The Lucky Star

by William T. Vollmann

  When’s Judy’s turn?

  Yesterday.

  Would you lie to me?

  If you told me to.

  Are you lying now?

  The lesbian smiled at him.

  It’s a date, he said.

  I love you, said the lesbian.

  He said: You crooked bitch.

  4

  He called Judy, whose phone went straight to voicemail. He called her again three more times.

  Where the fuck did she go all day? he said to himself. Where, but to Neva?

  Where the fuck were you?

  Trying to get a job at Buzzmart, but they—

  Bullshit.

  Honey, I swear—

  No way that would have taken you so long. Should I beat the truth out of you? No, you’re not worth it.

  5

  So he got his hair cut at the Eddy Street Barber Shop, right across from the police station. Since he was a regular, the price for him was still fifteen dollars, but he gave the man a twenty. Then he limped over to the Reddy Hotel, Room 543. Neva had a bottle of Old Crow waiting for him. Pretty soon he was saying: The toughest one I ever had was, well, Karen, I had a call, a child neglect call. A neighbor from this apartment called and here’s this woman and she’s got two, one in diapers, dirty diapers at that, and the other was a little older, and there’s feces on the wall, and I didn’t have the most pleasant childhood in the world and I was the oldest child and I had to clean up my little brothers, and when you see that it’s so disturbing . . . Look at me. Yeah. All right, Karen, what happened to you? Don’t fuckin’ lie to me. Abandonment? No, you look physically healthy, aside from your stupid little puke parties that don’t fool anybody. If Judy dies from that bulimia, I’ll fuckin’ smash your head in. So. Abuse. What was it? Come on, Karen, tell Daddy. What did Daddy do? Oh, I just love this!

  She answered: Tell me what happened to you.

  You know, I don’t give a fuck, because you’re not drinking with me and I hate your goddamned . . . Oh, what’s the point? And your mother’s gonna keep the faith. Good for her—a champion old bag! I actually enjoy her, because she’s just like me. But your days are numbered, Karen. Your story stinks, and I’m gonna drive you out of here. You wanna know why?

  For Judy.

  Good girl.

  Now. Does your biography add up or not? I’d say it doesn’t. Are you with me?

  Okay, said the lesbian.

  Then what do you propose to do about it?

  You don’t know your own secret, she said.

  So what? You get the fuck out of here so I can have my Judy back.

  I love you, said the lesbian.

  You said that yesterday and the day before. And you know what?

  But I really do.

  If you love me, get the fuck out of this town. Did you hear me, bitch? Get out!

  Excuse me, she said. The bathroom door closed behind her. He heard the toilet flush, but without any prior sounds, so he opened the unlocked door, catching her as she bent ever so gracefully, lifting the top of the toilet tank—and then whirled round to see him . . . at which she welcomingly, unquestioningly smiled—and he thought: I have to see what she’s hidden there! Silently letting down the lid, she advanced to the doorway and said: Okay.

  Okay what?

  I want to do what you want. I just don’t know how to—

  In the long run they won’t give a shit. They won’t even remember you. How can they, when they don’t even love themselves?

  But Judy’s almost ready to—

  Stay away from her.

  No, said the lesbian.

  What do you mean? he asked. He was astonished, because how often did the hypocritically accommodating bitch ever utter that word?

  Xenia’s got her another slot at the Pink Apple in two weeks. Did you know that?

  Sure, he lied.

  Let’s you and Xenia and me work on her confidence. And then—

  She’ll fuckin’ crash and burn again. Anyway, the Pink Apple’s just a crappy little . . . I mean, whether or not anyone claps for Judy in some dumb little tranny chorus line’s not gonna make or break her.

  Do it for me, said the lesbian.

  He stared. He chuckled. Then he said: I love to negotiate.

  Lifting the lid of the toilet tank, she asked him: Did you want to see?

  He looked. He saw baggies of powder and baggies of pills all happily floating. He said: I’m gonna drop a dime on you.

  Okay, said the lesbian. What else did my mother say?

  She loves it that her itsy-bitsy Karen has never gotten old. Are you gonna kill yourself or not?

  I’ll do something. But Xenia thinks that this time Judy’s got a better chance—

  He turned his back on her and went out. To demonstrate his contempt, he left behind the bottle of Old Crow.

  6

  The transwoman grabbed at Neva’s hand, and Neva smiled, secretly running her tongue over a mouth-sore. Then I made my requests, and when they failed of brisk fulfillment I dragged them right to the Y Bar at lunchtime, where those red Japanese lanterns glowed by the restroom, and within them the bulb glowing like a fat vermilion clitoris, while Xenia carefully swished one of her false eyelashes around in her cocktail, evidently in hopes of dissolving a clot of glue, and I for once took my drink and sat alone (which is to say catty-corner to trembly old Bradley who as of last week unspeakingly, unspeakably bartended the first shift) just beyond the bar, in order to see Xenia and all the empty stools backward in the long mirror, then waited for Neva, drank another bourbon and sodapop, waited, texted Neva and called her even as Sandra continually reached out with nervous needy tendrils, calling and calling the lesbian’s little blue phone without leaving any message, probing to see if the line was busy . . .

  7

  I dreamed that I was spying on them, as indeed I was, and in my dream I could see an occasion when the lesbian was holding the transwoman’s hand and they stepped off the curb in some jarring way which injured the transwoman’s wrist so that she cried out in angry pain, and although the lesbian said she was sorry, the transwoman then bitterly responded: So am I.—This second apology, if that was what it was, struck the lesbian as ambiguous, as if Judy, instead of being sorry that she had scolded the lesbian, might in fact have meant to express sheer sorrow at having been hurt, so that after that the lesbian did not care to hold her hand, and a quarter-hour later when the lesbian stopped to check her lipstick in that tiny narrow mirror that Xenia had once given her, the transwoman proceeded to another bench; and when the lesbian looked over that way she saw her sitting with her head hanging down, with such an expression of woe and despair on her face as shocked the lesbian into grief and the tenderest pity, but on account of that incident on the curb, and ever so many others which had happened that spring (for instance, the transwoman, having been informed how much it offended the lesbian to be told over and over you don’t love me, had now begun to almost offhandedly say: We have a bad relationship), the lesbian could not help but feel anger intermixed with her loving compassion, and when she considered the prospect of once again getting scolded for twisting the transwoman’s wrist she pulled her hand away when the transwoman timidly reached out; then in silence they strode down the sidewalk, with the lesbian to the left of and slightly behind the transwoman; later the lesbian was cooking dinner while the transwoman, weary and aching, feeling old, sat on the sofa with her head in her hands; and once the potatoes were done and the asparagus was halfway tender so that it was time to add three spoonfuls of lentils from the can, the lesbian turned round smiling to say: I love you, but the transwoman wore a mask of misery, and she replied: I know how you really feel.

  But that was nothing but a stupid dream. In fact we all got along in our various combinations, just as in the days when one used to play “Sardines” at Judy Garland’s
mansion, two people of any sex hiding in the dark until they cared to be found; I remember for instance the pleasing afternoon when the Y Bar had been booked for an engagement party by two old women in purple shirts and white slacks, one bespectacled, the other not, both with identical brown bangs; I saw them cutting some species of cake, then embracing and deeply kissing; meanwhile, in the dark corner by the toilet, Xenia was teasing the transwoman: Have you been to a place called Crunch down on Howard Street? Oh, they make just the most amazing doughnuts. Judy, you should go there. Weren’t you trying to put on another fifty pounds?—at which the transwoman commenced weeping as usual, so that the lesbian, our light-giver for life, touched a middle finger to the back of her neck in that special way she had which always made the other woman feel electric. Massaging her shoulders, she said: Judy, what’s wrong?

  Are you always going to love me?

  Of course I will, honey—I promise.

  But nobody can be everything to another person. That’s impossible, right? I want you to be everything to me, but I’m starting to realize . . .

  Am I everything to you now?

  Yes . . .

  So don’t worry. I’ll always be, cross my heart . . .

  I wish I could dress like a secretary for you. Or a cleaning lady. I’d like to clean your toilet while you slap me and tell me I’m no good—

  Judy, are you listening?

  Yes, Neva—

  I’ll never slap you unless you want me to. And I’ll only slap you because you’re such a good girl.

  No, I’m a bad girl. A bad girl!

  You’re a very good bad girl, honey, so come home with me and I’ll give you your reward.

  So Judy followed her, of course. And the lesbian went into the bathroom, closed the door, sat down on the toilet, silently lifted the top of the tank and set it face down on her lap. There was a new baggie of greyish-white powder attached to it with black electrician’s tape. She pinched out a double dose and licked her fingers clean.

  Neva? Neva, are you okay? the transwoman called anxiously.

  Almost ready! the lesbian called back cheerfully.

  What are you doing, Neva?

  Whatever she called out echoed in her own ears like old songs to one who has gone away, even here in the darkness where the shining copper suns of the lesbian’s bracelets proved that no one had to be alone.

  Neva returned smiling to her lover. Her hair was of some bright unknown color. She said: I want you to take care of Xenia, because she looks up to you.

  How do you know? breathed the transwoman, fascinated.

  I just do. Do you promise?

  Okay. I—

  You’ll do it for me.

  That’s right.

  And the transwoman, reveling in bowing before her, sobbing into her hands, felt, if not very happy, at least coherent, while the lesbian waited patiently to kiss her. They made up in bed. Nowadays the transwoman always licked the lesbian’s toes almost desperately. Right now she longed for that trembly, shaken sensation she experienced whenever the retired policeman had whipped her for a long hard time.

  8

  So when Xenia’s dog had to be put to sleep and Xenia asked Francine to come with her for moral support, Judy volunteered to keep them both company; she was the one who stroked the old dog’s tumorous head all the way to the vet, because Francine was sitting in the front seat of the taxi and Xenia was weeping. Francine and Judy stood side by side, watching Xenia as the vet upraised the syringe.—Oh, God, just a minute, just a minute more, sobbed Xenia, and so the vet waited pleasantly. Francine took Xenia’s hand.—He won’t feel a thing, said the vet. Are you ready now?—Xenia nodded and blew her nose. The vet leaned forward while the transwoman stared at everything with her mouth open. The dog did not even twitch. The vet placed his stethoscope against the animal’s chest. Everyone waited. The vet said: He’s gone.—The transwoman gripped Xenia’s other hand. Xenia touched the corpse very quickly and lightly. Then she stood up. When she turned around to face her friends, Judy, seeing how much Xenia grieved, burst into tears.

  9

  When the lesbian and the transwoman had each taken two blue dolphins, which roared through their nerve endings so excitingly that the lesbian gave them each another, the transwoman’s cell phone rang. It was the retired policeman.

  Oh, said the transwoman. Oh, no. I feel very nervous.

  But he knows.

  But today I was supposed to be applying for temp jobs . . .

  Well, Judy, do you need to answer it?

  I have to. I think I’m being paranoid, but it’s also true that he has watched me unlock the screen of my cell phone so often that he can probably do it, and last night after I called you he brought it to me and said: Don’t you need this? And it was unlocked, Neva! I know I’m in the wrong to be in a hotel room straddling you like this when I told him I was sick, but he always spies on me!

  Smiling lovingly, the lesbian stroked her hair and asked: Do you know what you’ll tell him?

  I can’t make up my mind, but I have to at least text him right now. If he doesn’t answer I can turn my phone off, but . . . Neva, I don’t know what to do!

  The lesbian had never stopped stroking her hair. She said: Go ahead and text him now, sweetheart. Get it over with so you can find some peace.

  Oh, Neva! I do love you! You know that, don’t you?

  Of course I do.

  The transwoman sat still on top of the lesbian, who waited patiently. Whenever the transwoman got afraid, her body gave off a musk that was not unpleasant. The lesbian licked her armpit.

  Neva, why can’t we just be together, you and me? I’d marry you . . .

  I know you would, honey. I love you very much. Now why torture yourself any longer? Go ahead and text him. Be brave.

  The transwoman had scarcely cobbled together half a dozen characters when her cracked phone rang.—Oh, uh, hi, honey, she said. No, I mean I’m not so much sick as drowsy. No, I didn’t mean it that way. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I know I’m a flawed person, but . . . What? No, it’s really true, I swear. And when you’re asking me when I last saw Neva, how am I supposed to know the date? You’re right. I agree that I should know the date, but I’m not as smart as you are. You sure remember everything. No, that wasn’t an accusation; I’m sorry you think so. I didn’t mean to make you feel attacked. No, that’s not true, honey! I swear I’ve never used with Neva. You’re the only one I use with. Now I’m feeling really sad. I feel as if I’m no good to you. Yes, I agree that I’m no good. I agree that I’m just a trash bitch who doesn’t deserve to live. I’m really really sorry. I—no, please don’t go! I’ll do anything! Hello? Hello?—Neva, he hung up and now he’s not answering. What should I do?

  Turn off your phone and put it back in your purse. Judy, listen to me. You know that I love you?

  Oh, Neva! Neva, I love you so much! I’ll always want to be with you—

  Okay. Right now you’re with me. I do love you and I want to make you happy. Are you feeling the medicine?

  Well, I was, but now I feel all speedy and jangled. He’s going to hit me when he sees me—

  Then don’t let him see you.

  But I can’t—

  Judy, look into my eyes. Do you see my pupils?

  They’re really really big. You look like a beautiful space alien. Ha, ha!

  So do you. That drug is trying to help you and I want to help you. In two days you’ll be on at the Pink Apple and you’ll be a star. Relax, Judy; I’m going to kiss your feet.

  But how can you do that? I’m not good enough for you, and besides, I need to cut my toenails.

  I’m going to lick your toes. How does that feel?

  Ah! Ah! Ah! Oh, Neva, don’t stop.

  10

  I cashed my check and went home to rest my swollen ankles. Since I was out of sodapop
, I turned on another opiate of the masses, and a cat-eyed lady in a white lab coat tittered: Brown spots on your face and hands? A prominent surgeon reveals your secret fix—for under twenty dollars!—after which the beautifully pensive anchorwoman (about whom Selene and Holly both had fantasies) told us her latest bedtime story: For the second time this year, the same transgender woman has apparently been the target of a hate crime on the streets of San Francisco. On February fourth, Lori Ann Lombardo and her girlfriend Carmela Sanchez were leaving a bus in the city’s Tenderloin neighborhood. Lombardo was stabbed in the face and chest by an unknown Caucasian man, who had followed them off the bus, expressing homophobic slurs against both women. The next attack against Lombardo took place yesterday night when she was walking alone near the intersection of Seventeenth and Mission streets, police said. A man and a woman allegedly shouted obscenities at her, after which the woman threw hot coffee in her face and the man punched her at least three times. Police say that both suspects remain in custody at the San Francisco County Jail, and that the video surveillance content is being analyzed. Officers said that two witnesses corroborated . . .

  That news dragged me down, so I set out for the Y Bar to buy a quick cheer-up (six dollars). Selene was saying: It’s like when Ellen Icicle had to perform at a mall just to cover the rent of her Malibu mansion—

  That’s tragic, said Victoria, while Judy and Shantelle kept leaning smilingly into each other’s faces like the two post-menopausal ladies in that ad for the vaginal hormone ring. Behind the bar, Francine posed as grandly as if she alone could smooth our Neva’s heart, caressing away all pain.

  Last night I had tried once more to pin Neva down. I pointed out that I loved her; I had proved my love; all I needed was for her to get rid of everyone else and spend the rest of her life in my arms . . . Of course her answer, not curt but also not informative, filled me with dread and grief.

  I admitted that it belonged to her to come to us and go from us as best suited her, and that her reasons were hers alone.

  The lesbian came in with the retired policeman, and the way Xenia stared at them, it was as if her eyeballs were of blindly shining stone. As for the straight man, he could not stop watching the way that Neva’s buttocks pivoted around her unseen cunt as she walked toward the cash register. How could she be so faultless in every way? Was it self-confidence? But she was never arrogant; she had that slightly self-effacing way about her that makes generosity most successful. (Part of deciding that she was now living her truest life was renouncing all hope of living any other way. Or as Natalie Wood, renamed so by her producer, once explained: You try to find in yourself the essence of someone else’s feelings.) So he hunched his head, unable to get enough of the lesbian. And in that moment, which the rest of us would have spent wondering how we would be remembered, the lesbian hoped only that she would leave no trace and would vanish safely six feet under the illusion she had woven. But the transwoman’s desperate desire kept growing ever stronger; she reveled in sobbing into her hands, feeling utterly coherent, while the lesbian waited patiently to kiss her; with Shantelle on her left and Judy on her right, Neva’s concern was how to please them both, or, if that proved impossible, how to at least appease them to a minimal degree, so that they would go on loving her. At the Cinnabar the retired policeman insisted that she was prepared to kill herself rather than be understood, but he entertained the sophomoric idea that to understand someone is to understand just what she is afraid of. When I demanded to know what Neva feared, he answered with contemptuous slowness: Everything.—He might have been accurate when he said that she would do anything to avoid exposure . . .—but on the other hand, she never lied to him who was an honest liar; when Judy called him to report that according to Shantelle Neva had locked herself in the bathroom to take pills, he gloated, for hiding equaled dishonesty plus weakness. Well, what did he fear? Refusing to become fatalistic merely because thanks to the lesbian—who now haunted his speculations like some beautiful darkhaired murder defendant—his happy nights of beating and sodomizing Judy, then winning games of checkers against her (true to her nature, she played to lose) might be coming to an end, he persevered—stoic old fake! I kept saying to him that Neva feared nothing; she concealed only her superhumanness; he said: Oh, no. Her mother knows something, and I’m gonna hook it out of the old hag! Hola, Carmencita, fill us both up!