“Okay,” she replied, completely awake. Her dark sleepy eyes opened and focused on me, and she smiled as she reached down and grabbed my penis.
We had a long, slow, intense fuck with hair-pulling and screaming, me trying to pierce all the way through her and she seeming to want that as well. I felt half dead but exalted, having had no sleep at all, and something like twelve hours of semi-continuous screwing. Finally, I lay unmoving on top of her, still inside her, and she toyed with my hair and with a loose flap of skin on my shoulder, kissing me and sucking on my lower lip.
Abruptly, she shook me off. “Shit! You’re going to be late. You’ve already missed your bus.” She sat up in bed and agitatedly smoothed her hair down.
I sighed and looked at the clock. I heard, below on the street, the bus that I took to work rumbling by, and a second later I smelled its exhaust. “Fuck work,” I said, turning over and burying my face in the pillow.
“What do you mean, fuck work?”
“I mean, you don’t have to work today. I don’t want to go to work. I want to stay home with you. I have sick days.” I rolled over and grabbed the telephone receiver and winked at her.
“Link-Up; this is Trace.”
“Trace, it’s Squire. I’m not going to be able to come to work today.”
“Oh, really?”
“No, I’m sick. I picked something up this weekend.”
“What, the clap? Or the convenient 24-hour stomach flu.”
“I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s heatstroke. My head’s killing me. I can bring you a note from my doctor, if you need some kind of proof—or maybe I should just in and puke all over my phone.”
“There’s no need to get smart with me, Mr. Squire. You’ve got sick days coming to you. All I have to say is that when they run out, you’re gonna wish you still had them. For when you’re really sick.” He hung up.
I hung up. “Asshole . . .”
“What’s the matter?” Lise asked, lighting a cigarette. She looked gorgeous and perfect, and not just because she was topless and in bed with me.
“Nothing. The deed is done; I’m off. You wanna go back to sleep?”
“Yeah . . . I wasn’t ready to get up in the first place, but then, you and your lunging advances . . .” She laughed and snuggled down closer to me.
I took the cigarette from her, had a drag from it, and dropped the butt into one of the empty beer bottles on the floor. “It’s not safe to smoke in bed,” I said.
Lise smiled. “Okay, Woodsy Squire. Only you can prevent forest fires.”
“I’m trying to save your life. I don’t want to live without you.”
It was the corniest thing I had ever said, but it was both true and utterly spontaneous. And she didn’t mock me for it, either. Instead, she kissed me. We put our arms around each other and lay quiet, listening to the traffic outside. “I know you won’t believe me, but you’re a really great fuck,” Lise said.
“You’re right; I don’t believe you.”
“I always had a feeling you would be, as long as you gave a damn.”
I squeezed her hand. “Thanks. I’ve done my homework.”
“You wanna know when I fell in love with you?” she asked.
“When?” I responded. For some reason, though she’d used the illegal four-letter word, it seemed totally natural, as natural as it had been for me to write it in my journal. Of course she loved me. I loved her.
“When you brought the first issue of your comic in to be photocopied. You were so happy. And beautiful. I couldn’t believe I’d never really noticed that before. And it was such a good comic. That story about the little doggy who’s trying to quit smack, and his girlfriend leaves him? I swear to God, that broke my heart.”
That was years ago. Absurd. As absurd as being called beautiful; hideous me. But I accepted it; in that moment, everything was possible. I smiled and rested my forehead against hers. I rubbed my thumb across her nipple, just to feel her shudder lightly against me. “You know when I fell in love with you, Lise?” I said.
“No; when?”
“This last Fourth of July—when we were watching fireworks.”
She laughed. “Oh, man, I was tripping balls.”
“We all were. But you just got this look of utter joy on your face—like you were on the side of everything that’s good, and against everything that’s bad. I watched the fireworks reflected in your eyes.”
“Oh, Squire, that’s lovely.”
“It’s true,” I mumbled, embarrassed all over again. “I mean, I loved you before—I’ve loved you since pretty much the day I met you—but that’s when I really fell in love.”
“If we’ve been in love with each other so long,” she sighed, “what took us so long?”
“Well, you were going out with other guys, and then I was seeing Amanda, and then . . .” I shrugged. “I don’t know. We’re idiots.”
She hugged me against the softness of her breasts. “Yep,” she sighed. “We’re idiots. I’m glad you’re here now, though. I guess everything happens for a reason.”
6 September, late
Lemme get lyrical here for a second. I pity the rest of the world for not being able to have this right now—a backlog of pleasant remembrances of the way it was before, those royal long afternoons smoking pot and cigarettes, deeply ensconced in the vulva of the futon couch in Lise’s living room, simply happy to be sitting with my best friend watching Mars Needs Women over and over again. And now, to be here, on that self-same futon only folded out into a bed, with this glorious person, marvelous Lise, my best friend and my lover. The rest of the world. They don’t know.
Later . . .
What a grand day.
I mean really, does it actually get better than this? I sketched, napped, smoked, ate crab cakes, cucumbers with sour cream, and watermelon; I went for a walk around the block while it was still cool outside; I spent the hot part of the day asleep, waking up only long enough to take a sip of ice water and kiss Lise, lying half-conscious next to me. Spent the evening in a cool bath together, eating more watermelon and taking shots of vodka.
Lise looked at me all day with adoring eyes. I’ve seen her look at other things like this —mainly kittens. Her eyes are very large and very dark. Her mother was Greek and you can really tell sometimes—her mother is Greek, I should say. She still is. I always think of Lise’s mother as being dead, but she’s far from it—she just might as well be dead, she’s so far away and has been for the entire time I’ve known Lise. Lise’s dad is far away too. She never hears from her mother, and her father only communicates every once in a while. No wonder she latched onto my mother. My mother’s enough Mom for two whole kids.
Lise is actually on the phone with Mom right now, telling her all about it. It makes me feel kind of squirmy—Lise isn’t going into gory detail, but it’s creepy for me to know that my mother even knows I’ve had sex even once. Lise is grinning at me, naked except for a chain around her neck with an eye of Horus pendant dangling right between her breasts. A thin, artistic line of dark hair runs from her navel over her rounded belly into the dark and curly crevasse of her pubes. It’s like something out of Degas. I will never sleep with a blonde woman ever again. No, it’s Van Gogh I’m thinking of. The sketches of whores. Toulouse-Lautrec. Gaugin?
. . .
I just got off the phone. Mom wanted to talk to me. She told me that she’s very happy for us, and that I have to remember to be responsible and generous. “Those are the important points of lovemaking,” she went on, like she wrote the book. “Be responsible, be generous, and relax. Above all relax.” Maybe she didn’t know that I’d ever had sex before. I mean, how could you have not known about Amanda and me? I thought it was incredibly obvious—I had a perpetual erection around her for one thing, I only went to class when she blew me off, etc. She really did let me come in her mouth once. I couldn’t believe her. I guess it was kind of erotic, but mostly it was just shocking—like watching someone drink blood. I thi
nk I only had actual fuck sex with Amanda three times—I came too soon about five times and eventually she got sick of it and gave me a very nasty, very public chewing-out about what a loser I was. I don’t know, maybe ten people heard it, but in a relatively short time everyone in Bellingham knew that I was a premature ejaculator—everyone, apparently, except my mother.
Fortunately I am no longer a premature ejaculator thanks to constant and grueling work controlling my tantric urges. I simply redirect the energy through my cranium and it very nicely finds its way back to where it’s supposed to be by the time it’s due there. Like the lady says, everything happens for a reason.
After Lise and I got together, it became hard as hell to concentrate on anything else. I showed up at work hung over, still stoned from the night before, my dick sore from being prodded, yanked, and sucked all night, my hands cramped from grabbing and caressing every part of her I could reach. It physically hurt to sit in my ergonomically incorrect chair, eyes closed against the bluish glare of the huge monitor screen. I spent support calls in a half-reclining position, hand up my shirt, gently rubbing my nipples, directing customer after hapless customer through Winsock conflicts, bad system folders, web browser installations, and power-cycling printers. Once I came to at the end of a call to find Randy, Dave, and Beth staring at me like they were at a peep show.
My monitor was dripping with caricatures of Trace now; fifteen of them, lined up and arranged, meticulous, shading from the crude to the exquisite as you went from left to right, counterclockwise. I tucked some of the best of them into the diary; they genuinely are pretty good. I didn’t want the sketches to be stolen when I wasn’t there, which happened to the Dracula sketch; taken by whom, I never knew. Yet I didn’t take them down. They were some of the finest artwork I’d done since I got out of school.
Each of my cigarette breaks tended to last for a half hour. I just didn’t care anymore.
Moll. “Why are you acting like this, Squire? I mean, do you want the unemployment that bad? Not that you could get unemployment; you’ve got another job already.”
Thomas. “Dude, this is amazing. But . . . Trace is gonna get you. I mean, this is libel, or treason, or something like that.”
Dave. “Can you make me another drawing of Tank Girl?”
Beth. “Squire, please get back to work.”
Juba: It’s too hot to wear clothes. Arachne and I drink lemonade all day long and yesterday we went to the water slides and some boy tore my bottoms off. I mean jesus christ he could have asked. Arachne’s boyfriend wants to see our pictures, even though we told him that we only do it for you and no-one else. We trust you. We’ve read your comics. We know what kind of person you are.
I actually got laid too—nothing so nice as what you’ve had. Lise sounds so wonderful. And I’m glad she doesn’t shave; I admire that, and it’s rad that you think it’s sexy. I went to a party thrown by the rival high school, whose summer school baseball team just beat ours—like wow—and I got pretty drunk and fucked the valedictorian of the senior class. His name is Rick. His wanger is really small and he chewed on my lips until I felt like puking. We used protection, of course (just to reassure you! That seems to be all people care about nowadays—no “Did you enjoy yourself? Do you feel any different?” No it’s “Are you going to die now?” whatever) but I didn’t get wet until he was already done. He wanted to see me again but I told him no. I can’t imagine going out for frozen yogurt with this guy when all I can think of is the way his butt smelled. You’d think—the guy has a 4.0 GPA—he could at least wipe his ass! . . . but never mind. It’ll get better. I can’t wait until I find someone truly sexually mature.
“If a double-decker bus kills the both of us,
to die by your side is such a heavenly way to die.”
19 September, middle of the night
Fuck if I know what time it is. Past midnight. I’m at the art table at the studio at Squirrell in Portland on the planet Earth on one end of a spiral arm in the Milky Way Galaxy, all of that macro-existence reduced to a circle of white in an ocean of black, silence except for the rare sound of cars on the street outside. I let the tape player lapse because I was drawing straight lines and I couldn’t stop even for a second, then I forgot that my world wasn’t always silence. I just put on Mysterio and Ian McCulloch is wondering aloud if it’s really such a magical world. Of course, the answer is no. That’s the whole reason why I do comics. I see magic happen, and it slips through my fingers, but sometimes I can almost capture it on the page. Take Lise this morning for example—she leapt, flew, down the front steps, legs held out in a crazy ballet pose, something she shouldn’t be able to do. But she did. And it was breathtaking. A grande jeté in combat boots. I want to freeze moments like this in life, the way I can in a panel. Sneakers aloft. Hair in perfect golden-tipped spikes, as distinct as weapons. Her dark eyes lifted heavenwards, her throat hurling forth a deep sweet note. “La!” On the bus stop she confessed that she’d had a little too much coffee, and that she was still high on the orgasm she’d had last night. Why can’t I keep this moment? Not in my memories; I mean really keep it? Can I freeze time at these moments and treasure them until they lose their meaning, then move on to the next?
No, that’s crazy talk. I need to get my head together and get back to this panel before I ruin it. I didn’t even script this; I’m just drawing it, straight out of my head. Cabby stands with feet modestly turned together, gazes heavenward, curls and fumes of smoke or tripping-trails swirling around him, foaming into liquid waves at his feet. At his mouth is a small word bubble; in the bubble is infinitesimal lettering.
“I understand”
“Squire, remember, your review’s at three today, so I’ll take your calls,” said Beth as I dragged my sorry self into work on the twentieth.
“. . . What? Oh—shit!” I was wearing one of Lise’s stripy T-shirts, a bit stretched out in the chest, and the usual jeans, which were dirty. My gray sneakers now had a hole in the rubber toe. “Oh, no. Oh, great. This is just great.”
“You had three weeks’ notice to prepare for this,” Beth snapped impatiently. “It’s too late to stress about it now. Besides, you should know how it’s going to go.”
“Do I?” I sighed. “Do I, now?” I put my face in my hands.
19 September, 10:12 a.m.
Shit. Review today after lunch. And I look like a skank and I probably smell like pussy. Wouldn’t it be nice if the smell of my sexual prowess would intimidate the freaky ass morons who run this world and they’d get out of my way and let me and my lady live our lives?
Maybe I can have a massive stroke before three.
1:15 p.m.
At the bar. I ordered a Long Island iced tea and a side of chips and guac. I’m feeling a little more clearheaded as I eat, drink, and smoke. Sheeezuz Christ. I was literally shaking all morning and I just sat on the phone, pretending to take calls when I was actually just listening to hold music and nodding and saying “uh huh” whenever Beth or anybody else in charge walked by.
I hate life sometimes. I really do. This is ruining a perfectly good day. It’s not too hot, I got a little sleep, we had a lovely shag first thing in the morning AND I got to work on time, my hair actually looks kind of good (I washed it, conditioned it, and then Lise dragged me down into bed before it was dry—so I’ve got perfect fashionable bed-head) and . . . oh, who am I kidding. I should finish my grub and get back up there. I think I want to have a wank first—it should relax me a little bit, maybe help me keep my head together against the slings and arrows I’m bound to face. Uuuughghghgbllfth.
4:14 p.m.
In the bathroom. Shaking all over. I wish I was a girl, so I could cry and feel justified. Maybe I should take a Robert Bly course so that I could reclaim my inner wimp and burst into fat, cleansing tears on a moment’s notice. I weep, but it just comes out as thin, bitter tears that smell like tobacco smoke.
I know Trace knows I’m in here, and I just don’t care anymo
re. Let the Nazis come into my attic and whisk me away to their ovens and their experimentation tables; I give up. I want to go home and . . . but where is that? Is Lise’s place my home now? Or is it the room in Mom’s Bellingham apartment above the bookstore? Or that shitty, tiny back bedroom in the duplex in Ballard, or something before that? Have I got anything in this world? Have I ever?
Of course I do. I have this journal. I have the hands to write with, and the pen, and the ink, and the propellant thoughts. That is all I can ever count on. Well, there’s Lise. She’s just downstairs. I want to sneak out the window and climb down over the bricks and snatch her away from Pronto and then we’ll go sit on the concrete steps in the warehouse district and smoke and she’ll smile at me and tell me I’m pretty. I’m sure I’m not very pretty right now.
Fuck this whole situation. I don’t know how I’m going to get through three more hours of this idiotic charade, “performing” a task that I hate, for people with whom my mutual loathing runs deep. I just want to flee.
When I went back to my desk everyone became silent. I sank mechanically down into my chair, slid my headset on, and took the next incoming call, making no attempt to speak in any way than a dead monotone. It was preferable to screaming, or sobbing, or spitting, or grabbing my headset, and my phone, and my computer, and hurling them eleven stories down onto the street below. I imagined that action in great detail, and it played in a loop in my mind for the rest of the day.
That night, Lise and I lay together in the grass in the cemetery. It was a moonless night and we both wore all black, so that we couldn’t be seen. Lise hugged me tighter still. “I’m sorry, baby,” she said again. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
“No—I mean—I’m fine now.” The tears had run out. I was empty. A dead, empty void, lacking anger, will, malice, fear, or concern. A perfect employee.
Mixtape for the Apocalypse Page 8