seems like I am.’ She pulls his head towards the nape of her neck. ‘Kiss me here.’

  ‘You’ve always turned me on,’ he says, breathing hard.

  She’s moving back and forth now, and Boy’s hands are anchored on the armrests, trying to hold himself steady, trying to stop him from coming too soon. The rocking chair squeaks, and a gust of voyeuristic wind lashes at the shrubs in front of his porch.

  A little blue Honda parks on the street in front of his house.

  Salome gets out of her car, oblivious to what’s happening on the front porch, which is partly shielded by overgrown shrubs. She’s deep in thought, as she always is, and carrying a bag full of breakfast tacos. Boy sees himself try to pull Maeve off, but she clamps down with all her might.

  Salome rounds the corner and stops dead in her tracks. Maeve knows it’s Nobody, so she grinds even harder. The bag of breakfast tacos falls from Salome’s hand, splattering onto the concrete walkway. Plastic salsa containers explode into the air; the sound is as deafening as planes taking off. Salome freezes. Boy tries to stand, but Maeve holds him down using the rocking chair’s armrests.

  Salome turns to her car and Maeve veers her neck ba
ck to kiss Boy. She forces her face onto his, forces her tongue into his mouth. And his eyes are wide now, watching in horror as Salome turns, feeling the warmth moving up and down his prick, trying his hardest not to look at Maeve, who’s beaming down on him with her arm around his neck.

  And Boy comes and Maeve moans and Salome stumbles away completely heartbroken.

  Chapter 9: New York Flowering

  Boy’s Age: 24

  Outside crowded bustling calm. Naked city. The din of horns and people and lives being lived/destroyed is titillating. Boy feels free in New York.

  Fall is coming, and he’s made it through the blazing summer working as a busboy at a small Mexican food stand in Brooklyn. It was a temporary position, and with a few of the contacts Maeve had, Boy was able to quickly transition to a part-time job at a small art gallery called Orange Orange. It wasn’t a difficult gig, gallery set-up and take-down, but it did give him a chance to see the other side of the business and to observe other styles. Life could be worse or better. At least his ghosts have quit visiting.

  Through a contact at the museum, Boy heard of an upcoming show entitled New in New York at an art gallery in the East Village. It was a long shot, but after showing his portfolio to Jan, the gallery manager, Boy was given a large space in the back after another artist backed out. It was here that he would install Flowering.

  Having amassed nearly five hundred individual hand-cut paper flowers since he conceived the project, Boy estimated that he would need to produce around 1,500 more in two weeks’ time. To do this, he would need to alter his sleep schedule.

  ₪₪₪

  ‘I’m already putting up with your art and whatever. Now you want to take this on?’ Maeve is eating from a bag of baby carrots, each bite sounding like the crack of a whip.

  ‘The other day I saw, oh what’s your friend’s name?’ Boy asks.

  ‘Which one? Hey, don’t change the subject.’

  ‘She has short brown hair and bangs. Sorry, I just remembered to tell you.’

  ‘Cynthia? Kind of thin, right?’ Maeve leans against the countertop in the kitchen.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Thinner than me?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well anyway, I’ve done a lot for you here in New York, remember?’

  ‘I know, thanks. Are you hungry? I’m starving.’

  She waves a carrot at him. ‘I got you your job. I’m letting you stay at my place for free. Remember?’

  Boy looks down at a blood clot. Earlier, he pinched his finger while pulling up his zipper. Looking at the little red circle makes him want to paint – crimson red balloon – but finding space to paint has been relatively difficult. This was one reason he had started to focus on Flowering as of late. It didn’t require a proper studio space.

  Maeve sits down onto the couch, her loose negligée billowing for a moment over her jeans. Her hair, which she has recently cut to just above shoulder length, is held in a bun by a clear plastic clip.

  ‘I’m just saying I’ve done a lot for you – stupid, I know – and I really don’t want to be here when you are experimenting with sleep patterns. That’s just absurd. Sleep is necessary. You aren’t going to get any more done by screwing with your sleep.’

  ‘Well, I’m hungry for a Cuban sandwich.’

  ‘We’re all hungry for something.’

  Boy grabs his shoulder bag. ‘Look, this is an important event for me, who knows what could come of it. It’s my first exhibition in New York.’

  ‘I wish there was a guy who collected a quarter from every hopeless artist or musician in New York who assumed his or her lucky break was just around the corner. This guy’s name would be Delusion and he’d be richer than Apple and Google combined.’

  ‘I have a deadline that I need to meet; I need to maximize my time. Please understand.’

  ‘A deadline which doesn’t pay you anything.’

  ‘Yes, a deadline that doesn’t pay me anything,’ he says, mocking her.

  ‘Fine. Go make your flowers while you eat your Cuban sandwich. I couldn’t really give a fuck.’

  ₪₪₪

  Central Park day like butter. Melted clouds globs of spit. Boy’s on a bench not far from the Guggenheim, watching as a woman walks by with a baby strapped to her chest in a sling. He turns his attention back to his phone.

  ‘Anyway, I called to tell you your sister just had a baby.’

  ‘What? Really?’ Boy asks. ‘Mom, you didn’t even tell me she was pregnant!’

  He thinks of his sister, her small frame, her black hair and apple cheeks. He thinks of the words cut into her skin, the single phone call he made almost a year ago. Sri. Sri. Sri.

  ‘She didn’t tell me either,’ Mom says. ‘She gave birth yesterday morning.’

  ‘Did you know about this before?’

  ‘I had my suspicions.’ The phone connection makes her voice sound thin and distant. ‘But no, it came as a surprise to me too.’

  ‘Did you… talk to her?’

  ‘Nope, haven’t talked to her yet. Clint called to tell me.’

  ‘Are they married now?’

  ‘Yes, apparently they got married two years ago.’

  ‘What in the hell is wrong with our family?’

  ‘Oh, things happen.’

  ‘I guess. So, is it a boy or a girl?’

  ‘Girl. They named her Lucy.’

  ‘No.’ He chokes back a laugh. Lucy. So his sister has a daughter and names her Lucy. The odds.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Mom asks.

  ‘Nothing. How does it feel to be a grandma?’

  ‘Ha! The same way it feels to be a mother, only less stressful because the kid isn’t mine. Raising children is hard work. She’s lucky Clint’s around.’

  ‘Maybe I should call her,’ he says.

  ‘That’s why I’m calling you, to tell you it’s time. The years pass by quickly. Soon, I’ll be dead and your sister will be the only family you got.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So call her, but not tonight. Give her a couple of days to recover.’

  ‘Got it. Okay, I’ll call her.’

  ‘How’s your new girlfriend by the way?’ she asks. ‘What’s her name again?’

  ‘Maeve. She’s the same as always.’

  ₪₪₪

  The day after Salome left, Boy woke to find the few things he’d left at her apartment piled high on his front porch in Austin. There was a handwritten note safety-pinned to his blue sweater: Never contact me again.

  Sometimes, when Maeve isn’t around, Boy looks through the photos he has of Salome and wishes it could have ended differently. Sad, really. Maeve’s never said anything about the woman who walked up on them, but she knows. Life goes on and people get left behind.

  ₪₪₪

  Free from work for a week because of gallery renovations, Boy adopts a polyphasic sleep pattern – five twenty minute naps during the day and a three hour stretch at night. He’s also given himself one week to call his sister.

  While Maeve sleeps, Boy sprawls out on the floor of the living room to arrange materials and paper flowers. He wears a headlamp so he won’t disturb Maeve, tries his best to keep awake.

  He’s made so many hand-cut paper flowers by this point that he has resorted to keeping them in a small, stackable containers arranged together by color. He’s decided to install them in concentric circles, each ring of flowers larger than the previous ring, forty rings in all. The result will be a giant circle of paper flowers, at least eight feet in diameter.

  As Boy begins work on the twentieth ring, one of the flowers lifts into the air.

  ‘Penelope?’ he whispers, his nerves tingling.

  No answer.

  Boy reaches his hand in front of him and presses it into something solid and cold. ‘How did you get here?’ he asks. He hasn’t been visited by her or any other ghosts since moving to New York.

  ‘You’re making flowers,’ she whispers.

  ‘Trying t
o. I have a show in a week.’

  ‘Exciting.’

  ‘I miss the space I had back in Austin though. Much easier to work there.’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘I’ve been here since summer.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say something?’ Boy asks.

  ‘No reason. Just watching.’

  ‘Don’t say it like that, Penelope. It sounds so creepy.’

  ‘It’s not so bad watching you. You aren’t too filthy. Yes, you can look a little crazy when you’re painting, but you aren’t so bad. Not like her.’

  ‘Who, Maeve?’ he whispers. Penelope falls silent. Boy strains to see the invisible little girl’s outline, even though he knows it is impossible.

  ‘Yes?’

  A voice answers him from behind. Startled, Boy whips around and tosses his marker into the air. The light from his headlamp settles onto Maeve’s face as the marker lands somewhere. Darkness dances along the contours of her frame.

  ‘Who are you talking to?’ Maeve sits down on the couch and crosses her legs. She’s in a loose button-up shirt and red socks. He can see the outline of her vulva pressed against her shirttail.

  ‘Nobody.’

  ‘Flowers, flowers, flowers,’ she says, shielding her face from the light off his headlamp. ‘You really have too much free time.’

  Boy wants to remind her that they met less than eight months ago while he was working on one of these flowers at Rita Ria back in Austin. Stupid how time flies and how quickly things change, but he doesn’t want to argue.

  ‘I have to finish, and I don’t want to rush it,’ he says. Boy begins stacking his paper flowers, aware that he is being judged. Funny, because she’s the one illuminated by his spotlight.

  ₪₪₪

  Duchamp figures fill the empty seats and crane their necks back until they snap, Paper flowers blooming from their fractured necks. Boy is at a funeral packed with bizarre figures. The flowers blink their petals and a misty perfume sprays out.