(10) As for Victoria, she had married the boy next door, then just before turning fifty decided that she was a lesbian. She was tall and a trifle overweight; unlike Judy she never cut her wrists, because whatever happened to her had actually happened to someone else. She came to our bar irregularly, in part because she lived a few doors down from Neva but also because she feared Shantelle, who was not at all the sort who would let a nobody such as Victoria come between her and her pleasures.
(11) No one much cared about Al although we tried to be nice to him. Ditto for Samantha.
(12) The retired policeman was not only a diabetic sadist, but the brainiest of us all. One of his life lessons: I think the community policing should be limited to gang detectives in uniform. The reason that no one liked him (not that we didn’t love him) was his sour outlook—a common result of having dealt with human beings for decades. He believed that we would all lie, steal, rape and kill whenever we thought we could get away with it. The wife-beaters who pulled guns on him denied the fact and abused him in court; so did several wives, who in the interest of domestic harmony blamed their bruises on him. He remembered the middle-class young man who had enjoyed dangling from the ceiling while wearing women’s panties; when he accidentally went too far it was the not yet retired policeman who, delighted by manual strangulation and injury to the deeper structures, defied the father’s threats and the mother’s slimy vituperation for not hiding those circumstances from the newspaper. He claimed to see us better than we did ourselves; I grant that he knew us more than we knew him. Judy’s basest actions rarely surprised him. It was partly for him that we acted out our stories, especially there at the Y Bar; while he mostly stayed in, sitting or lying on his bed, wheezing. To be sure, I sometimes met him at the Cinnabar; Al sighted him at Jojo’s Liquors; before his disease entirely paralyzed both legs he was known to do business in certain watering holes of Chinatown and even North Beach. From his throne of voyeuristic knowledge he presently (as will be told) interested himself in the case of the lesbian, who opened heart and legs to all without ever showing her mind.
(13) Meanwhile the transwoman longed to be abject, and sometimes succeeded in eclipsing even such perfect practitioners as the Mexicana I once met when I came out into the light, leaving that kind of hotel where when somebody spits the happy product of fellatio into the sink, ants immediately arrive:—Having parted from the longhaired Indian girl with the tight little cunt which like Shantelle she declined to let me taste, I (who, not having yet met the lesbian, actually wanted more than anything to lie down in stillness forever) descended stinking stairs and met a wretch lying on a sidewalk which I would have judged was almost too hot for naked flesh to endure; her bare feet were black with dried filth, her eyes like two deep-dug graves. She stretched out her leathery hand, into which I placed ten pesos, at which she murmured some inaudible formula of thanks, blessing or malediction. How could her lowliness compete against Judy’s? Being aware, self-contained and almost regal, that sidewalk woman declined to be mortified. In a way she was as coolly divine as the lesbian—while the transwoman exemplified this ancient Christian admonition: Show yourself so submissive and humble that all men may trample over you and tread on you like the mud of the streets.
4
If, like me, you are so enlightened as to advocate for human extinction, this catalogue of all us mortal shitbags will have wearied you, so I now end this chapter. Pop yourself open a can of Patriot Dry Lager, swallow three pills, and lights out forever!
What She Did to Us
God, the magnificent, has said: “Women are your field. Go upon your field as you like.”
SHAYKH UMAR IBN MUHAMED AL-NEFZAWI, ca. 1400
Unhindered by any ambiguity, she spoke openly, and what she spoke of was not love but sexual satisfaction, and this, of course, referred to the only sexual satisfaction she knew, the pleasure she took with a woman.
COLETTE, 1941
1
Now that you know us, let me tell you how the lesbian snagged Shantelle.
When Judy Garland, born in Grand Rapids, Minnesota, explained: I was born in Murfreesboro, Tennessee, in case anyone is interested, she showed us all that we could remake ourselves—like Shantelle, for instance—although I who never bought the privilege of fucking her can only begin her biography in the faith that she was a G-girl straight from her mother!
When that failed to work out, she swam through other vicissitudes until she found the Y Bar.
The lesbian came in, and that was when I heard Shantelle sigh without knowing or meaning to, like a child of poverty who has just seen her first department store window when they deck out its temptations for Christmas season.
2
Neva’s near neighbor at the Reddy Hotel was Helga, Room 547, who lived with a sister named Victoria who was big-boned and silent, with close-cropped red hair. Yes, indeed, this was the same
(10) Victoria, who just before turning fifty decided that she was a lesbian.
At first she never even said hello to Neva, who accordingly assumed that here was one person in the world who disliked her—a relief.
One morning after Helga had slammed the door to her apartment, hastening to work, the lesbian went out into the corridor, meaning to go downstairs and pay her monthly rent. Helga’s door had silently opened. The room was dark, and Victoria was sitting in it, staring out through the doorway.
Hello, Victoria, said the lesbian.
Victoria remained silent.
Closing but not locking her own door, the lesbian paid her rent in hundred-dollar bills (the greybearded little window clerk could not stop admiring her, because her bangs were precious and her head was bowed, her eyes shining sideways), zipped shut that famous sealskin pouch, then came back upstairs. Her door had opened itself. Entering her apartment, she found it as dark as she had left it. She came into the kitchenette and turned on the light. Victoria was sitting there.
Hello again, said the lesbian.
Victoria did not answer.
The lesbian opened the refrigerator. She took out the plastic milk jug and set it on the counter. She tilted the glass jar of cereal until her bowl was two-thirds full. Then she poured the milk in, returned the jug to the refrigerator, removed a spoon from the drawer, took spoon and bowl, and sat down across the table from her guest, who remained as silent as a cat.
The lesbian began to eat her cereal.
Victoria said: Will you or I break the silence?
Go ahead, said the lesbian brightly.
I want to deepen our relationship, said Victoria.
Okay, said the lesbian.
Victoria stood up. She approached the lesbian and said: You’re irresistible.
Thank you, said the lesbian.
I love you, Victoria said. She clasped her arm around the lesbian’s neck.
Smiling sadly, the lesbian stroked the other woman’s hand.
Thank you, Victoria whispered.
The lesbian knew that she must now love Victoria.
Am I annoying you? asked Victoria.
No.
Good, said Victoria.
The lesbian stood up slowly. She caressed the back of Victoria’s neck. Victoria moaned.
The lesbian finished her cereal. Then she took a shower. Victoria stayed at the table.
What will you do today, Victoria?
Victoria laughed.
I’ve got to go out now, explained the lesbian.
Victoria walked out, weeping silently. The lesbian went by rapid transit under the Bay to Richmond, where she kept her car. Then she drove to Vallejo to visit her mother.
When she came home, Victoria was sitting in Helga’s darkened room with the door open.
Hello, Victoria, she said.
Victoria did not answer.
The next morning the lesbian got up early. She could hear Helga or Vic
toria in the shower. When she opened her door, Victoria was already sitting there staring out. Victoria looked at her. The lesbian smiled and waved. Then she poured herself a bowl of cereal. Victoria came in, stood over her and announced: I love you.
I love you, too, said the lesbian.
Her guest continued to seem sad, so the lesbian laid a hand on her breast.
After that Victoria became a regular at the Y Bar.
3
Some people say that the gospel of truth is joy, although we usually believed the opposite, which explains why we were, if not alcoholics, at the very least medicinal drinkers; shot by shot, we blurred away truth’s sadness into something warm. And then here came the lesbian, whose je ne sais quoi proclaimed the cosmic I am. We couldn’t get enough of her!
She was telling Shantelle something about rent and the cost of toilet paper. Judy listened open-mouthed. Francine stood behind the bar watching the lesbian’s lips and imagining that they were closing and opening around each of her nipples in turn, first the right, then the left, after which she would return the favor. Xenia, who would far rather have been chatting with the lesbian, stood on the dark side of the bar reporting in to Hunter on her little magenta phone: And at the Pink Apple last night there was this guy who was visiting his parents, and his fiancée was coming to be with him in five days. Well, he kept going on and on about how much he loved her. Meanwhile he got me to shove my titties in his face! Then he wanted to date me. I said, why do you want to mess up that good thing that you have? He said, oh, he loved her so much, but he just couldn’t wait, not even five fuckin’ days. Come on, Hunter, don’t be like that. That’s right. That’s right, honey. Of course I do. No, Neva’s not here. Of course I’m waiting for you.
I strolled across the street to buy a pack of condoms, just in case. (Nobody ever trusted that I lacked any disease.) When I got back the transwoman was saying: And if I could, Neva, I’d buy you and me matching pairs of metallic shoes, and then when we went out . . . Have you heard of wax-coated jeans? That’s what the high-class models wear.
Shantelle, quite sure that their tête-à-tête failed to advance her interests (just as a chief executive officer brought in from a different kind of business will most likely seek to impose what prospered him there upon the unfamiliar realities here—for instance, choke the suppliers into submissive half-suffocation—so Shantelle supposed that when the time came, she, too, could bullshit Neva), said: Come on, Judy. Since when did a model have fat hairy legs? You’d better go puke up some pounds, girl. Go upchuck that greasy life of yours! And get a shave, Frank.—Did you hear that, Neva? I said to that bitch, I said . . .
The lesbian looked at her sadly, at which she started flicking the wheel of her cigarette lighter, making the flame thrust up and then go down to nothing, over and over because she was ashamed.
4
Francine had finally paid forty dollars and received her very first medical marijuana card, so she wished to know which strain was the strongest.
Birthday cake, said the transwoman, delighted to know something useful.
Birthday cake ain’t shit, said Shantelle. What you want’s red dragon.
Well, one toke of birthday cake . . .
At the other end of the bar, Hunter was informing unenthusiastic Victoria: And he stuck a five-dollar bill in her G-string, and then he wanted change! Can you friggin’ believe it? So Xenia posted a picture of this guy on Diddle.com, just holding his money, and she added giant tits and a giant dick. That’s how she punished him. And when I found out who he was, I texted him—
Unable to endure the rest of us, I went out. The retired policeman was just emerging from Jojo’s Liquors with a paper bag of something cheap. He said: Going home?
I don’t know.
Have a drink?
Not at the Y Bar. I’m sick of that place.
So we went to the Cinnabar to pay more for the same booze we would have drunk at the Y Bar. He said bitterly: I guess Judy’s busy right now.
I haven’t seen her dating today, I assured him, not only because it was true but also because I thought to reassure him. Why not? I’m a nice man.
He said: Neva’s sure rocking it. She’d look good in anything.
5
I told him my fantasies about Neva, and he said: I don’t trust her.
6
He’d bought the first round, so I bought the second. To tell you the truth, I had meant to abstain until tomorrow, or at least bedtime, and the first shot (his favorite: Old Crow) went down badly, burning my esophagus and fizzing my stomach most nauseously, but the second shot killed that, and just when I was fixing to go he said: Carmen! Hey, Carmencita mi amor! A double apiece! . . .—which it would have been rude to refuse.
He asked me, which made me sad: So Judy’s not dating?
Not that I’ve seen.
To my surprise, he looked worried. He said: We gotta fix her look.
She looks good, I told him (because what else would I say)?
He said: Don’t bullshit me. She’s over the hill. Is Neva cutting into her business?
Well, from what I know, she’s not in the market.
I said don’t fuckin’ bullshit me.
She isn’t.
A virgin, he sneered, and I said: Maybe the opposite. But here’s one of those facts you like. Neva pays for all her drinks with hundred-dollar bills. I mean, when she gets change she pays with the change. But then she breaks out another hundred.
What does Francine say?
Tells me to butt out of Neva’s business.
He began to sweat, fished in his shirt pocket, and swallowed two white pills with lint on them. That took care of his double, so I ordered us each a triple, and he said, as if he were a real man of the world: I used to believe in nymphos. Now I don’t know.
What don’t you know?
He breathed in my face. He said: Is Neva a nympho?
I replied: I hope so.—By then I yearned to go home and drink alone.
He said: Does Judy mean anything to you?
She’s a good person, I said. I’m not sexually attracted.
I could care less if she blows you. Just tell me if—oh, forget it.—He rushed off to the men’s room, wheezing and clutching at his chest. I sat finishing my drink. With Carmen as with Francine, we mostly settled up in advance, so there was no tab to pay; I could have just left. I considered stopping in at the Y Bar just to sit near the lesbian. Maybe I could accidentally on purpose sniff her hair. Instead, I went to the men’s room. The door was locked. I tapped on it and called: J. D., are you all right?—As I waited I wondered whether he were dying or dead, in which case would it be right to tell Carmen? For I had a pretty good idea that he wanted to be out of all this. Then I heard his weak voice: Go home, Richard. Piss off and let me be . . .
So I did, feeling pretty good to have acted righteous without incurring sorrow or inconvenience.
I said goodnight to Carmen, who was too well-bred to inquire why my companion remained so long behind that locked door, and went out. Right away I found myself craving the lesbian.
7
Since he and Judy were the happiest couple ever to be disequilibrated by her, not that I lacked my own claims, let me now relate their once-upon-a-time:
A certain Danny Rivas, now deceased, happened to be driving the transwoman and one of her johns to Martinez where they could all go in on a family-sized baggie of semiprime crystal meth; and Danny, being drunk, was weaving on Interstate 80, so the transwoman grew anxious and begged the john to drive, to which he replied: Why don’t you drive, bitch?—She said: I haven’t driven in fifteen years!—at which the two men started yelling: Shut up and drive!, so she did, until just outside of Richmond, a black-and-white* began to flash its light discreetly behind them, and they pulled over.—I know you folks are drug dealers, said the officer, who could have passed for
some huge, sullen XYY-chromosomed murderer.—I’m no fuckin’ dealer! shouted Danny. Can’t you fuckin’ see what I am? I’m a fuckin’ drunk! Ain’t that rich? I’m a drunk, man!
Get out of the car, said the other cop. He had short blond hair.—Over there, he said. Hands on your heads. No, not you, ma’am. Show me your license.
I don’t have a license.
Great. Out of the car, but away from them. Over here. Hands on your head.
The transwoman was wearing a hot pink tank top and a black bra underneath it. The officer whistled. He pulled her top out of her shorts and lifted it up to her armpits.
To her friends she cried: Do you see what he’s doing?
Shut up, said the cop. Then he plopped her breasts out of the cups one by one. He gave each breast a squeeze.—You must be a double D, he said.
The transwoman began weeping silently, loving the humiliation. The john stared away. Danny was on his knees throwing up.
I’m going to book you for possession, ma’am.
Possession of what?
Of these. You have any ID?
In my purse, officer.
Where is it?
On the floor, on the passenger side.
You call that piece of crap a purse? Well, it’s a free country. Now, is there any sharp or dangerous object inside?
The Lucky Star Page 12