Try

by Dennis Cooper

  First there was a long, awkward moment of Brice and me hugging, believe it or not, while Ziggy heaved in the distance. Over ten or so years, my ex-boyfriend had sagged, creased, and thickened predictably. Once a sinuous, arrogant boy-man—to use an admittedly icky yet accurate term—at thirty-seven, he bore an uncanny resemblance to Red Buttons—meaning, for you younger listeners, red-headed, alcoholic-faced, smarmy, and elfin.

  Nevertheless, we were suddenly engaged in preplanning an orgy, I guess you could call it. With Ziggy, mind you. For my part I can honestly say—and perhaps I’ve said so already—that Brice’s sexual bent re: our son both intrigued and escaped me. To witness it firsthand . . . But let me say, I was not about to sit idly by and watch Brice cause actual harm to the boy. If necessary, in fact, I felt prepared to utilize my few physical strengths in a bodyguard fashion.

  To be blunt, it was time for a change between Ziggy and me. His beauty was sans mystery by this stage, and our fitful interaction displayed the first signs of a gentrification I knew would eventually undo our relationship.

  Ahem. I’m aware just how hideous this sounds. Yet there are things that transcend other things, and the very nature of transcendence leaves it impossible to justify or interpret, yes? The family unit is an inherently fascist and oddball construction—private, sacred, untrespassable, nobody’s business except those involved. Still, I can assure you that within my and Brice’s particular closed system, a strict and responsible order was being maintained. But I digress.

  Let’s see. The house had grown eerily silent. We trekked down the hall, to discover our half-undressed son passed out cold near a stew-filled, grotesque-smelling toilet. Brice grabbed one of Ziggy’s wrists; I clutched the other. And, to make a short story shorter, we literally dragged our ward back to his room, heaved him onto the bed, and, well, did every lascivious thing you can do to a putrid and comatose male for the next, oh, half hour?

  Even a superaesthete like myself must admit there are times when no preordained stance in the world can unlock a situation’s importance, much less ferret out its original trigger. Here’s a pristine example. Brice and I found ourselves lost in a sexual bliss of our own strange, collaborative design, even if, on the surface, our bodies enacted some rather clichéd pornographic contortions. Perhaps after all I’ve related to this point, you’re prepared and/or willing to fill in the details. Me, I intend to retire to a place where, freed of all responsibility—moral, semantic, and otherwise—my mind can luxuriate at will in Ziggy’s memory, albeit rigorously edited.

  “He’s back,” says . . . Roger’s voice?

  Ziggy opens his eyes all the way. Yeah. His less evil dad is, like, inches above, gazing at . . . make that right through him, in sort of the same spooky way Roger looks at concerts he’s reviewing. “Hi;” Ziggy says spacily. He twists his neck, surveys the unfocused room. Brice is definitely out there somewhere. In fact . . . Ziggy strains his eyes . . . that’s him, the white thing.

  “Are you one hundred percent?” Roger asks, sounding . . . what?

  Ziggy feels for a pillow, finds and crushes it against his chest, curling around all that softness. “I’m good,” he mumbles. Ya-aw-aw-wn. The high’s so . . . preoccupying and . . . uh, heavy, that their words, his too, mostly just twinkle ineffectually against the mental mishmash.

  “We’ve been partying with you,” Roger says. A hand comes to rest on Ziggy’s waist, squeezing a tender outcropping of muscle, flesh. “A little family get-together, understand?”

  Ziggy thinks about answering, can’t, though it’s possible his eyes and/or mouth express something totally on their own.

  Suddenly Brice is right there, face close enough to Ziggy’s for study. It’s in rapist mode—sweaty, flushed, pupils pinned, but . . . there’s something . . . it seems, looks a million times more . . . accessible. Either that or heroin’s a miraculous ambassador.

  “What’re you thinking . . . uh . . . Brice?” Ziggy asks.

  “How much hotter you looked a few seconds ago,” Brice says, breath all tumultuous and sweet. “When you were unconscious,” he adds, then laughs. His facial features seem slightly see-through. They float there—huge, clownish, but godlike too, which makes Ziggy feel weirdly reverent and kind of . . . gentle.

  “Yeah, I’m, uh . . . ,” Ziggy says, swallows. He’s already forgotten his sentence’s point. Something about how . . . irritating he knows he can be. “Uh . . . the school therapist told me I’m manic-depressive.”

  “You must’ve been born that way,” Brice says. “I tried everything. Drugs, punishment.”

  “Yeah . . . thanks.” Ziggy smiles. Brice’s head’s more and more infused with this amazing allure, like it’s just been exhaled by Ziggy into the air. “Sometimes, you know, I still like you a lot, Dad, ’cos . . . you’re my dad. But I always . . . know . . . uh . . .” His eyelids have started to lower. “. . . uh, that you’re going to beat me up. And I hate that.”

  From what Ziggy can tell, Brice’s eyes are teared up, but the guy’s blurry head’s shaking—back, forth, back, forth—so it’s hard to see past all that motion.

  “I heard you,” Brice mumbles.

  Ziggy’s happy. It’s drug-induced, no doubt. Still, for whatever reason, he suddenly knows, like, for sure, that a huge part of . . . sexual abuse, at least for him, is how he loves being a target for such intense feelings, expecially from someone who knows him and isn’t just stupidly thinking he’s cute or whatever. That’s why he hasn’t killed Brice, or hired a hit man like other abused-type teens do. Yeah, and that’s probably also the thing that makes I Apologize weird, great, and makes this whole situation with Roger and Brice so . . . tolerable. He clears his throat, forces open his eyes, trying to decide if he can focus enough to request pencil, paper.

  “Facedown,” Brice announces. Then, with a strangely loud crack of the knee joints, the man’s on his feet. Ziggy tries to look up, but the top maybe third of his dad’s body’s lost in this . . . grayness, probably having to do with the heroin. “My brain,” says Brice’s voice, “. . . is so fucking mixed up.”

  Ziggy slowly unbends an arm, leg, which lowers him flat. His armpits have soured again, although everything smells really sexy to him at the moment, especially his body.

  “Try rimming him, Brice,” Roger says in such a clear, serious tone that it sounds kind of jokey for some reason. “. . . if you care to, that is.”

  Ziggy laughs into his pillow. It magnifies the sound into a honk, ha ha ha, and makes the fabric, stuffing, etc., this cozy blast furnace for three or four seconds. He reaches back, pulls his asscrack wide open, and buries his probably moronic face deep in the pillow.

  Those bones crack again. Footsteps.

  “It fucking stinks,” says Brice’s voice.

  “Doesn’t it?” Roger’s voice answers. “I’m still trying to decide if that’s a problem for me, or a privileged position.”

  “I probably ruined his bowels.” Brice’s voice. “I’ve been fucking him since he was eight.”

  Eight? Ziggy thinks, sending his mind on a time trip that just sort of fades out three or four years into history.

  Ziggy’s fingertips ache, so he shuts his ass. No one says anything. His limp, painful hands come to rest on either side of his hips. He concentrates, trying to transform his ears into microphones, put his brain on RECORD, ’cos, obviously, his dad’s conversation’s an I Apologize coup if there ever was one.

  “Ziggy?” Roger asks. “You still there?”

  “Yeah, keep talking,” Ziggy mumbles. He looks over a shoulder. Blur. “Both of you. It’s . . . interesting.”

  “I just said everything,” Brice says.

  “Okay, uh . . .” Anyway, Ziggy couldn’t move a pencil right now if he needed to. He lets his head flop on the pillow.

  “We’re both rather tired, dear,” Roger says. “Personally, I wouldn’t mind one more quick session, however. Then we’ll leave you alone. Promise.”

  A finger worms down Ziggy’s ass, which f
eels . . . different than usual . . . simpler bordering on good. Still, he sucks a wad of air through his teeth in surprise. The finger moves around quickly and slides out. That does sting a little. There’s a sniffing sound. “The smell,” Roger says, probably for Brice’s benefit, “. . . is far more curious concentrated on this than it is all dispersed in the air.” He sniffs again. “It’s nastier, but more specific. Less . . . censored. I mean, it’s who our boy is. Do you know what I’m saying?”

  Brice snorts.

  “Hm. Are you . . . implying that Ziggy’s less fascinating the better you know him?” Roger asks.

  “Gotta be.” Snort.

  “And yet I know his downfalls, know how manipulative he is.”

  Ziggy clears his throat. “The school therapist,” he croaks, then hocks up some noise-goo and swallows it. “She told me I’m so fucked up now by my psycho upbringing, and, uh, the molestations and stuff, that my whole personality’s, like, about using other people. ’Cos I never thought anyone would, uh, love me if I was just, like, myself?”

  “You’re a disaster.” Roger’s wagging his head. “It’s fascinating.”

  “Yeah,” Ziggy says.

  “It enriches your beauty so much.”

  “Yeah, I guess.” Ziggy scrunches his forehead. “To you anyway. But . . . what do you think, uh, Brice?” Hoping to see that dad better, he props himself up on his elbows. The effort so taxes his brain that the bedroom completely fogs over, swallowing his dads along with it, not unlike all the dry ice, etc., that blankets less talented rock bands in concert.

  Brice’s voice sort of feedbacks.

  “Can you say that again?” Ziggy asks, blinking. “I’m fucked up.”

  “I said I’m late for an appointment.”

  “Oh yeah, me too.” Ziggy nods furiously, which smokes up the room even more. Shit.

  Brice snorts. Crack, crack. By the sound of it, he’s on his feet, probably leaving the premises.

  “Actually . . . ,” says Roger. He sounds like he’s back in his favorite locale again. “Here’s something interesting. Your rectum smells like there’s sugar inside it.” A sniff. “Do you eat a lot of carbohydrates?”

  “I don’t eat a lot of anything.”

  Down the hall, Brice’s door slams.

  Deep in Ziggy’s ass there’s this sudden, weird stinging.

  “I really have to go,” Ziggy says, grimacing. He twists around, squints, trying to locate his dad, who’s . . . hunched way over, yeah, one, uh, hand digging around in his . . . cavern, like someone who’s dropped some car keys into a ditch or whatever. “Uh . . . Dad!”

  Roger . . . shakes his head? “One . . .,” he mumbles, “more . . . second.”

  Dead kid not exactly snuggled up in a ditch nowhere near six feet deep.

  Ken stood at the rim, reeking. “I should say something,” he huffed-puffed.

  Heavy Metaler’s mind way, way, way beyond the white tunnel’s far end, if he ever even saw that fucking myth in the first place.

  Tick, tick, tick . . .

  “He’d want . . . something . . . Satanic.”

  Robin, not necessarily anyone. A human-shaped grayness. A jellyish smell that belonged to being dead in a general way.

  “Enjoy hell,” Ken said, hoping that caught Slayer’s drift. But he really didn’t care all that much, of course.

  Weird how one flinched at throwing dirt on something totally inanimate just because it was human once.

  Still . . .

  A hole filling up and taking with it the world’s cutest Slayer fanatic.

  The fat man ached every-fucking-where.

  Digging, etc.

  Tick, tick, tick . . .

  “Hello?” Someone was clawing through bushes along the right side of the house.

  “Who’s there?” Ken asked, his eyes focusing on . . . Perry, presumably.

  Perry: baseball cap, sideburns, tall, thin, pale, loosely dressed, flask in one hand, cigarette in the other, weaving.

  Pretty kid, no ambiguity about it, though too old to unravel the fat man, except theoretically.

  “Hi,” Perry said. He leaned over the hole, peering down.

  “My dog died,” Ken said.

  Ha, ha, ha . . .

  The kid, obviously drunk, laughing too, though he couldn’t know why or even care, thank God.

  Now an awkward little not-really-sure-what-to-say-next-type moment.

  The fat man studied the kid, in particular the seat of his pants, although nothing much showed, feeling more and more . . . impressed.

  “Shall we . . . ?” Ken glanced at the house.

  Perry smirked.

  They headed off.

  Imagination, weird.

  Calhoun feels a million times better now. No hallucinations this nod, but at least the real world, and more specifically today, has settled back in its usual, meaningless place. What’s happened so far forms a structure. Phone calls, visits, shots, a little sex, some TV. What’s ahead seems predictable. Ziggy, his greatest admirer, will show up ere long, sit around on the fringes, exuding ridiculous amounts of affection, which Calhoun can then take or leave depending on . . . whatever. Whim? Company’s cool when it’s that set in stone. Annie . . . she’ll come back around, or she won’t. Now there’s a nice little mystery, an interesting imaginative exercise. Not giving a fuck about sex is so beautiful. He’ll have to remember to talk about this state of mind in his novel, wherever it is. Over there somewhere. Calhoun opens his eyes a slit. Yeah, that’s it. That glimmering rectangular blueness, that spooky night light. “Mm . . .” What can anyone say? Calhoun’s just part and parcel of the bed, an inanimate, pillowlike object, to his way of thinking. He’s mere consciousness or whatever. Weird how spectacular beds are. O, to be a piece of furniture, as poets might say. In other words, to be nothing in particular and have a wild, analytical brain like his own. Hm. Calhoun’s mouth, which has been hanging far open, albeit crookedly, warped by a crease in the pillow, closes slightly and . . . smirks? That’s his guess. There’s a very dull breeze on his bare back and ass. From where? An open door? Shit. “Hel-lo?” he asks, voice very rumbly. “Um . . . Ziggy?” But the only answer is ambience. A clock’s tick, the simple buzzing in his trumpet ears. Time to zone, drift, probably in sleep’s direction. “Mm . . .” When he nods, Calhoun’s this close to invulnerable. Knives could carve, bullets lodge, cocks could plug in, loyal friends could decide to turn permanently away, bored and/or scared shitless. He’d survive, see. Peacefulness, that’s what he’s after, whatever the form. And heroin’s sedation will do for the moment, although it wouldn’t be totally obnoxious if Ziggy or someone telephoned or came by on occasion to radiate humanesque warmth. Just a teeny little bit, he thinks. Until then . . . Calhoun feels for a blanket.

  Ziggy, barefoot, shirtless, torso craggy with goose bumps, jabs Calhoun’s doorbell for the seventeenth time. “Please,” he says, marching speedily in place. He tries Calhoun’s immediate neighbor, this nice older surfer he met once, twice.

  The intercom feeds back. “What the fuck do you want?” yells a blurred voice. Shit.

  “I’m here to see Calhoun. Uh, it’s . . . an emergency.”

  Tick, tick, tick . . .

  “Come on. Please. It’s freezing.”

  Bzzzzz . . .

  The former toy factory’s central hallway is the slightest bit warmer, thank God, and almost visibly fogged with comforting, postpostpostcooking smells that change recognizably with every door Ziggy passes. Steak, maybe . . . tomato sauce . . . uh, fish . . .

  Scuff, scuff, scuff, scuff.

  The door just this side of Calhoun’s is cracked a thin, yellow stripe. As Ziggy approaches, it swings wide. A jowly, unshaven, low-lit face jabs out, long blond hair flapping wildly around it. “Do you know what time it is?”

  Ziggy bites his lip. “Uh . . .”

  “Three twenty-five in the morning, kid.”

  “Yeah, well . . .” Ziggy slides his hands into his pockets. “Uh, sorry. Calhoun�
��s, uh . . . sort of in trouble and he needs me to help out.”

  The neighbor’s bagged, bloodshot eyes sort of sparkle, probably due to some better-not-to-know-about mental explosions or something. “That kid should learn to take care of himself.” The door’s yanked, and the hairy-backed, boxers-clad guy tromps toward Calhoun’s door, fingering a key-ring. “I hardly even know him . . . and I’m expected to . . .” A key’s poked in the lock. “. . . let his friends in . . . every time he’s too loaded to . . .” Click. The door creaks open into the usual, badly lit living room. “You’re welcome,” the guy snaps. He turns, splits.

  “Yeah, thanks,” Ziggy yells after him.

  Scuff, scuff, scuff.

  “Calhoun?” Ziggy knocks on the bedroom door. Tick, tick . . . Nothing. “Uh, I’m entering, okay?” He turns the knob. “So . . . cover yourself.” Cre-ea-ea-eak. The room is so dark Ziggy inches his feet along the floor like a newly blind guy, aimed, oh, maybe two and a half to three feet to the right of the laptop’s turquoisey light, where, if his calculations are correct, you-know-who’s spacing out and/or snoozing in bed. Fingers crossed. Yeah, here’s . . . the . . . thing. Ziggy sits gingerly on some edge. Squeak.

  “Hey,” says a deep, soft voice.

  “Oh, amazing. You’re okay! I was, like, worried.” Ziggy crams his hands together and shoves this flesh lump between his still shaky legs.

  Calhoun coughs.

  “Are you . . . in a lot of pain?” Through Ziggy’s chills, etc., he’s beginning to feel the total, complicated pleasure of being alone with Calhoun, partially thanks to a faint, semisweet-smelling warmth that’s been specifically tuned to his best friend’s vicinity since heroin entered the picture.

  Calhoun clears his throat. “Nope.”

  “Oh, okay.” Ziggy’s mildly confused what that means. “That’s, uh . . . great.”