She did say: You know you’re my darling boy . . .—But formerly she would have said something like: You know that I love you more than anyone else.
So he came uninvited. They parted sweetly enough; that was harmless; he went to play liars’ dice with Shantelle.
He felt a lonely sorrowful pain around his heart, amorphous, roughly egg-shaped. It went on and on. Finally he decided to consider it pleasant. At once he felt a green thrill of pain; so he was a masochist . . . but the pleasure only went so far.
2
Not knowing what else to do, he made a date with the lesbian.
Like a Suspect Who Loves Only to Please
You don’t want a child bride with a flower-mind cluttering up the landscape. Well, that’s all right, too. We will be what you want us to be . . . We will be anything you want . . . As long as you want it, and make it clear that you do.
JUDY GARLAND, 1955
Thou knowest how like to flame our nature is . . .
THE GODDESS RUMOR, inciting the women of Lemnos to murder their husbands
1
As the transwoman lay beside the retired policeman in his sagging queen-sized bed, languidly high on little pills which were as pink as bloodshot eyes, the shadow of the Erskine Towers rotated faster and faster around the ceiling, like the minute hand of the doomsday clock. She grabbed his penis for support, but everything kept going round and round. She tried to suck him off, but started retching, so with almost intolerable effort, as if her head weighed more than a hundred cannonballs, she dragged her face inch by inch up his sallow belly, gasping, choking down puke until finally she could lay her cheek against his exploding heart. She lay there for a long time. When she could open her eyes without any risk of vomiting, she upraised her head to look down on him. Red and swollen from the pills, he rattled out breaths like links of anchor-chain. She felt happy. Her head crashed down upon his breastbone, and she fell asleep.
A week later they were chugging cans of beer; then she ducked into the bathroom and closed the door so that he wouldn’t catch her gobbling those expired mint chocolates she could get for two dollars a handful at Bizzmart; their agreement was that if she ate junk food without his permission he could slap her face ten times hard, not that she didn’t like that, nor would he have withheld permission to snack had she only groveled in the fashion that they both adored, but nowadays it made her feel more truly herself to hold out on him, keeping secrets, stealing privileges in harmless little ways. Still, she did hate to get fat! Whenever she looked down at her hairy paunch she felt sick. Then she remembered the interesting trick that the lesbian had taught her. Running the water so that he wouldn’t hear, she tickled her tonsils with a pipe cleaner and instantly, almost painlessly extruded hot brown vomit into the toilet. Afterward her throat burned and she felt a trifle weak but not the slightest bit nauseated, so why not declare victory? (She’d regressed a little; her weight loss was now only nine pounds.)—Hey! he called.—In a moment he would come in, she being forbidden to lock the door.—Almost ready! she cried back. Gargling with his mouthwash, then burying the candy wrappers under the hairy, moldy toilet paper tubes in his wastebasket, she washed her hands, zipped up her purse, splashed perfume on both cheeks, brushed her hair and hastened out in titillated dread of his all-seeing glare. Fortunately or unfortunately, he had turned his face to the television, where The Wizard of Oz shimmered in blue and white.
If she could have seen the thoughts shining inside his skull, she would surely have recognized the soft lavender-grey radiance of the lesbian.—Well, was she clueless? By now we all had rights to her, having made her who she was, levered her right into stardom, goddesshood or whatever was called that position over our heads into which all our hands had raised her, so that she floated upon our love, which was our will; it would have been much the same had we borne her merrily out to hang from a streetlamp.
Jocularly slapping his sweetheart’s cheeks, he teased her: I know what you’re thinking!
Then, to better entertain them both, he bent her over his knee, pulled up her skirt and down her panties, swished the rubber whip, and before landing the first stroke recited: No star has been the subject of so many rumors as Judy Garland, so to get the truth about this wonderfully clever little star, I subjected her to our lowdown treatment.
They both burst out laughing. They knew how to live!
Then she went out to make money; and on Monday afternoon, while she was folding her fresh-dried laundry at the Kleen-O-Mat and singing a little song whose words consisted of Neva, Neva, Neva, he yawned, waddled out of bed, booted up his groaning old desktop computer, which was slow but perfect, not unlike him, swallowed a pain pill and deepened his fieldwork, just for kicks.—The fact that the lesbian kept encouraging Judy to be everything to him left him the opposite of grateful.
His best friend, the tall black security guard in the huge sunglasses, who mourned for the days before Judy had become the sweet and desired one, agreed with him about stop-and-frisk. That was the only way to stop Islamic militants.
Powering down, he put on his pants and slippers, limped out into the hall, verifying that his door was fastened, called the elevator, listened with moderate wonderment to himself wheezing, and down he went, down Jones Street past the good old Hotel Krupa and the restaurant “Chutney,” which like him stayed on the far side of trendy, past the parking garage that the neighbors pissed in, down to Ellis and around a homeless couple’s tent that should have been ticketed for occluding the sidewalk, down to Turk and then left on Venus Alley. The Box Club wasn’t open yet, but the Y Bar sure as shit was, with Shantelle, metal-eyed like the goddess Nike in her marble wreath, smoking a guaranteed medicinal reefer in front. Seeing him, she got the giggles: Whazzup, J. D., you wanna handcuff me or something? Oh. You reportin’ for booty call? Well, guess what? Your hairy bitch got caught, so you’re ridiculous. Stuck in Neva’s flypaper. You feel me, J. D.? You feel what I’m sayin’ or what?
Want a drink? he groaned.
Oh, sure. I mean, if you’re buyin.’ Or payin’ me to fuck up some dude’s face, or whatever. But then do I have to buy you anything?
Breathing heavily, he made his way into the darkness, with her dancing on sunbeams behind him. Neva was absent; I believe she was currently entertaining Al, who liked to bow down without ever touching her.* There sat Sandra texting her gentleman friend in Los Angeles, discreetly, for it was not so much that she sought to keep secrets from the straight man or the lesbian (although that was, to be sure, the practical result) as that these other relationships were unsure; hence describing them engendered anxiety and suffering in her, because to name meant to fix on and grasp, and grasping at dreamy cobwebs couldn’t ever work out, as the lesbian must understand, being herself a mermaid whose translucent fish-flesh might not be all there . . .—not to mention the fact that the straight man must never find out.—But all these things must change, she insisted to herself, and I was the only one who overheard her thoughts. Her phone played the first four notes of “Snow White.” Bending over it and rushing toward the ladies’ room, she murmured: I don’t know; I don’t know. He has not told his wife that he is doing this.
Two workers in waterproof orange coveralls commenced their liquid afternoon breakfast, tucking their yellow helmets between their feet as they sat at the counter, grinning over at Victoria, who always courted our Neva very sweetly, as had always been her habit, especially when she was at her most predatory; farther into the darkness, Xenia exchanged something for something with Francine, then skittered out. Victoria picked up Xenia’s half-empty beer, sniffed it and made a face. The construction workers fell silent.
Meanwhile the retired policeman marched up to the bar. He felt dizzy, and his legs tingled all the way up to his knees. For an instant he thought he saw a pair of almost naked legs shining in the darkness.
Usual? said Francine, who was old enough to remember watching televisi
on reruns of the occasion when Martina Navratilova played tennis against the heterosexual blonde Chris Evert. Oh, did Francine look it! Maybe that was why he almost liked her.
No, make it a triple. Or two doubles, I mean, what the fuck. Shantelle, what do you want?
You’ll never know.
Sighing, Francine poured out three jiggers of Old Crow into a family-sized shotglass, then made a Peachy Keen over ice for Shantelle. She said: Sixteen dollars.
The retired policeman laid down a twenty.—Keep it, he said.
J. D., have you forgotten? You owed me ten dollars anyhow. And if you need more—
My bad, he said. He gave her another twenty. She returned him fourteen. He left the four singles on the counter and stuffed the ten down Shantelle’s cleavage.
Gettin’ fresh with me? she said. You want some company?
Misery loves company. Neva makes us miserable. Therefore . . .
Watch it, said Francine.
Focusing on business, Shantelle now said: J. D., lemme introduce myself. The first thing you need to know is that I love cocaine.
Look, Shantelle, let’s you and I do something about that Neva bitch.
He was playing and testing more than anything else. But he was not unready when Shantelle rose up purple-faced and breathing hard, meaning to punch him in the face, at which he reached across the bar, wrapped his hand around a heavy bottle of bourbon and sat waiting and watching her delightedly. The construction workers applauded.—Break it up, you two! said Francine, who obviously considered Shantelle to be the threat because instead of challenging the retired policeman’s hold on his weapon, she bent behind the bar and rose up with her baseball bat, facing Shantelle—who thought better of her impulse.
All right, she said. I’m over it. But, mister, don’t go hatin’ on Neva.
That’s not her name, he explained. He had taken it upon his shoulders to guide us through the maze that was the lesbian.
Sit back down, Shantelle, said Francine. Here’s a refill for each of you, on the house. Next topic.
As uncouth as the man who would part two lesbians, the retired policeman slugged down his free drink. Then he inquired: Does anybody hate Neva?
Don’t be like that, warned Francine . . .—because if only the lesbian turned out to be real, then we who were lucky enough to love and be loved by her might become real by reflection, in just the same way that moonlight can actually deserve to be called sunlight.
The retired policeman suddenly felt dreary. He whom it now seemed that no one ever desired sat bent over the bar, drinking watered-down whiskey as his envies went flittering like those two departing construction workers. What did he even wish for? Being retired, he wasn’t supposed to care about anything. Shantelle, whose heart was likewise armored like Saint Michael, sat smoothing her nails with an emery board, wondering if he and she would do business; meanwhile he imagined sucking the hollow pimpled ruby breast of the light fixture en route to the toilets; he glanced at that television screen on which a huge blue-and-green keyboard played itself while a tiny human figure toiled back and forth in front of it; while at the bar, where by late afternoon men would be leaning on their elbows shouting for wine, three middle-aged G-girls, evidently employees of some dreary bank or insurance company, sat slumming it on their lunch hour.
This is the line of our interpretation, explained the bossiest. So I said, you just tell your accountant . . .
Well, but the schedules . . .
It’s so amazing.
They’re fielding the referrals, but they don’t actually hear back.
Oh, that’s just silly. It really is. And then that impacts our releases.
No that’s no problem at all. If you could send me the information . . .
The retired policeman raised his glass to them. The bossiest said: Eww, did you see that old perv?
Excuse me, said Francine. He’s a regular, and a friend of mine, so you be nice.
The G-girls laughed at her. For a moment he watched their images beside the pink neon sign of the Y Bar shining backward in the long mirror. There came the bluish flickering of a cell phone in the darkness. Xenia came back in; she was telling Francine: No, that was the first time I ever saw her sick, and he wondered if she might be referring to Karen Strand.
He saw Shantelle’s reflection spying on his, so he crooked his finger and she came.
He said: Know why I like you? Because your shit don’t stink. You don’t hate on Neva or any fuckin’ soul. If some gangbangers raped your mother you’d scurry to church and pray for them, wouldn’t you? Oh, no, he continued as her face began to snarl, I’m just foolin’ around. You want to do business?
Francine, gimme another.
Seven dollars.
Don’t look at me. J. D.’s paying; he promised.
Sure. Now answer the fuckin’ question. What bitch do you like to hate on?
You. I bet you’re some kinda Republican.
Who else? Come on; you must have a shit list.
Well, Francine’s always bitching at me about one thing or another. And I go here and I go there, and just when I’m about comfortable, Neva informs me it’s time to go, so she can fuck somebody else. Makes me want to slap her. And then you . . .
Drink some water, said Francine.
I get so tired of Neva kicking me out. I mean, what the fuck?
Poor baby, he muttered.
She never just lets me be with her, Shantelle continued. If I wanna stay all night, she starts bitching at me.
Uh huh, he said. So let’s do a deal—
He had long since begun to conceive of the lesbian as some kind of spider-goddess who squatted high in the darkness, weaving tricks and trouble, electrifying the transwoman’s wasted face.
When she came in, he stood up. She approached him, and Francine silently mixed her gin and tonic. By now those two had an understanding: Neva’s drinks were on the house, and this fact was not to be mentioned.
Just at that moment I who like the retired policeman kept abreast of everything overheard Xenia asking Judy if maybe she deserved to be lonely; Judy snuffled, somewhere between hurt and cross; then Xenia said: Well, I know I do.—And right then those two might have gotten closer, but Judy insisted on complaining of unwellness, and for once Francine declined to give or sell her a pill! Then Sandra came in, evidently suffering from the chills, at which Xenia decided that it was her turn to vent about something left hurtfully unsaid at Sandra’s birthday, which had been last week and to which I was not invited; poor Sandra of course reassured and apologized. Then, with the heliotropism of sunflowers, they too turned their heads toward the lesbian.
Like any true blue hero, the retired policeman had locked his eyes on her from the get-go. As silently as a ballerina falling to earth, she sat down beside him. Shantelle stood close, hoping to invade their private business.
The lesbian said: J. D., are you okay? You don’t look well.
He triumphantly replied: Guess what, Karen? I tracked down E-beth, and she does not like you.
A quicksilver flash of anguish blighted her face; this delighted him.
2
Elizabeth Jackson was a widowed lesbian, aged fifty-nine. Hence she was eight years older than Karen Strand, whose seduction by her most definitely constituted statutory rape. He’d known it all along. Now she called herself Eliza. That was what those perverts did (and Karen Strand was a case in point). They changed their names, so they could keep on offending against the tenderest little cunts in our great society. Oh, yes: Elizabeth used to be E-beth, before which she was Betty Ann, who for all he knew used to invite the neighbor girls over to play doctor with her little sister, because wouldn’t that be the hallmark of a stinking lez?
He rang the bell, and she opened the door, waiting: a slender, attractive old woman with silver bangs.
Are you Ms. Jackson?
he said.
What are you selling?
He showed his badge.—Officer Slager, S.F.P.D., he said. Ms. Jackson, I’d like to talk to you about a person in your past.
Who is it?
May I come in, ma’am?
If you have to.
She stood aside, and he entered. There were three well-kept cats side by side on the sofa. Rainbow crystals hung in the window. Through the back window he could see a hot tub with steam rising out of it.
Since she did not invite him to sit down, he picked the most comfortable-appearing armchair, and she frowned a little, watching him with her hands on her hips. Before she could grow angrier he stared into her eyes and inquired: Do you know the name Karen Strand?
No, she said instantly.
Now that’s interesting, he said. People tell me different.
Which people? she alertly demanded.
Well, Karen Strand, for one. Why would she lie about knowing you?
What’s this about?
There’s been some trouble, he said happily.
What trouble?
Now it’s your turn to answer questions. Are you going to keep on denying that you know Karen Strand?
I don’t know her, not anymore.
But you know who she is. Why’d you tell me different?
So I made a mistake, she said, and it was all he could do not to laugh because she reminded him of the defendant who in his first interrogation confessed only to digging secret burial pits. So what? I haven’t seen her in years.
How many?
At least thirty.
And why did you part ways?
Lack of common interest.
What was your prior common interest?
The woman looked on the verge of being incensed. She had an authority problem. But he had to hand it to her, the way she instantly mastered herself, in order to conceal from him their long gone common interest, which of course had been bearded clam.—Officer, she said, you’re not being forthcoming.
The Lucky Star Page 46