A Soft Barren Aftershock

by F. Paul Wilson

  “Should I inform the guest?”

  “What? And disturb his sleep?” Halpern waves a dismissive hand and strolls away. “Let the man be. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

  PERFORMANCE

  It’s the little things, always the little things that trip you up.

  But I’ve got to hand it to them, they’re sharp. The first two tails they put on me this run were males, both of whom I ditched within an hour of spotting them. Now they’ve sent a woman and she’s good. I don’t know how long she’s been on me, and that’s a bit worrisome.

  What has she seen?

  The little thing that gave her away is truly little: a lump on her chin. It sits there just left of midline, maybe half the size of an M&M sliced along its wide axis. I haven’t been close enough to figure out if it’s a mole or a pimple or a little cyst, and I don’t really care. Whatever it is I could kiss it. Probably saved my reputation.

  She can change her clothes, her hair, contacts, make-up, lipstick, bust, even her shape, every imaginable thing—and trust me, she has—but the lump remains. Yesterday morning I noticed a blond woman with a lump on her chin. It was in an Andrew’s Coffee Shop, one of the half dozen or so Andrews Coffee Shops I rotate through at random. (Yes, I like Andrews Coffee Shops; transform the damn city into Starbucksville if you must, but leave me my Andrew’s.) Nothing particularly noticeable about her beyond the lump, and nothing particularly noticeable about the lump itself except the way the light happened to hit it at that moment and cast a small shadow down her chin.

  By chance last night I happened to look up at dinner at a little bistro in the Flatiron district and spot this redhead sitting alone a few tables away by the window—I never sit by a window—reading a book. A redhead with a lump on her chin. Could be a coincidence, I told myself, but in my business a coincidence is cause for alarm. I wished I’d got a better look at the blonde that morning, but I was a blank. So I studied this woman’s reflection in the window and memorized everything I could about her, storing up for the next time—if there was to be a next time.

  There was. This morning I stopped at the dog run in Washington Square and watched the people watch their dogs. Pets are high on my Things-I-Don’t-Get list, right up there with sports columns and body piercing. She was a brunette this time; her nostril ring, shoe-polish-black hair and kohled eyes that made her leukemia makeup all the paler fit right in. But the lump on her chin spotlighted her for me.

  Three different wigs on three different looks in three different places, but one chin lump. The leitmotif of the lump, as it were. No question. I’d picked me up another tail.

  I’ve got mixed feelings about this. It’s good to know I’ve identified her, but now that I have, I’m on the spot. Performance anxiety, you might say. Now that I’ve made her, I’ve got to lose her.

  And here’s where the art of the ditch comes in. I can’t look like I’m losing her. I must play the naif and make it seem natural, like it’s her fault, her carelessness or lack of skill, rather than my doing. If I make an obvious attempt to ditch her, it means I’ve got something to hide. And then I lose, because the whole point of the tail is to determine just that.

  I take a leisurely stroll along Waverly to Sixth Avenue. I buy a Diet Pepsi from the pushcart there and casually check behind me. With a start I realize she’s not there. Could I have been wrong? No. Impossible.

  I stand on the curb, tilting my head back as I sip from the Pepsi can—an excellent cover for a surreptitious scan—and I spot her a block downtown to my left. The clever bitch. She paralleled me along Washington Place.

  Oh, she’s good. Very good.

  Time for the taxi dodge. This one works almost every time because it negates the skill of the tailer. Even the best of them are helpless when this works.

  I watch the uptown flow of cabs. It’s a sunny July day and they’re plentiful, flowing past in yellow schools, mostly empty and hungry for fares, but I’m patient. Finally I see my chance. A break in the traffic with one lonely cab bringing up the rear. Not another for blocks behind him. He’s cruising the center fire lane like a lemon shark, ready to dart left or right should a meal appear. I step off the curb and flag him down: Hello, lunch here.

  He swerves to a stop in front of me and I hop in.

  “Fourteenth and Third,” I tell him. “And hurry. I’m late.”

  As he puts his foot in the tank and we gun away, I remove a small palm-size mirror from my pocket and angle it so I can watch through the rear window. I see Ms. Tail lunge into the street and start waving her arms in frantic search of a cab of her own. No such luck, my dear.

  I settle back and sigh. Too easy.

  I have the cab turn uptown on Third and drop me off in Kips Bay. I walk over to the theater on Second and spend two hours semi-snoozing through Mamet’s latest. Nothing like really disappearing from the street as a coup de grace.

  When I get out I’m hungry so I look around and spot a Burger King sign a few blocks down. I don’t like most fast food, but I have this fondness for Whoppers. Maybe it’s the mayo, or maybe the onions. Whatever, I indulge in three or four a week.

  I buy my Whopper and a diet cola—yes, I’m well aware how ludicrous that is—and seat myself at a single table at the very rear of the store. I’m on my second bite when I see this slim blonde in a Sugar Ray T-shirt dump her trash in the bin and go back to the counter.

  I freeze for an instant when I spot the lump on her chin, then I force myself to keep chewing.

  Somehow she followed me to Kips Bay. She must have caught a lucky break back there in the Village—a cab must have pulled out of a side street and picked her up. Either that or she has motorized backup. They wouldn’t issue her that unless I’ve given myself away, and I haven’t. But that’s not what’s making my Whopper taste like wet cardboard.

  She was here before me. She knew I’d come in here.

  Wait. No. She didn’t know I’d come in here, but she’s done her homework and assumed I’d opt for a Whopper when I came out of the theater. She gambled.

  And she won.

  Now I’m impressed. Truly impressed. This is one gutsy lady.

  I think I’m in love.

  With the challenge, that is. It’s going to be difficult to ditch this one, but not impossible. I know I’ll win. I am the maestro here. I shall confound, confuse, baffle, and bewilder her; I’ll dazzle her with my footwork, just as I’ve done with so many other tails. It’s simply going to take a little more effort.

  With this new game afoot, my taste buds revive. I finish the Whopper, then take my leave and stroll over to Penn Station, stopping at a Duane Reade along the way to buy some sunscreen. At the station I catch a train to Flushing Meadow. The Mets are playing today—I heard it on the radio this morning—and I’m going to test Ms. Tail’s mettle. Everyone’s got a weakness, a tender spot. I am going to find hers.

  While aboard the train I carefully but surreptitiously check my clothing for a tracer, just in case she’s taking unfair advantage. After a thorough search, going so far as partially disrobing in the bathroom, I’m satisfied we’re on a level playing field.

  Excellent. I did not want to think less of her.

  Shea Stadium is not quite quarter full. I seat myself in the super-sun section of the bleachers and unfold the prize I picked up in the concession area. It’s one of those goofy umbrella hats you tend to see on a certain class of Manhattan tourist—the kind who arrive in an Airstream and wander around wearing yellow Bermuda shorts with gray knee socks and brown sandals. But it’s practical, it’s portable shade, it’s done up in Mets blue and orange, and should send an unmistakable signal to Ms. Tail that I am an artist and as such allowed to play with fewer than fifty-two in my deck.

  I am immediately glad for the sunblock and umbrella hat. Shea is a Godzilla wok today, waiting for the big guy to trundle by and spray us with peanut oil. Ms. Tail is six rows back and to my left. I use my palm mirror to see how she’s handling the heat. Somewhere along the
way she shifted back to brunette, and to my great chagrin she’s got her blouse off revealing one of those gray exercise bras. Obviously she works out; her muscles are well-developed and close to the skin. She’s thrown her head back and I just know her eyes are closed behind her Ray-Bans.

  The bitch is sunbathing! On my time!

  And now I have an epiphany: She knows she’s been made, and she knows I’ve already tried to ditch her—which means she knows I’m on a run. Yet she hasn’t called for backup as she’s supposed to.

  Why not?

  I can think of only one reason.

  She wants to take me down single-handed. She knows deliveries are time sensitive and she intends either to witness my drop, or to keep me from it, all without backup.

  Not only will I be beaten, I will be humiliated.

  That does it. I’m outta here. Besides, I’m suffering from major league longueurs anyway. I hate baseball.

  As I make my way back to the train station I don’t check to see if she’s following. Why bother? She’s superbly trained and ready for anything. Or so she thinks. Now that we’re aware of each other, I have carte blanche to use every trick I know to lose her. And I know plenty. I can lose her. But simple evasion will not be enough.

  I must break this woman.

  And to do that I must engage her on a more visceral level. She’s got a weak spot. Everybody does. I’ve simply got to find hers.

  Back in the city, I stroll over to Eighth Avenue. Some of the cheesier businesses that used to rent in midtown have migrated to the Thirties. I see a porn shop and I’m tempted to make her follow me inside, but that’s too transparent. Beneath me, really.

  But here’s something: calls itself an “Oddity Emporium.” Reminds me of the old “Ripley’s Believe It Or Not” arcade I used to see on Times Square in the pre-Disneyfication days. I buy my ticket and enter.

  Dingy inside. I wander past booths with stuffed two-headed cows, wax models of the Elephant Man, the Lobster Boy, and then a dramatically lit display of deformed fetuses floating in jars of preservative. The old carny folk used to call them “pickled punks.” These may be real or may be latex, but whatever they are they’re not pretty.

  I check my little palm mirror and notice she hasn’t bothered to change her shirt or her hair. Another slap in the—

  Whoa. Aperçu. What’s this expression I catch on our girl? Could that be disgust? Revulsion?

  I think so. In fact, I’m sure.

  Well, well, well. I’ve learned something valuable here. This arrogant little puss has got a squeamish side. Let’s see how we can exploit this.

  After drawing out my stay in the Oddity Emporium to a full hour, I leave and wander over to Bryant Park. I pick up the Voice and the pink-sheeted New York Observer along the way and spend the rest of the afternoon perusing them.

  By dinnertime I have my plan, and I’m amazed at my luck. The timing is so perfect it’s almost as if this confrontation were preordained. I am all but consumed with anticipation. I make a point of eating at a Korean restaurant in Chelsea that is utterly unrestrained in its use of peppers and garlic, which only stokes my fires. I don’t know what it does to Ms. Tail’s stomach but I hope nothing good. I am fairly aflame when I leave and head for SoHo.

  The cab drops me off at the theater. At least it calls itself a theater. From out here it’s a dark green doorway. Its marquee is a hand-printed poster:

  TONIGHT ONLY

  THE ANNUAL

  KAREN PIEDMONT

  PERFORMANCE

  8 PM

  I make my way in, hoping something hasn’t gone awry and I’ve missed it. I’ve heard about Karen Piedmont—who hasn’t? She’s long been the succès de scandale of the art world, even in New York. But this is the first time I’ve ever had a yen to see her act.

  I enter the tiny theater, little more than a black box, really. Ms. Piedmont, a very pregnant brunette who looks to be in her mid-thirties, is wearing a delicate headset microphone and nothing else. She lies on her back, propped up on a center-stage hospital bed. Her right side is toward me; her swollen breasts and distended belly stretch toward the projection screen dangling above her. An IV of some clear solution runs into her left arm, wires run from her belly to a black box under the bed.

  I look around for a seat. Maybe fifty folding chairs, most of them occupied, are arrayed before the tiny stage. Ms. Tail arrives as I find one in the last row. I hide a grin. She has to sit three rows ahead of me. Now I’ll be watching her. Irony can be so sweet.

  Good timing. Ms. Piedmont’s obstetrician has induced labor and is leaving the stage for a front row seat. The lights go down and all is dark except for the naked Ms. Piedmont, spotlighted on her bed, her skin as pale the sheets. If not for her dark hair and stretch marks she’d seem a part of the bed. The projection screen lights but I see no image, only a fine black line crawling across the bottom.

  “Welcome everyone,” she says. “This is my fifth annual performance and exhibition. Those of you who’ve attended in the past know the routine. You newcomers should realize that, as I am only partially in control here, patience can be a very necessary virtue with my performance. I—”

  She breaks off and grimaces—and I notice the line begin to curve upward on the screen—then she smiles.

  “Well, well. Looks like we’ve got one coming already. I’ll start with something simple, just to get my chops back. This isn’t the kind of thing you can practice between performances, you know.”

  Appreciative laughter from the audience, especially the females. I glance at Ms. Tail and I can make out her face in the wash of light from stage and screen. She’s not smiling.

  “Here we go,” Ms. Piedmont says. “Mount Fuji.”

  The line on the screen—I see now it’s a projection of the contraction monitor wired to her belly—crawls up a gentle slope, flattens briefly, then begins its descent in a mirror image of the upslope.

  As it flattens to the baseline, we applaud.

  “Please,” the artist says. “That’s really nothing.”

  She talks about the genesis of contraction art, how she noticed the patterns on the monitor during her first labor and found she could alter their configuration by controlling her breathing and musculature. She refined her art through two subsequent pregnancies, then went public with her fourth.

  Another contraction starts.

  “Whoa!” she says. “So soon. And this feels like a big one. Okay! See who’s first to recognize this.”

  As she starts panting, my eyes are glued to the screen. The diagonal course of the line takes an abrupt upward turn and runs almost vertical for a foot or so on the screen, then falls, angling back to the horizontal, then up again. It’s beginning to look like a flight of foot-high steps, but I say nothing.

  A woman calls out, “Staircase!” and I’m glad I held back when Ms. Piedmont says, “Nope.”

  The pattern flattens out on top for a couple of feet, then begins stepping down.

  “A Mayan pyramid!” someone else shouts, and Ms. Piedmont says, “Give that man a round of applause.”

  But the applause that fills the impromptu theater is for her and her alone. I watch how Ms. Tail claps—utterly without enthusiasm. In fact, she looks a little ill.

  Ms. Piedmont talks now of how to date she’s the only practitioner of contraction art and of how she hopes someday to open a school to teach the principles and technique.

  Another contraction begins and someone, a man, calls out, “Care to try the Seattle Needle?” to which she good-naturedly replies, “Care to try to fuck yourself?”

  I watch agog as she limns the Taj Mahal.

  I am amazed, I am overwhelmed. This is not some exhibitionist épater-les-bourgeois poseur prattling aphorisms as she smears herself with paint or chocolate or a less pleasant substance. This is a woman who truly has succeeded in living her art, an art that is uniquely hers, purely autotelic, and truly of the moment.

  But Ms. Tail looks more appalled than transported.


  I hear a moan from Ms. Piedmont. Even here in the last row I am close enough to see the perspiration beading her pain-wracked face. The sound of her panting fills the air as we watch the contraction line zip up and down the screen, soaring vertically, crawling horizontally, creating peaks, plateaus, valleys, ledges, crevices, her breaths crescendoing into rapid whimpers. Her knees have lifted and her legs are spread as she finishes with an iconic phallic shape.

  “The Empire State Building?” someone murmurs, then shouts, “That’s the New York skyline!”

  Yes, it is. Unquestionably. I leap to my feet, slamming my hands together, leading the applause that fills the room, but a wail from the artist cuts us off.

  Breathless I watch the obstetrician hurry from the front row. More amplified moans and whimpers among the harsh staccato breaths, and then another sound, the high-pitched wail of a newborn infant.

  The obstetrician places the squalling baby on his mother’s abdomen. Ms. Piedmont holds the bloody, glistening child aloft.

  “I’m sorry labor was so short this time,” she says. “Thank you for sharing this with me.”

  With the notable exception of Ms. Tail we are all on our feet, applauding, cheering. My throat is tight, my eyes are full. I am galvanized. I am inspired to raise forever the level of my own performance or die trying.

  A stagehand wheels out a curtain rack to shield mother and child, signaling the end of the performance. As people begin to shuffle toward the exit, I drop into a squat and fumble with a shoelace, pretending to tie it. I linger there a few seconds, then straighten. As I rise I catch the panic flickering across Ms. Tail’s wan and worn features.

  Gotcha! For a heartbeat or two you thought you’d lost me, didn’t you.