Boy versus Self: (A Psychological Thriller)

by Harmon Cooper

  The perfume soon transforms into running viscera. It runs down the Duchamp bodies, pulling the bowels of the flowers through their stigma. The gluey entrails land on the asparagus grass; noxious fumes expand into the air as the grass boils.

  The towering man’s face is shielded by his hair again. He’s rummaging through the coffin and tossing rusty gears and oiled belt loops over his shoulders. The disordered pieces settle onto a landfill-sized pile of detritus and wreckage while the hull of a Cézanne ship peaks out from the corner of the pile. Through a hole in the hull, Boy can see a pair of white eyes watching him.

  ₪₪₪

  Morning light, blue room, knock at the door.

  Boy stirs, he’s screwed up his sleep schedule again. He twists just in time to see Maeve’s ass cheeks peeking out from beneath her sleep shirt as she waltzes to the other side of the room.

  ‘Hi,’ she says, jumping up into the arms of a man. Boy recognizes his receding hairline immediately – Maeve’s husband.

  ‘Mae-vee!’

  ‘Hey, honey,’ Maeve calls over to Boy. ‘This is Chris.’

  ‘Hi,’ Chris says with a surprisingly friendly wave. He’s older than Boy expected, or maybe it’s the way he’s dressed (gray suit, white shirt, skinny yellow tie). Boy sits up, forgetting he’s naked under the blankets. The blankets fall from the bed, but he catches them just in time.

  ‘You look great,’ Chris says, turning back to Maeve.

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ she says, with a less than subtle giggle. ‘Oops, I’m like half-naked right now. I almost forgot.’

  ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘How were your travels?’

  ‘Great, great.’

  ‘Okay, sit there and don’t look.’ Maeve walks past Boy and drops her shirt to the ground.

  ‘Breakfast?’ Chris calls over his shoulder. ‘I’ve been craving Millie’s. It’s not the same without you.’

  ‘Sure,’ Maeve says as she plays with the hook on her bra. Boy mouths what the fuck? at her. She waves his concern away. ‘You want to come with us?’

  ‘Yeah, by all means,’ Chris says, ‘join us. What’s your name again?’

  ‘I need to continue working on my piece today,’ Boy mumbles.

  ‘Oh that’s right, Maev-ee tells me you’re an artist,’ Chris says. ‘That’s pretty rad. I mean, as long as you can make money doing it.’

  ‘He has an opening this month,’ Maeve brags, pulling a tight skirt up to her waist. She straightens the skirt, smoothes out a few ruffles.

  ‘We should go. I can’t imagine being an artist,’ Chris says, in a tone that could be either mocking or sincere.

  ‘It’s a life.’

  Boy doesn’t want to get into an art conversation with Chris. The better he becomes at his passion, the less he wants to talk about it with people who aren’t thoroughly engaged in the medium. Things like the varying modes of artistic expression, or the best way to make a primer on a dime, didn’t really interest people like Chris, who was now talking about his job at Lynchman Brothers.

  ‘There were some points, you know, back in 2008,’ he says, ‘when things were looking a bit hairy, but we’ve bounced back. By the end of the year, the recovery should be progressing smoothly, as long as Congress keeps their paws off it!’

  He continues on about subprime lending and securities and the estimated impact of an artificially weak Chinese dollar on the world economy. Boy tunes him out. Business controls the world in a way that the average person will never truly grasp. Let the rich play with printed pieces of paper and he will keep printing on pieces of paper. We’re all fucked the same way in the end.

  Maeve sprays perfume onto her wrists and rubs them against the sides of her neck while Chris changes the subject to his recent trip to an African mining conference in Morocco. He talks about his trip in less of a cocky way than Boy would have predicted. It’s normal for him to travel to London for two days or Africa for a week. Normal.

  Mexico is the only other country Boy’s visited. Kid selling Friend pills. That bastard of a waiter holding his passport hostage. Border security, close call. Mexican suns. Boy wakes from his memory with Maeve saying goodbye.

  ‘At least they’re gone,’ he says, rolling out of bed. Boy washes a hard-boiled egg down with orange juice, finds the flower he was working on before Maeve interrupted him last night.

  ‘Are you here?’ he calls out.

  ‘Yes,’ Penelope answers.

  ‘I’ve got to find a new place to live.’

  ₪₪₪

  Boy’s sleep schedule finally takes hold: three hours a night and five twenty minute naps during the course of the day. After the fifth day, he feels bewildered and trapped in a dream-like delirium. He finds himself drifting off in random places: on the subway, sitting on the toilet, once while resting on a bench. Sometimes he sees tracers, small electric utterances tinged in static fur. He perseveres though, and soon, his new sleeping pattern begins paying off.

  Maeve, who has become seemingly less cynical over the last week, has also become less present. She’s been staying at a friend’s house, and leaving early in the morning when she does sleep at the apartment. They haven’t had sex in a week and Boy senses what’s happening, but he’s too focused on his art to truly care. Let it happen. On Thursday, she announces she’s taking a trip.

  ‘This weekend?’ Boy asks, finishing the last bite of a tamale.

  ‘Tomorrow, actually. A weekend trip to British Columbia with Chris. A couple of us are going, so don’t worry.’

  ‘Well, I hope you have fun.’ He reaches out for her, pulls her onto his lap.

  ‘Don’t worry about me. You just focus on your art. Next week’s the big week. After that you can get off your demented sleep schedule.’

  ‘It’s not so bad…’ He slides his hands up her legs and rests them on her hip bones. Maeve gyrates back and forth, slowly toying with him, turns and kisses him.

  ‘Not now. Besides, you have art to do.’

  ‘It’s my break…’ Boy gestures at his orange juice and tamale shell to solidify his point.

  ‘Well, I’m going out for dinner with some people. There’s a new Vietnamese place near Lincoln Center some friends want to try.’

  Maeve slips into a pair of sparkly high heels and reaches down to strap them. ‘Damn.’ She points at the marks from the heel straps across the top of her feet and gives him a pained expression. Less than a minute later, she kisses Boy on the forehead as if he were a child and leaves.

  ‘She’s gone.’ He slides a plastic container full of flowers into the main room. Inside, the flowers are arranged by small numbers written on their backs designating which ring they are part of.

  ‘How many flowers do you need to make?’ Penelope asks. She’s somewhere across the room, near the bed.

  ‘I’ll finish this weekend, and then I’ll install the piece next Wednesday.’

  ‘On the wall in the gallery?’

  ‘Yes, using thumbtacks, but not the plastic ones, the metal ones with different colored tops. They are planning on repainting the walls after this showing, so the little holes shouldn’t be a problem.’

  ‘I like this one.’ A paper flower made out of a Subway wrapper hovers in the air. ‘This one too.’

  The same thing happens with a smaller flower made out of an old envelope with the address still scribbled on its back in red ink. Both flowers are suspended in the air now. They fall back into the stack and Penelope moves on.

  ‘Thanks,’ he says.

  ‘So, she’s gone for the weekend?’

  ‘Yep. Just you and me.’

  ‘And her,’ Penelope says.

  ₪₪₪

  ‘Why did y-y-you bring her!?’ Boy asks, backing away. He feels his throat squeeze shut.

  ‘She came on her own,’ Penelope says.

  ‘Is this true, Lucy?’

  Lucy hiccups. The sound of her hiccup has changed. It’s become chunky, garbled, ancient.

  ‘If she can come on h
er own, that means…’

  ‘Yes, others can too.’

  Lucy’s wearing the same dress from before, but her face has changed. It now sags in the corners, and her slit-eyes have drooped, forming what almost looks like a pair of sunken spades. Her hair has thinned and patches of scabby baldness dot her infected scalp.

  Lucy slips her shoulder out of her dress, her breasts practically nonexistent. The strange ghost’s skin is dappled with warts and knotted growths, shriveled and hardened. Translucent bleach white delicate. Textured skin like linen canvas covered in dried coffee. Her dress falls to the floor in the fashion of an unhinged curtain.

  ‘What’s happened to her?’ he asks, inching away.

  ‘She’s been forgotten.’

  ‘By who?’

  ‘By you.’

  ‘So she’s aged?’

  ‘She’s dying,’ Penelope says.

  ‘Because she’s a memory?’

  ‘A forgotten memory.’

  ‘Will this happen to you?’ Boy is shaking now, uncomfortable with the way Lucy is eying him.

  ‘Maybe, but you won’t be around to see it,’ Penelope says.

  ‘L-lucy, put your clothes on,’ he commands. She hiccups and springs at him.

  He hardly has any time to react. Lucy drags Boy to the floor, gnashing at his face. He tries to buck her off, tries to pull himself out from underneath her, but she’s too strong, too enraged. Their body contact does something to Lucy. As she straddles him, the appearance of age slowly begins to leave her body. Her hair regains its luster, her skin snaps back and softens, her face tightens, her body straightens. With each passing second, she becomes more powerful. As they struggle, she becomes stronger, younger.

  She slams Boy’s wrists against the floor. Her face tightens until her slit-eyes are thin and taut; until she is her old self again.

  ‘WHAT THE HELL IS SHE DOING!?’

  ‘Feeding,’ Penelope says.

  ‘Can’t you do something!?’

  ‘I wish I could.’

  Boy’s cell phone alarm beeps: it’s time for him to take his scheduled nap. The coldness of Lucy’s grip sears his wrists. It barrels down his arms, surges through his chest.

  ‘Lucy,’ he pleads, looking straight into her slit-eyes. She drops her forearm against his chest, unzips his pants. He tries to buck her off, but it’s useless. All around him, things become darker. Reality really is thin, subfusc and heedless.

  Despite the fact that the rest of his body is protesting, an erection is now being plucked from his underwear. He tries one final time to kick Lucy off, but her coldness has demobilized him and her newfound strength is overwhelming. She slips herself onto his member.

  She’s wet this time, full of life, stolen life. They’re sliding back and forth on the floor and his eyes are closed and he wishes he were somewhere else.

  ‘She wants your baby,’ Penelope whispers in his ear.

  Surprised by the closeness of her voice, Boy shifts his weight to the side. Lucy is kissing him now, her breath ancient and her lips snow cold. His prick has remained hard and warm, regardless of the numbing temperatures surging through the rest of his body. Do it, a voice says inside of him.

  Boy starts pumping harder and Lucy presses down to accommodate his increase in power. He finishes moments later, and Lucy falls onto his chest. She lies there for a moment, her hair directly under his chin. Slowly, using what little strength he has left, he pushes her aside.

  She lies on the floor with her knees pulled to her chest like a newborn fawn. A wet spot forms on the carpet near her haunches. Her skin is fresh and pink, her hair full and thick. Boy labors to stand. His knees buckle and he falls back to the floor. A tightness in his lower back pulls at the insides of his knees like a garter belt.

  He collapses onto the couch, feels his eyes grow heavy.

  ‘Penelope, I need to talk to you,’ he says, his voice trickling out of his delirium. ‘All this – am I going crazy? I mean, really.’

  ‘It’s hard to say.’

  Boy looks to the spot where Lucy is lying. All that’s left is a wet circle on the carpet.

  ₪₪₪

  ‘I’m moving back in with Chris,’ Maeve announces. She’s just arrived at the apartment and her hair is a mess. A peach-orange sunburn flows from the tip of her nose down to her shoulders. She smells of beach and suntan lotion, laughter and cocktails.

  Boy’s sitting on the floor surrounded by a mound of paper flowers. It’s Monday and his piece goes up Thursday. Instead of reacting to the news, he continues cutting out a flower crafted from a pizza advertisement. He’s making extras, just in case.

  Maeve drops her large handbag onto the wooden table in the kitchen. ‘Well, aren’t you going to say something?’

  He hasn’t spoken to anyone since Saturday, including Penelope, who seems to have disappeared. Words can be hard to form.

  Maeve flips her bag over and the contents spill out onto the table. ‘Well, aren’t you sad? Don’t you care a little?’

  ‘Should I be sad?’

  ‘You should feel something!’

  ‘I do, I’ve just been focusing so much on this. I’m stuck in my headspace for the time being.’

  ‘You look like you haven’t eaten in a week,’ she says. ‘Aren’t you hungry?’

  ‘I had some tamales from the bodega.’

  ‘When?’ She pulls her short hair into a ponytail.

  ‘Breakfast. No. Last night.’

  ‘Aren’t you hungry?’

  He shrugs.

  ‘Well, it doesn’t matter. Eat if you want, or starve. Listen, aren’t you worried about what’s going to happen to this place?’ She sweeps her hand across the apartment and its contents. It’s a gesture meant to solidify her point, but Boy hardly notices.

  ‘Out my control,’ he says, tired and agitated. He had accidently fallen asleep for ten hours on Sunday, dismantling his sleep regimen.

  ‘You really are an asshole.’ Maeve approaches his stack of paper flowers.

  ‘How am I the asshole? You run off with your dickbag ex-husband, or current husband, or guy-you-are-separated-from, or, fuck, I don’t know how to refer to him.’

  ‘I don’t think you understand what’s happening here. I’m trying to offer you something nice and you won’t even be receptive enough to allow me the opportunity!’

  Maeve sits onto the couch, shoves a stack of paper flowers onto the floor.

  ‘Hey!’

  ‘That got your attention!’ She starts laughing as he scrambles to pick up the flowers.

  ‘How long do I have to move out?’ He asks, his face growing red with anger. Over Maeve’s shoulder, Lucy flashes in the corner of the room. She hiccups and wraps her hands around a distended abdomen. Alarmed by this image, Boy falls backwards and cracks his head on the hardwood floor.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Maeve asks. ‘Are you seeing ghosts again or something?’

  ‘In the corner.’ Boy rubs the back of his head. No blood.

  ‘You’re going crazy, aren’t you?’

  ‘N-no, I’m just joking with you. I just have too much on my mind. Too many things.’ He’s afraid to look over at the corner, afraid at what else may appear.

  ‘Well, to answer your question, you have a little time to move out.’ Maeve dangles her legs over the side of the couch.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m keeping this place as backup for the time being. Plus, the place has already been paid for through November. Chris paid for it, actually. Did you know that?’

  Any sense of honor or dignity Boy may have had slips into the microwave and cooks itself at the hint of the word free.

  ‘I can live here free until November?’ he asks, his eyes growing wide. ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Yes, and you’re welcome. Don’t say I never did anything for you. Also, don’t go all crazy and get paint everywhere or anything. There’s still a deposit. Remember, I’m doing you a favor here. Don’t forget that.’

  ₪₪�
��

  Boy finishes Flowering on Tuesday night, but can’t sleep due to the fact that he can’t sleep. Awake and raw, he searches Maeve’s apartment for his scissors. Not finding them, Boy blunders into the kitchen and grabs a knife from the drawer next to the sink.

  Holding his hair in his fist, Boy begins sawing at his hair with the steak knife.

  The sound of the cutting knife near his ear resembles a piece of sandpaper scraping against a wooden table. The knife sluices through the strands, separating the hair from his skull. The hair in his hand is oily, in need of a good shampooing.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Penelope asks. From the sound of her voice, Boy can tell she is standing near the couch.

  ‘Making a brush.’

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he says, looking down at the hair in his palm. He feels tears well at the corners of his eyes. Am I okay?

  Boy walks back into the living room and finds a used brush. He examines the brush for a moment, remembering how he once used it to smooth out his own blood onto Untitled in Spanish, which he’d left in Austin with Friend along with his piece, Sri.

  Using a pair of needle nose pliers, Boy pries at the metal heel holding the bristles in place. Once apart, the bristle hairs float down to the table. With his own hair, Boy arranges the pieces until they are lined up as evenly as possible.

  ‘Can you see the future, Penelope?’ he asks aloud.

  ‘Sadly, no,’ she answers. Boy grabs a small tube of super glue he keeps in his miscellaneous art supply box, the same shoebox he has used for years. Holding the clump of hair in front of him, he applies the glue to the section just above his fingers. A chemical smell fills the air. ‘You don’t know where the scissors are, do you?’

  ‘Under the couch.’

  Still holding the brush tip made from his own hair, he reaches his hand under the couch and finds the scissors. ‘See, you can tell the future,’ he says.