The Lucky Star

by William T. Vollmann

For both of you. I heard this from an old lady I used to know. She lived on an island in a place where there were mermaids. And she used to say all the time: If you bring forth what is within you, what you have will save you. If you have nothing within you, what you do not have within you will kill you.

  That’s strange. She really said that to you?

  No, honey. Well, she said it to me but it was for you and Judy and everybody else but me. I’m in a worse case.

  Oh, baby! That makes me worried.

  No, I shouldn’t have said that. Now can you repeat what I told you?

  If you bring forth what is within you . . .

  And they practiced it until Sandra had it by heart.

  Now it’s yours, said the lesbian. Will you please teach it to Judy? I’ve got to rest . . .

  Okay. Oh, Neva, I wish you’d let me take care of you . . . !

  And she buried her face between the lesbian’s legs.

  But the lesbian was already softly snoring. Unlike Judy, Sandra did not belong to the category of people called invasives. She even refrained from kissing the other woman.

  9

  Much later that night it was my turn. When I rang the buzzer, the transwoman let me in, looked at me with her big blue cow eyes, blushed, then quickly ran down the stairs. I closed the door behind her. The lesbian was in the bedroom, face down on the bed, with her nightgown pulled up above her waist, weeping almost silently. I saw a shiny stain underneath her. That wouldn’t stop me! I touched the back of her neck, a contact she always liked, or at least pretended to; and with her, what was the difference?

  She began sobbing.

  Was Judy mean to you? I asked.

  No, never! How could she be? She’s so . . . I’m just tired.

  After that she was as silent as a moonrise. For all I know she was seeing her mother’s face smiling meaninglessly. How important could I have been to her? I repeat: She was lying on the unmade bed, with her eyes closed and her legs wide open, waiting to give me the sacrament before the next of us rang the bell. So I took; I received; I remarried the lovely rush which was happiness refined into a habit of energy.

  10

  Perplexed by my sensations, I went to chat with Natalie, named after a certain tragically drowned movie actress, who lived half-time on or in a sleeping bag behind the two garbage bins which serviced the three Pakistani restaurants on Jones Street; sometimes she used to invite herself upstairs, in order to move her bowels, shower and shoot up heroin, mumbling and spreading wide her thighs on my toilet seat with her bluejeans round her ankles while seeking the least compromised vein for her happiness. Once the needle went in I would hear her murmuring furry prayers of gratitude as her head sank like the evening sun and the ends of her long hair swept the water in the toilet bowl like sensitive crayfish-whiskers; then I’d hoist her into bed with me, and in the morning she would smile and fuck me. Once I joined the lesbian’s roster of lovers I lost my desire for Natalie, who anyway had opened her legs for me merely, so I had assumed, to repay her obligation; but on the first morning that I stroked Natalie’s hair and rolled away she burst into tears. So I fucked her out of loving pity, just as Neva did for me; if what they used to say in church held good, whatever I did for Natalie I was doing for Neva. After that, my relationship with Natalie became even sweeter, and sometimes I actually sought her out, even when she had shut herself up in her sleeping bag and disguised herself as a corpse. Like a feral cat who learns to associate a certain person with food instead of violence, Natalie gave me the gift of her trust without hoping for more than interruptions in her pain. I could tell her everything because she never remembered anything. That afternoon I found her defecating onto a pile of cocktail napkins. Caching her sleeping bag in the lefthand garbage bin, the other one being padlocked, we went to my place. She was jonesing, of course, and had no junk, so I fixed her up with two of Francine’s fattest white pills; then she took a shower, trampling her soaped-up clothes in the tub while she shampooed her beautiful hair. Since her sweatpants still stank, we left them soaking. No matter how many times I changed the water it went grey. I offered to shake in a good slug of dishwashing detergent, but Natalie muttered: useless . . . , wobbling on her skinny abscessed legs. Then Francine’s pills started to kick in.—Oh, God, she said. I can think again. But I . . . Then she passed out.

  I unzipped her purse, and a cockroach ran out. I almost killed it, but would Neva have been so cruel? Condoms and lubricant, license to drive and summons to appear, a rancid hot dog and a cracked cell phone, such made up Natalie’s wealth, but where was her money? I would have fixed her better, but my rent was due. Remembering that Judy owed me, I dialled her up, but she admitted what of course I knew, that she could not now and might never pay me back. Enduring first her excuses and then her self-loathing, I could almost see her gazing up at me like a skinny, open-mouthed boy, effeminate and frail, longing to be hurt. Next I called Shantelle. I said I needed something for a sick friend. If she would only help me, I’d give her my turn with Neva, which was today, in fact. Shantelle, who struck me as one of those women who make their own misery, and hate others because that is psychically less expensive than despising themselves, was up for it; indeed, Shantelle was down for it, hungry to illuminate the already shining lesbian with her own desire (as she used to tell us: I love my Neva! I’d kill anybody over her!); she came flying up Geary Street with the cold hard minimum of magic white powder and even kissed my lips for gratitude; I saw her off; then, parting my striped blue curtains, I looked out the window at the pillars and cornices of the old Pierce-Arrow showroom, while a police cruiser shrilled faintly far away, like someone’s abandoned baby. Cars went hissing through puddles. I felt chilly and chillier even though the central heating hummed faithfully on and off. Just overhead someone kept dragging something heavy. Oh, how blue I felt! I tried to cheer up by imagining myself dead and in heaven, where the sun will surely be a round stage red as fire, with a pallid stripper wiggling her pale thighs upon it, and her arms high above her head, forever and ever, amen. Finally Natalie woke up retching. I gave her the medicine. For a long time I could hear her on the toilet, groaning and swearing; for vein-hunting she ranked with the best of them. Once she had triumphed enough to thank me, she staggered in to fuck me, thinking that that was what I wanted. I was solid cold by then, jonesing for Neva. So I mixed myself a rum and sodapop.—That’s disgusting, said Natalie. I drained the bathtub. She trampled her clothes as dry as she could and I helped her hang them from the curtain rod.—Do you want a hot dog? said Natalie.—In half an hour it would have been my turn with Neva. I turned on my phone, just in case she should call.—Won’t you fuck me? said Natalie. I need you inside me. And excuse me for asking, but do you have any more H? I’m feeling better but not quite well. Would you mind looking at my phone? A drunken client tried to take advantage, so I banged him in the teeth, and now I . . . Why won’t you fuck me?

  I undressed and we lay down under the blankets. I kept shivering; it felt so good to squeeze my sweet warm Natalie who now smelled clean; behind her hair I hid from the world.

  The phone rang; it was the lesbian. Her voice made me desperate, not only because I needed her but also because her guilt was contagious: She must have been aware that what she did to each of us in bed was to us more important than why she did it. Somehow she endured and even accepted our fundamental lovelessness, like a candle that burns on and on without oxygen.

  (It was true enough that she could not love another without knowing her, but for her own part she aspired to be loved without being known, because her love was willed and measured according to the case, that being easy for her, while her case was not easy for us. Her love was better than ours.)

  I assured her that Shantelle was not lying; I had truly given up my turn. Neva said she loved me and was proud of me. I said I loved her and quickly turned off the phone so that I would not burst into tears.

  Let me g
uess, said Natalie sleepily. That’s your wife.—She began to squeeze my penis.—No, your girlfriend. I mean, your significant other, your main bitch, whatever. Could I borrow ten dollars?

  My main bitch, I said.

  Ha! Right now I’m your main bitch!—And she played with me, sucked me and straddled me, but I went soft and nearly started crying.

  Huh, said Natalie. Guess it’s serious. Or else there’s codeine or something in your system. Hey, you got any codeine? Never mind, lover.

  I felt colder and colder. I squeezed her against me.

  You wanna tell me your troubles? she said. What did you dose on? You know you’re ice cold! Hey. Hey, honey. Sweetie. What’s your name again?

  Richard.

  That’s right. But you can’t get hard, so I’m gonna call you Tricky Dick. Now lemme massage you, and then we’ll . . . Do you have any condoms?

  I’m in love, I said.

  No wonder you’re so sad.

  Talk to me, I said. Just hold me and talk to me.

  About what? You want me to talk dirty to you? I’ve got condoms if you don’t.

  Right now Shantelle would be screaming her way into the first or second climax of the afternoon. Grinding my teeth, I asked Natalie whether she loved anybody, and she laughed. Then she said: You’ve been good to me. You’re a good one. What’s your name?

  Richard.

  Richard, lemme tell you about love. First it starts as herpes. Oh, sometimes love is all you need, just like the song says. I was being sarcastic. The thing about love is . . . What was I . . . ? Honey, if you don’t stand for something, you fall for everything . . .—and then Natalie was the one who burst into tears! I held her; she sobbed herself out against me, and I felt better to have comforted her. Then she said: If you don’t love something like even a rock . . . Love is a funny thing. Makes people jealous and do crazy things. I know I love my country, amen, and I’m sick and tired of those people using our Constitution against us. But this town is very, they’re making it very socioeconomic. Nothing’s PC anymore. You can’t even use the N-word. So why can people go and use the school system, using Obama T-shirts on the campus? Why can’t they say love God? Because when my boyfriend died, I should have . . . But I do love God. I love Jesus.

  If you were Jesus, could you love everybody all the time?

  Well, seeing as how . . . A female Jesus, it would probably be very effective, actually. People are used to being spread thin. Baby, I can spread myself so thin for you right now. You want some pussy? Excuse me; I forgot you can’t . . . If I was Jesus I’d stand by you; I’m all for stand by your man, but how do you feel about being Secretary of fuckin’ State and letting Benghazi go down? There was twelve of ’em, right. And if God was one of us, and a bitch, a nice-looking bitch who just loved like one of us . . . ! I’m not sure most people would handle that.

  I asked her: Does Jesus stand by you?

  Of course He does.

  Then why do you and I feel like this?

  He wants us to—

  I think Neva is Jesus. But not exactly. Do you have a partner who will watch your back?

  I keep thinking I do and then they stab me in the back. There’s one bitch, who when I track her down for stealing my good luck charm I’m gonna . . . Who’s Neva?

  She’s like Jesus.

  There’s some heavy hittin’ Cherokees out there. Does she have Native American blood?

  I don’t know.

  Exactly, said Natalie. And my personal opinion, I don’t know; I’m not sure, actually. They have some . . . They wanna . . . That’s why I don’t watch movies. Is Neva real? I guess so, ’cause I heard her talk to you. Well, she’s probably surveyed some men, to see if . . . And we could question how many men—we’d start with a hundred: What would you think if God was a woman? I’m not sure I could handle that, actually. Honey, you’re not so cold anymore. Are you feeling better?

  I kissed her and thought: If you don’t stand for something, you fall for everything.

  11

  I can always tell, said the straight man.

  Tell what?

  When you’re having sex with your girlfriend.

  Don’t call her that. You’re my boyfriend.

  Your other lover, then.

  My—my, yes. Neva’s my other lover.

  There was a silence, and she asked: Are you there?

  Yes.

  Hi!

  Hello, Sandra . . .

  How can you tell?

  He was going to say: You get more evasive, but did not mean to hurt her, so he pulled the punch and said: You talk more briefly; you’re less open and loving; you want to get off the phone.

  I’m sorry; I’m sorry! It seems all I ever do is disappoint you!

  No; I’m not disappointed. It is what it is.

  She sobbed: I just want to make everybody happy!

  He laughed, then said: That’s working out so well for Neva.

  12

  As soon as it came my turn again, I was spreading Neva’s buttocks with both hands while she rode me in the way that she claimed always to like; who knew what she actually liked? (Don’t say I didn’t care to please her; we all longed not just to delight but even to protect the one we worshipped, in the kindly spirit of the photographer who would jolly Natalie Wood into doing nude shots, and then, once the cameras were loaded would first administer a glass of wine in order to numb her, after which the makeup girl would hold a towel around her while she sat down; then of course the towel went away, because it was time to use her.) Judy once told me that she never fantasized about a man until he grew familiar in her mind. I remarked that I had fantasized about Neva from the very first, at which Judy then laughingly confessed that she had done the same even at Selene’s wedding when Neva came into the Y Bar wearing that moon-green blouse and Sandra had been so understanding. And Neva smiled at me; when I closed my eyes I went on seeing that smile, which I could thus compare to Natalie’s, one upper tooth of which resembled a blackened coin minted in the reign of Nero.

  When I marched into the Y Bar for my postcoital rum and sodapop, my fellow worshippers were denouncing international terrorism, supporting the troops and debating whether Lacey was a sexy lesbian name. Samantha was sad; and seeing her weeping, the transwoman also burst into tears without knowing why. This irritated the retired policeman, who had been hectoring her as follows: All right, Judy. That’s what you would do. But what would Neva do? And what’s her number one hot button? If we press it, she goes apeshit, or whatever.—I laid out a five and a one for Francine, who mixed my poison. The straight man, glowering at me so that the whites of his eyes burned like torture-lamps, crooked his slender forefinger and said: Cheers! We clinked our poisons; then Francine opened another beer for Xenia.

  Wow, cried Samantha, I was just thinking that Neva really sizzles today! What is it about her?

  You know what’s puzzling me? said Xenia. It’s Neva’s look. I can’t figure out how she does it. I don’t even know what her look is. There’s nothing that special about any part of her, and yet somehow . . .

  Three dollars, said Francine.

  Don’t you get sick of that beer? asked Samantha.

  Oh, I’ll bet Neva knows a thing or two about makeup, said Sandra.

  No, Shantelle, said Xenia, you need a more balanced look. Now I think you should darken your roots by at least three shades.

  You gotta be crazy.

  So you’ll try it?

  Sure.

  Overflowing with kindness toward Neva, our untier of knots, longing to serve her as she would never serve herself, Judy sat in the retired policeman’s dark corner, rocking and gripping her head. Francine murmured to Shantelle, who shook her head until Francine gave her a five-dollar bill, which she snatched with the suddenness of a frog whose tongue flashes out to catch a fly, after which she grudgingly r
ose, went to Judy and said: Open, bitch.—Judy did. Shantelle lobbed a pill in.

  Judy sat alone for a long time, breathing heavily. Finally the medicine took effect, and she looked up. We were all ignoring her, the better to aggravate our own troubles.

  Xenia, she said.

  Xenia kept flirting with Samantha—who had just come out of the lesbian’s bedroom feeling taller than anyone else.

  Slowly the transwoman rose. I was watching; in her condition it was quite heroic of her. Swaying, she sat down next to Xenia.

  Usual? said Francine.

  Can you please please gimme a glass of water? I feel like shit.

  Guess what? said Shantelle. That’s what you are.

  Be nice, said Francine.

  I don’t care, said Judy. Xenia, did you hear me? I don’t fuckin’ care.

  Congratulations, said Xenia.

  Can I buy you a . . . ?

  Whatever.

  Three dollars, said Francine. And here’s your water, hon.

  Thanks, said Xenia, staring wearily down at her latest Old German Lager (I always hated that stuff).

  I said, don’t you get sick of that beer? asked Samantha.

  Will you come back here with me? said Judy.

  Samantha and Shantelle started hooting together: Pop her cherry, pop her cherry!

  Shut up, said Francine.

  Xenia picked up her beer and trudged back into the darkness with Judy. They sat down.—What? said Xenia.

  You said to come back to you when I—

  You’re a stinking cow, said Xenia.

  Judy began to cry silently.

  Oh, cut it out. I was just kidding you. See, you do care.

  Not so much—

  All right.

  Do you?

  Do I what?

  Do you get hurt?

  Judy, I think a lot of what I experience is that backstabbing kind of thing. You may not get the apartment, but nobody tells you why you didn’t. It might be because you’re too butch. It’s the same kind of prejudice black folks get. I’ve had people yell at me on the street. I can say, I’m a dyke, but I don’t want people yelling it on the street. It still hurts, but I can ignore it. I just think they’re immature. Now what do you want?