To someone ah know who won’ listen
To his friends, to the truth, to himself even
You got so much to give, boy, quit usin’.
Ziggy’s pleasantly teared up. “Wow, Annie, that’s . . . great. But it’s . . . pretty scary.” He wipes his nose.
“Ah know.” She sounds all choked up or whatever too.
“Have you, like, read it to him?”
“Nah. Ah should, ah should. But ah don’ even know if the band’s gonna go for it. It’s awful corny, ah guess.”
“Yeah, but . . . Calhoun makes people get corny about him, ’cos he’s so, like . . . sympathetic.” Ziggy flops back on the bed, mentally building a song out of what Annie read, plus some speed metal riffs, screechy vocals, back-masked Satanic messages, etc. “So . . . are you in love with him? ’Cos it . . . sounds like it. Sorry.” Annie’s song’s too chaotic or something, in theory at least, so Ziggy lets it sort of skid to a halt.
“Mebbee. Ah think he’s rilly sweet. But ah’ve got this bad habit of goin’ for gahs lahk Calhoun who’re kahnda . . . self-involved.”
“Yeah, but . . . ,” Ziggy says, sitting up. “He’s a great writer, and, uh . . .” He pounds his head. “. . . that’s how he has to live.”
“Oh, ah know. It’s jus’ hard to love gahs lahk that.”
“I dig, I dig. You have to . . . have lots of, uh, faith? My school therapist says it’s like trying to be friends with somebody who doesn’t speak English. But . . .” The damaged young actor’s recaught Ziggy’s eye. “Shit, I’d better go, Annie. I’m not at home, like I said.”
“’Kay, see ya.”
Ziggy’s already frantically smoothing the picture. “Uh—”
Click.
Ziggy refits the fucked-up picture into its original space on the wall and presses hard, hoping the backside’s two crisp Scotch tape loops have some power left. The thing sticks, not without a few tremors. So he withdraws in extremely slow motion, diverting one hand toward the phone, even though it takes over a minute to make the stupid, half-second trip.
Click.
Ten seconds of distorted rock music.
Beep.
“Calhoun? You awake? No? It’s Ziggy . . . Fuck. Okay, a little tip. You know Annie, that drug dealer girl? She likes you a lot. She just told me. So . . . use that info however you want, ha ha ha. Bye.”
Click.
Ken stared at his bedroom door. A nothing-special wooden rectangle. Behind it, occasional thumps, curses, moaning.
Tick, tick, tick . . .
Fatso, slumped on the couch, catatonic, insides going crazy, especially his lungs, heart.
Thud, thud, thud . . .
Rrrring. Click. “Yeah?” asked the fat man.
“It’s your brother,” said Brice’s voice. “I’m bored. Entertain me.”
Ken laid out what happened, beginning with Robin’s knock-knock on the front door, ending up with the bedroom door Ken was half-studying, half-guarding.
“No shit,” said Brice. “I wish I had something half as interesting to report. I . . .”
Behind the door, Frankel said something, short sentence, seven words tops. It sounded as if he was giving somebody an order, but his voice was too low to reach Ken, and not loud enough to crack a dead kid’s ears, obviously.
The world was so fucking depressing.
“What?” asked the fat man. He’d missed something.
“I said I’m in Fullerton,” Brice repeated. “With that boy I’ve been screwing on weekends. I’m trying to turn myself on, so we can do our little S&M number.”
Across the room, a relatively silent door.
“What’s his story again?” Ken asked.
“You remember. That son of a friend of this asshole I used to tend bar with. Prissy wanna-be model. Not bad when he keeps his mouth shut. Works for some clothing designer. Drinks like a goddamned fish.”
“Someone I could . . . borrow?”
“Sure. Hey, Perry, you want to be in a porno film? Perry asks, How much will you pay him?”
“Depends. How cute is he? How young can he play? What are his limits?”
“Oh, he’s cute, all right. Could pass for maybe . . . seventeen? But he’s twenty-two, I think. Wait. Hey, my brother wants to know what your limits are? Hey, Perry, reality’s calling. What? Forget it, Ken, he’s too sloshed.”
“Bring him over sometime,” said the fat man. “Tell him I pay anywhere from a hundred to three hundred dollars. And he has to keep his mouth shut.”
Bedroom door: Thump, thump, thump . . .
Earpiece: Tinny crash.
“There you go, Perry,” Brice said, laughing. “He just fell flat on his face. No, lie there. Don’t move. You look hot. I’m digging this. I don’t care if you broke your wrist. He thinks he broke his wrist. I’d better say Adios, Ken. Sorry about your little problem.”
“Yeah.”
“Look, I’ll take care of business here, head home, shower, and bring Perry over.”
“Give me two hours.”
Ken hung up, stared.
Bedroom door: Thump, thump, thump . . .
The fat man imagined the dead kid, then Frankel, and puzzled their bodies together, trying to make up a sex act that matched the simplistic, percussive sound track.
Not much luck.
May I note a discrepancy of sorts between the sex I’d been having with Ziggy to this point in time, and my scanty recountings? It seems I’m examining the boy at too great a remove in some ways and overwhelming him with faint praise in others.
I’ll try again. Ziggy McCauley: the Tiffany of skeletons packed tightly with lush, modest musculature and flesh, etc., then enclosed in the most expensive skin ever made, which, once secured to his insides, has been treated less gingerly than it deserves, but that’s teenagers for you. Now imagine something unknown is malfunctioning within this prized, somewhat scuffed body. A broken valve or two, perhaps. Such that intense smells emanate from where mild ones belong. Armpits, asshole, crotch, feet, mouth . . . Have I left someplace out? Each individual odor is tuned to the spot, so it’s not as if he’s been invaded exactly. More like he’s turned up too high, or overextended physiologically, such that he’s in that condition particular to elderly machines, when their natural stinks become . . . magnified, is the word. And during sex, one has the choice of embracing them studiously, as I did—which involves a transcendence of one’s normal instincts—or resorting to very dumb acts such as mutual masturbation in order to evade these odors’ not insubstantial reach. But I digress.
Ziggy’s mouth: Superficially, its stench was reminiscent of anyone anywhere’s “morning breath,” that is, the stomach’s backdraft after eight or so undisturbed hours of breaking down food. I had learned to accommodate this gaseous odor long before bedding the boy, as it impinged on our relationship in general. Through much hard analysis, I’d managed to find its variations in detail and strength more than slightly intriguing. There were even some points during our sexual encounters when I rushed at this orifice, eager to check its emission. Absurd, I know.
Armpits: A sweetness pervaded their otherwise typical reek, particularizing them nicely. I can honestly say that in all my erotic travails, I have never encountered a boy anywhere whose pits housed so exotic a smell. I had no trouble redesignating them Sirens, and resting my nostrils and lips there whenever physically possible. I might add that for some unknown reason deodorant had little effect, merely decorating their inherent charisma a bit, not uninterestingly.
Crotch: Even freshly showered, it suggested the genitalia of a sex maniac. The distinctive, exquisite aroma of cooking sperm enveloped those scraggly pink organs, more often than not blended in with a harsh un-derodor of urine, which may have resulted from rarely laundered garments. And on those precious occasions when Ziggy grew sexually excited enough to reach orgasm, the blast of ulterior perfume was beyond comprehension.
Ass: In short, it emitted a stench I’d best leave in absentia, or at least to the
discretion of listeners, as you would recognize this smell to which I obliquely refer from your own, well, experiences. Yet I’m positive you would agree that within its rottenness was a flowering so sweet and spicy . . . a secret, addictive ingredient that made one inevitably return.
As to what was transpiring amidst this particular stretch of our story, let’s see . . . I’d slunk out of the room. Ziggy’s outburst had not just distressed me emotionally, it quite interfered. I’d begun to suspect my own tastes, and considering the profession I’ve chosen, that just could not happen. I was making my way toward the door when Ziggy’s drag queen boyfriend grabbed my arm, and beseeched me to stay a few minutes.
We retired to the kitchen, specifically a small breakfast nook. He sat across the table, collecting himself, I suppose, while, under cover of kind, patient smiles, I did a quick critical read. Cricket would have been cute minus, oh, fifteen pounds. Far too high-strung, he was nevertheless rather bright, with a broad, pale face, and activity-fraught eyes—I’m not recalling their color—framed not unpleasantly by a spill of brown hair, albeit gone ratty by that stage.
“Is this situation confusing you?” I asked, since he was positively jittery over there.
Cricket crinkled his nose. “How,” he said, taking a deep breath. “. . . how can you do sexual things with your son?”
I explained how the odd combination of Ziggy’s not being a blood relative and our familial proximity had made him something of an intimate stranger to me, thereby lending his body an aesthetic importance that no other male’s could potentially match.
Cricket was nodding along, but his expression seemed unconvinced.
So I changed tacks, querying Cricket as to the nature of his interest.
“Ziggy’s cool,” he said, flushing. “Everybody I know thinks so. Well, not everybody. The elite do, and we’re the only people who matter.” He grinned a fraction. “The other students are all just . . . oh, brainwashed idiots.”
I detected a mild surliness in his tone, as if he wished me to glean that his pseudointellectual friends and he understood Ziggy, not I. Indeed. And I was bringing the brat back to earth when, through his evident misery, Cricket flip-flapped a hand, as if to shush me. Sure enough, we could hear someone moving our way through the building.
Cupping his cock, balls, pubes, Ziggy follows some noise to the kitchen. Creak. The walls are beige, à la most of the rest of Cricket’s parents’ house, only shinier, as if wallpapered with autumn leaves, which . . . he squints . . . maybe it is. Weird. Roger and the boy/girl are studying him from this table, their bodies sidelit complicatedly by a huge, bush-clogged window.
“Goodness,” says Roger. “It’s the world’s most perfectly formed human being.” He crumples one hand several times. “Come, come.”
“Hi, sorry,” Ziggy mumbles, squeezing into a seat next to Cricket. He folds his hands on the table and looks at them. “When I, uh, freak out, it’s never about who I’m with. It goes back to Brice. Oh, uh, he’s my other dad. Anyway, it’s all just stored-up old shit.”
Roger and Cricket look tired and unreadable, especially him/her, whose makeup-smeared face and tangled hair are more Heavy Metal than girl now.
“So what’ve you two guys been doing?”
“Well, I’ve been polling your friend,” Roger says. “For his assessment of you, and for the thoughts of other boys at your school.”
Cricket’s smiling wearily out the window.
Ziggy’s hands, shoulders bunch. “I wouldn’t say I’m very popular there.” He grabs, spins a generic-looking salt or pepper shaker.
“According to Cricket here,” Roger says, watching the chess piece–like shaker whirl . . . clunk, clunk, clunk . . . “you leave most students cold, true enough, but they’re . . . ‘idiots,’ he says, and you utterly enthrall some superior types.”
“Oh, yeah?” Ziggy smirks.
“Sure,” Cricket says, perking up. He/she places his/her hands over Ziggy’s, and hunts through his eyes with his/hers. “Don’t you know that?” He/she blinks. “You must. We talk about you all the time. How you’re so beautiful, but so . . . insecure and . . . sweet! That combination almost never happens, you know? So to us you’re this . . . angel. And when Nicole told us she’d made it with you . . . Oh, we flipped.”
Ziggy grins, really happy now, even if what he/she’s reporting’s too weird to absorb.
“And he’s mine,” Roger says, snickers actually, at Cricket. “I informed our little chick-with-dick about your immediate departure.”
“Oh, that.” Ziggy squeezes Cricket’s hand, as, like, reassurance or something. “That’s uh . . . ha ha ha.” He glances nervously at Roger.
“You’re moving to New York?” Cricket smiles painfully at the outdoors.
Ziggy shrugs, like it’s nothing to worry about.
“He is,” Roger tells Cricket. “You are,” he adds, frowning at Ziggy.
“Maybe e-ven-tually.” Ziggy spins the shaker again, more haphazardly this time.
Roger and Ziggy trade glares above the shaker’s nutsy rattling around. When things get too . . . still, Ziggy gives Cricket’s small, pristine yard the once-over, though it’s more to align himself with his/her world than to seek inner peace or whatever. “So, Cricket,” he whispers. “What’re all those pictures of that Terminator 2 kid about?”
His/her face flushes. “I wish I knew. I’m in love with him, I guess.”
Ziggy literally has to bite his bottom lip to kill a huge, ugly grin. “Isn’t the guy, like, thirteen years old or something?”
“So?” Cricket winces. His/her eyes are sort of teared-up and glary. “I’m never going to meet him anyway.”
“But . . . he’s just a piece of paper.”
“I know.” He/she half-tips, half-slumps sideways, flattening his/her face, squeak, on the windowpane. “Life’s so . . . unfair.” The glass clouds.
“Hey!” Ziggy pounds his forehead. “Maybe I should interview you about this. For my magazine. Except I’m not sure if it’s enough about sexual abuse.” Pound, pound. “I guess it is. I mean, it’s sort of like self–sexual abuse or something, right? ’Cos, I mean, it’s so impossible.”
“I . . . know.” Cricket sniffles.
Roger’s been studying the pair, his eyes slitted and shiny in Ziggy’s peripheral vision. “Touching,” he says, easing out of the breakfast nook. “And probably a good note to close on.” Pointing down at Ziggy’s head, he slowly raises the finger, like he thinks he’s the star of that TV show Brice is addicted to . . . what’s it called . . . where a Martian lives over some woman’s garage, and can move stuff around with little flicks of his digits.
Ziggy waits an interminable moment before standing up at a completely different speed from the finger’s. “Don’t worry,” he says, eyeing Cricket’s smudged, all-but-fogged-up reflection. He/she/it’s started sobbing or something. Shit. “I’ll, uh . . . call you tomorrow, okay?”
Cricket’s dim, reflected mouth wobbles into a smile. “Promise?” he/she/it whispers.
“Promise, yeah. After”—he shoots Roger a murderous eye roll—“he’s gone.”
“Hello, Ziggy? It’s Calhoun.” He coughs. “You . . . screening your calls? I got your message. Thanks for the tip.” A chuckle. “You’re coming by later, right? See you then.” Calhoun hangs up, and immediately flips through his phone book, hoping Ziggy’s okay, though he despises worrying, so the thought sort of O.D.s. The book’s blank, all except for one page where the five scattered people he . . . loves is the wrong word. Enjoys, yeah. Five tolerable people are stacked one on top of the other. Three of the numbers are dealers’, one’s Ziggy’s, the last one’s long distance. “Shit.” Calhoun pokes in those once-too-familiar ten digits. Rrring, etc. Josie’s deep, prerecorded voice answers. First a chillingly businesslike request to leave a message, then an almost sweet “thanks.” Beep. “Josie, hey, it’s Calhoun. I’m . . . sorry I haven’t called in so long. I’m doing okay. You’ll be happy to know I’m finally k
icking heroin starting tonight. So maybe you’ll call back and wish me well. Okay, see ya.” He hangs up, picturing Josie’s nude body, which is so dimmed by the months since he’s seen her that she just sort of haunts him, rather than going directly to his crotch and/or heart. Deep breath. “All right.” He calls Annie. She, of course, picks up. “Hey,” he says tensely. “It’s Calhoun.” Annie’s voice does this hop-skip-jump through several registers, though her actual words stick to hi-how’s-it-going-type shit. “Why don’t you come on over?” he says. “Not to sell me anything, to hang out.” Annie pauses, then twangily agrees. “Is now okay? I have to do something later on.” Sure, etc. “See you soon then.” Calhoun hangs up and looks at his crotch, meaning a rumpled zipper and several faded blue folds. Nothing’s distinguishable in that. Picturing the long-unwashed genitals inside is like finding someone you “love” drowned in a swimming pool, or so it strikes him for some drug-induced reason. He could dive in and go through the motions of resuscitating whoever, but what’s the use? Maybe they’re better off dead. Maybe Annie can do something. Imagining her head on his lap making labored attempts, he reaches into his desk drawer and fishes out a glossy packet of heroin. He pours a bit onto a spoon, adds water, and fires up the lighter beneath. Sniffle. It’s . . . ready. Annie faded out two or three seconds ago. Okay, which needle? “You.” Tick, tick, tick, tick . . . Maybe his eyes got too close to the fumes or . . . whatever, but, tying his upper arm, everything suddenly seems so . . . difficult, not just to watch, to process, and by the time a remotely accessible vein fends its way through the bloat in one trembling hand, tears have really, indiscriminately gathered. “Shit,” he croaks. Calhoun can’t see.
Ken sat rewinding the Robin porn.
Background, a running bath. Tick, tick, tick . . .
“Shit.” He walked into his bedroom, absentmindedly clutching the TV’s remote control unit.
Stiff kid, hanging off the bed, butt sculpted into a misshapen basin, cute face squashed flat as a boxer’s, arms fallen hither and thither, legs splayed unrealistically wide across the disheveled bedding.
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