Badbadbad

by Jesus Angel Garcia

  “Taser,” she said.

  “I’ll zap you soon enough, player.”

  “Bah, you love it.”

  “Love may be an overstatement.”

  “Isn’t it always?”

  “Hey,” I said, “I thought you were an idealist, a giver upper, freedom fighter.” She declined to elaborate.

  We made a date for the following weekend. She had some video she wanted to share. I suggested we make a movie of our own on my new cell. “It’s got a memory that won’t quit.”

  “Like the Almighty?”

  “An almighty elephant,” I said. “Have you heard the one about the elephant and the rhino?” She hadn’t, so I told her.

  “The world is a beautiful place,” she said.

  The world is a beautiful place.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The next two weeks that led to where I now find myself were a blur. It’s not that I don’t remember. But reading over the notes from my communications spreadsheet feels like eavesdropping on a stranger’s life: a restless young man, a web of phantoms, no exit, no God, a trail of zeroes and ones.

  Sunday morning after church I phoned Remedios. Computer-generated voicemail: leave a mes-sage af-ter the beep. I did.

  In the afternoon I met CondeeCandee at the Marriott as planned. I paid. We played late into the evening with her Riding Hood treats. She squirted like a garden hose then asked to spend the night alone. I honored her request.

  At home afterwards I browsed fallenangels under the additional identifier Uknowme. Lots of random chats. No connects.

  Monday around noon I trucked to the phone shop to set up my new cell, after which I sent Remedios a jpeg of the sky. At home I messaged happyhappy and Remedios.

  In the evening I phoned Remedios. Voicemail. I left another message. I phoned Kaddisha. Voicemail. Message.

  The rest of the night I surfed OVA for war games, war crimes, nuclear sunsets. I wanted to check in on you, little brother, but I still couldn’t summon the courage.

  Tuesday morning happyhappy proposed a preliminary meeting on Thursday. I messaged her a confirmation.

  Later in the day I phoned Remedios. Voicemail. Message. I phoned watch_me_now. Voicemail. Message. I texted Joy to set up a tech tutorial for next week.

  At night I phoned Remedios again. Voicemail. I hung up before the beep then browsed fallenangels for hours under the additional identifier wing_and_prayer. Random shout-outs. A few chats. No connects.

  By Wednesday afternoon when I dragged myself out of bed I found my inbox jammed with calls for my attention. Watch_me_now pitched salsa this weekend. Ticktockclock wrote: “Yo I’m in heat!” Happyhappy confirmed for tomorrow. I checked voicemail and there was Joy, good to go for us meeting up a week from today.

  In the evening CondeeCandee texted: “Friday night fun???” I ignored her to chat with Remedios who said she hadn’t returned my voicemails because she couldn’t find her cell. I asked her to come see me or I could go to her. She didn’t say yes or no. I was growing impatient with the limits of the technology or the girl or both.

  The next afternoon I phoned watch_me_now to confirm our salsa date. Voicemail. Message. I phoned Kaddisha. Voicemail. Message. Then I gave CondeeCandee the green light for tomorrow night.

  In the evening she texted: “Yes yes yes!!!” I sent Remedios a jpeg of a white-petaled flower with violet streaks and a sunny center. Then I met up with happyhappy on webcam. The e-interface was her idea after I told her I was uncomfortable getting together in person.

  The lighting on her end was dim. I could only tell how she seemed rather tall for a girl, her limbs long and thin, though it could have been the camera angle. She wore a weathered cowboy hat, supersize sunglasses, your basic black T-shirt and jeans. The walls behind her were plastered with drawings or paintings. “You’re an artist,” I said.

  “I’ve taken some classes,” she said. “You?”

  “I’m mostly into music.”

  “You play?”

  “I listen,” I said, “download like a fiend.” I couldn’t quite make out the sounds coming from her stereo, just loud enough to conceal the tone of her voice without obscuring her words.

  “Ah,” she said.

  “Yeah.”

  “So.”

  The music filled the space between our single syllables.

  “Sure you got the balls for this?” She stood tall now, hands on her hips, a dark angel.

  “Sure this is what you need?” I was sitting at my desk, my face shadowed, voice muffled with a black bandana.

  “We’ve tread this ground,” she said. “You’re either down or you’re a clown.”

  “You rap.”

  “Not rapping.”

  “Oh. Funny.”

  “This is no joke.”

  I had hoped to change her mind but she was determined to have her way.

  “It’s show time,” she said at last. “Are you man enough to give this woman what she needs?”

  Man enough? I didn’t think that was the issue. “Hurt you to heal you.”

  “I’ll sign whatever disclaimers you require.” She wagged some papers at the camera.

  “We don’t need the law,” I said.

  She tossed the papers to the floor.

  While it was hard to tell from the limited light, her hands now seemed to be clasped across her chest. Could I be the answer to her prayers? Was this my chance to finally, genuinely, be of service? It would be right for me to give her what she says she needs, but could she even live again after being dead for so long?

  She told me her address and we set the date: after midnight, the first Tuesday of November, Election Day night, a time for new beginnings.

  The next morning I phoned Cyrus. I’d barely slept, I couldn’t eat. The sores on my tongue had abscessed and spread to my gums. I had to talk to someone. Voicemail. My message: “I need to talk, Cy. No foolin.”

  Remedios messaged me: “Thank you for the flower!” A note from ticktockclock: “WTF???!!!” Kaddisha texted: “come.” I wrote back: “soon sorry.”

  CondeeCandee. The Marriott. Once again I paid. This time she acted ten times the queen from before. I would play the manservant, bearer of the Wee Willy, the Master and the Dragon. She made me soak them with my spit. Again she asked to sleep alone. I left with cotton mouth.

  Back home I texted ticktockclock: “c u tomorrow.” I messaged Lil_Girl: “daddy’s been working haaaaard . . .” Then I surfed OVA (skatepunk classics, Scandinavian metal) and browsed fallenangels as Uknowme until dawn. Random chats. No connects.

  Saturday afternoon I phoned Remedios. Voicemail. Message. I phoned Kaddisha. Voicemail. Message.

  I saw ticktockclock but couldn’t give her what she wanted. This had never happened before, I swear, bro. I’m not even thirty.

  I lifted her stash, bolted while she was wiping her ass, turned off my cell. Never again, I told myself. Never ever again.

  Sunday after services I waved to the Reverend and Good Charlotte from my truck. They were on the First Church steps, shaking down parishioners for eleventh-hour PACC donations. Gunning the engine, I pointed at my watch and mouthed, “Sor-ry.” I’d barely slept again last night. They didn’t need to know.

  Back home I chatted with Remedios. She asked to spend the night at my place next weekend. I’d need a serious makeover before greeting her at my door, but I had time, I’d sleep tonight I would, I told myself I had to.

  A note from watch_me_now apologized for the “bait ‘n’ poof.” She blamed her flaking out on family, begged for another chance. She told me to call, dropped her latest windows of availability.

  In the evening I cleaned up the best I could, took Kaddisha out to Spirit Lake. We sat in the truck, listening to tunes, talking for hours. This girl was hardcore.

  She told me how her father was a law professor in Guatemala at the height of the civil war in 1984. “For my dad,” she said, “the Orwellian nightmare was no literary construct.” We held hands as she described his col
leagues and neighbors, seized from their beds, never seen again, or found weeks later, half-buried in abandoned fields, skulls bashed in, fingers chopped off to conceal identities.

  As she talked her breath quickened and her voice rose in pitch. It seemed to me the violence excited her. She would narrow her thick dark eyebrows like a Green Beret about to go hand-to-hand. That’s what did it for me.

  I snuggled up close, burrowing into her black hair, scented with opium incense. “Your Hollywood president supported the fascists,” she said, “‘to combat the Cold War.’ But church leaders and human-rights litigators here fought for justice.”

  “Now I know you,” I said, nipping at her ear. “Ms. Lemonáde: Crusader for Just Desserts.” I licked her open palm.

  “They succeeded in my dad’s case,” she said, snubbing my stab at lightening the mood. “He was one of the ‘lucky three percent’ granted political asylum. But thousands upon thousands of equally deserving others were turned back at the borders. Equal rights my ass.”

  Kaddisha was her father’s daughter. Politics made her hot. She ran her mouth all night about her studies, ambitions, personal conspiracy theories. By the end of the first half-hour my attention had faded. I felt like I was being talked at, rather than to, or with. Then my head began to hurt from the info overkill, which left little room for touching, not one kiss on the lips.

  Keyed up back home I turned to fallenangels, browsing as Uknowme until I could close my eyes. I sent some messages, invites to chat. None were returned. I pored through DEAR DIARIES but still felt alone.

  I woke up dead the next afternoon. When I turned on my phone it screamed at me with dozens of abusive texts, all from ticktockclock, threatening to smear my name on fallenangels. I erased her from the web site.

  Cold shower then a note to Remedios with a jpeg of my neatly made bed. A text to Kaddisha: “u r a smart cookie.” She texted me back: “ur an AMAZING listener. sure ur not a girl?” I wrote she could find out for herself.

  In the evening I caught up with Remedios online. We shared the night together.

  The next day CondeeCandee messaged her request for a “hump day bump” tomorrow. I didn’t respond right away. A note from Lil_Girl made me sick to my stomach. It began: “Daddy dearest, tell me what to do.” I won’t say how it ended. Why had I contacted her? I didn’t want to think about it. I axed her from the web site.

  In the evening I phoned watch_me_now, per her window. Voicemail. Message. A text from Kaddisha proposed a Saturday date. I texted her right back: “Friday?” No response. Then I received a message from Remedios: “saturday saturday saturday!!!”

  At night I browsed fallenangels under the additional identifier rawkstar. Random chats. No connects.

  Wednesday afternoon I asked CondeeCandee if we could do tomorrow instead of tonight. Kaddisha texted me: “late sunday. no excuses. show me ur a man.” I texted her back: “si si si muchacha hermosa.”

  A note from watch_me_now read: “Friday night salsa caliente for real.” I left her a thumbs-up voicemail. When I didn’t hear from her after a few hours I texted: “Friday for real?” No response.

  I phoned Cyrus. My best friend still hadn’t returned my call from last week. There was a knock at the door as his voicemail picked up: Ten years ago . . . on a cold dark— Click. “We missed you the other night,” I said, waving Joy into my apartment. “Helluva show.”

  “So I heard,” she said, tossing her worn cowboy hat onto the arm of the sofa. She trailed me into the kitchen where I set us up some drinks. She looked so much like Cyrus in her black T-shirt and jeans. “You and angelboy makin trouble, drinkin and druggin till the cat comes home.”

  I hid my eyes with one hand, meowed, offered her an icy glass with the other. “And you, preacher’s daughter?” I almost said y tu.

  “Oh no.” She shook her head as we moved into the living room, settling on the sofa. “I’m a good girl. You know I studied at Bliss U.” When she said the school was sick with spineless hypocrites, I told her she didn’t need them, she was a genius. “Smarty pants in the house,” she toasted, gulping, grimacing. She explained how it was true that she can calculate with a fair degree of accuracy the most likely consequences of any action before she takes it, so she knows where she stands in advance.

  “So you do the right thing.”

  “Right for me, yeah, I think so,” she said. “Barring the wild card of chance.”

  “God’s hands.”

  “Precisely,” she said.

  “They must be big hands.” I set my glass on the coffee table, fanned out my fingers as far as they would go.

  “You’re makin fun.”

  “Not entirely,” I told her.

  “Agnostic not atheist?”

  “On good days,” I said, reclaiming my drink.

  (That’s not even true. I don’t know what I am, bro. If faith could save me from fate, I’d maybe then believe. But I’d need a guarantee first. I trust no one but you, little brother. And yet I had to talk to someone.)

  “So you say you can reasonably predict the consequences of your actions,” I said. Joy nodded. “And that helps you decide what to do or not do, what’s right for you.” She shrugged. “But how does that affect those around you?”

  Her laptop booted up on the table as we leaned back into the cushions. I faced her directly. “What I mean is, how do you decide if, say, your actions, which seem right for you, which you come to of your own free will, how do you know if these are right for those around you?

  “And what of the opposite? How do you know when something someone else says is right for them, but which compels you to act in a way toward them that’s not necessarily normal for you, or even desirable, how do you know if that’s okay or not?”

  “Whew,” she exhaled. “Let’s see . . .” She was clacking her boot heels, calculating. “I’d say self-preservation first.”

  I eyeballed her like a scolding parent. “Isn’t that selfish?”

  “The way I see it . . .” She sipped her whiskey, made another face. “If you don’t take care of yourself first, then you’ll have no self to give. And if you have no self to give, then you can’t be of value to anyone.”

  “But how do you take care of yourself, let’s say, if said self is wrapped up in doing for others, if your identity is defined by how you meet the needs of others?”

  “You assume a Jesus Christ pose and hail the vultures to pluck out your liver. What are we talkin bout for real, JAG?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “Just speculating.” I drained my glass. She emptied hers as well then schooled me on programming tricks, which we test-drove on fallenangels.

  After she left I checked my inbox. There was a note from CondeeCandee, confirming tomorrow night, and one from Remedios, on how she missed me so. I wrote mi cerezo, said I’d be here all weekend to catch her if she passed out. She wrote back: “haha, that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

  The next afternoon a note from watch_me_now confirmed tomorrow’s salsa date and asked that I phone her. I did. Voicemail. Message. A note from Remedios: “Chat me up tonight!” A text from Joy: “last night was fun.” A text from Kaddisha inviting me to a Halloween party tonight on campus. I texted right back: “no can do sorry.” She replied with an “arrrggghhh,” to which I responded: “sunday still though si?” No reply.

  I met CondeeCandee at her big fancy house in the Gethsemane hills. Her kids were trick-or-treating with their dad. Costumed like a bondage queen, she ordered me around all night. After she’d had hers multiple times with most of her toys, she said I should let her strap on the Dragon, take me for a ride. I hemmed and hawed but did as she commanded—and still she wouldn’t let me spend the night.

  Back home with a tender ass I checked fallenangels for Remedios. She was offline. A note from watch_me_now: “I’ll pick you up at nine sharp. Dress to mess.” I should have been excited but I was plowed. I passed out on the sofa, didn’t wake until noon the next day.

  My
inbox was once again crammed. A note from the Reverend made my heart skip a beat. He wrote: “We need to talk, JAG. Monday morning. My office.”

  I messaged Remedios: “Where were you last night?” When she didn’t respond at once I phoned Kaddisha. Voicemail. I didn’t leave a message. Then Remedios replied: “Where were you???” I sent her a jpeg of a crude black heart I drew in Sharpie with R&J in the middle in red. She wrote back: “Romeo & Juliet?” I replied: “No tragedy only love sweet love mi cerezo. 24 hours to go-o-o . . .”

  I tore around my apartment, cleaning up for watch_me_now. I dyed my hair, slicked it back to match my WildWideEyes jpegs. I used concealer (don’t laugh, bro) to smooth the darkness beneath my eyes. I rinsed my mouth with bourbon in a failed bid to neutralize the vapors seeping from the sores.

  By half past nine when she hadn’t yet arrived I rang up her cell. Voicemail. I said: “Everything okay?”

  Twenty minutes later I called again. Voicemail. “Where arrrrre you? Hope everything’s okay . . .”

  I fixed myself a drink, tapped ticktockclock’s stash, surfed OVA for salsa dancing clips.

  At half past ten I phoned again. Voicemail. “Last chaaaance . . .”

  On my third drink now I turned to fallenangels. I pulled up watch_me_now’s profile, called her for the last time.

  “What the fuck, bitch?!” I hollered at her voicemail. “What’s your fucking problem? Who do you think you are? I hope you crashed your fucking car and your head is through the windshield. You best be in the ER or I’ll make you fucking wish you were. You think I’m playing? Call me back, bitch. Stupid fucking whore.”

  After dropping this love bomb I texted Kaddisha: “wanna play???”

  I returned to fallenangels, searching for Remedios. Offline. I messaged her: “Tomorrow, tomorrow . . .”