Below is an excerpt from my novel-in-progress, tentatively titled Weed.
It finally arrived. December 31st , the long awaited Friday of the show. I bolted
out of my bunk at 8 a.m, ritualistically donned my Castrator jersey and bleached jeans
and began counting the hours. A long wait was in store. Frankie had to visit his
grandmother, so I wouldn't be spending the day zooted at his place. I paced Junior's rat
nest for an hour until I heard him and Mom stirring behind the bedroom door. Got out of
there before the headboard started knocking against the wall.
Maybe the anticipation of the show awakened my adventurous side. I trooped
through guillotine wind to the el on McDonald Avenue and scoped the station for cops.
Then I hopped the turnstile. (Actually, I sat on it and swung my legs over.) The pasty
clerk creaked "Pay your fare!" through a crackling speaker. I jetted up the stairs and
slipped into an F train just as the doors were sliding shut.
Emerging from the West 4th Street station, I was instantly sucked into pedestrian
traffic. It was New Year's Eve - well, New Year's morning - and as you hurried along
like a tiny fish in a vast school, you sensed everyone hatching a plan. Who to call. Where
to go. What to wear. A million flitting, flashing agendas.
First stop was Eighth Street. Browse the record shops. I climbed the stairs to
Venus Records, my bootstomps reverberating the hallway. The cavern was slapdashed in
posters, flyers, stickers from bands famous and obscure. A huge Castrator poster for "The
Beckoning" showed Lucifer waving from the flames. There was graffiti too. Throw-up's.
Outlines. Even a classic "Grin" tag caught with an ink-soaked blackboard eraser. Thick
and drippy.
As I approached the top of the stairs my senses were assailed by the eerie opening
notes of Thorax's epic, "Kill Ballad." Soon the dirty bass crept in, then the toms all slow
and deliberate like war drums. Finally that maniacal scream from the bowels of hell. I
nodded approvingly and entered the store.
First thing I spotted was a chick casually flipping through a bin of albums. I
gravitated in her direction, settling safely by the Japanese imports two bins away.
Feigning interest in the LP's, I glanced every minute or so in her direction, each time
attempting to memorize a specific aspect of her. I was particularly fond of her ass profile,
the way the jeans pocket was strategically torn to reveal red fishnets underneath. Before I
could get beyond the butt, she drifted to a display case of pins and stickers at the opposite
end of the store. I spied her a few minutes, even considered following, but ultimately
decided against it. I exited Venus Records as "Kill Ballad" faded with the echoes of an
army marching in the rain.
Alone again, I wandered the frigid cityscape. It depressed me to leave a hot girl
behind, especially on this lonely island. My thoughts turned to Connie Spumante. Why
hadn't I asked about her plans tonight? I'd wanted to appear cool and aloof. Mostly I did
it to spare myself disappointment. I regretted it now.
I happened to pass a shop window that distracted me. Displayed inside were
dozens of bands' t-shirts and jerseys. Agamemnon, Torture Us, ThinkTank - all the
heaviest. There was also a mean selection of earrings: skulls, daggers, pentagrams. I'd
always wanted my ear pierced but never seemed to have the cash. Frankie - lucky bastard
- already had a battle axe and a dragon dangling from his left lobe. I would've been
happy with a hypoallergenic gold stud.
As I admired the goods, a mulleted kid waited eagerly in a chair in a corner of the
store. His chubby buddy - a hick in a Knife Party jersey - lingered nearby. The clerk
approached with the gun, they conversed briefly, and then he proceeded to pierce the
kid's ear. I was stabbed by a pang of jealousy as another stranger scored something just
out of my reach.
"Te gusta estos aretes?"
The phrase streamed my way like warm piss down the sidewalk. At first I didn't
believe it was intended for me. The second time I got the feeling someone was trying to
snag my attention. I assumed he was begging for change. I didn't hear the word dinero,
but that's always what they're after. Against my better judgment, I glanced over.
Pointy shoes. Suede jacket. Potato chip face.
"Don't speak Spanish," I said flatly.
"That's okay," he lisped sing-songy. "Do you like these earrings?"
"Whatta you want from me."
"I want to know if you like - "
"Fuck you care."
His skelly grill morphed into a caricature of confusion, then insult. He turned up
his collar, snorted and clicked away in his pointy platforms.
I figured that was my cue to relocate as well.
There aren't many choice destinations in Manhattan when you're broke,
especially in winter. I knew of a few inviting atriums in midtown, but the thought of a
forty-block hike in combat boots didn't thrill me.
I spent the afternoon shivering on a bench in Washington Square Park.
Before long a breadcrumb-toting hag appeared beside me, and then a flock of
germy pigeons descended upon us both. The avian rats surrounded me, cooing like sluts
and bobbing their beaks for bread scraps.
I rose and the birds took off, but not because of me. A fifty-pound, red-nose pit
bull came charging down the littered path. He halted before Breadcrumbs and me - thick,
upright, panting proudly.
My bench mate roared, "Get the hell outta here!" and flung her Wonder bag at its
gourd-like skull. She missed by six feet.
The dog was smiling as its owner - a slinky perp in two-tone Lee's - sauntered
over. "Kool-Aid, chill," he said. Then to me he muttered the familiar mantra: "Dimes of
Buddha."
"Put that thing on a leash 'fore it kills someone!" Breadcrumbs screeched.
"Bitch, shut th'fuck up," he hissed.
She called him a shvatza and spit on the ground. He reached into his waistband.
The pit stopped smiling. They proceeded to work out their differences as I slipped away
unscathed. Well, I did have a smudge of pigeon shit on my sleeve. Wiped it on a mailbox.
On the train back to Brooklyn, I had a realization: you've got to keep moving. It's
much harder to hit a moving target.
Chilled to my gut, I returned to the rat nest. Mom was at the dining room table,
and spread before her was yesterday's New York Post, a Tube O' Glue and the remains of
a ceramic dish that had shattered during the move. That dish had hung above the stove in
every place we'd ever lived, reminding us in loopy cursive that "Birds of a Feather Flock
Together." I wondered why some of the fractured shards were now assembled to read,
"Flock To Her." Mom's hand veins popped as she squeezed glue onto the edges.
I paused in the doorway and we acknowledged each other like two acquaintances
on the subway. Junior and Manny were out, so I hit the kitchen and rifled freely through
the refrigerator. Although I now lived here, the refrigerator was foreign to me. I didn't
know the shelves, the drawers, the condiments on the door. I felt self-conscious, like an
amateur thief, as I snatched a plate of dry hamburger and three fries. Ate standing up.
"Roberta called," she said.
"To babysit?"
"Someone broke into their apartment."
I watched her manipulate the shards.
"They all stayed out last night. When the kids got home today, they found the
place a mess."
"Where's Allan and Roberta?"
"Work. Their bedroom door's locked from inside. They wanna know if you can
go check it out."
"Me?"
"The kids are scared."
As I threw on my jacket, I considered asking if she knew Allan and Roberta were
swingers. I decided against it, since that might influence her to put an end to my
babysitting. I motioned to the shattered plate on the table. "You all right there?"
"It broke."
"Can I ask you a question?"
"No."
"How long we gonna be here?"
"Where?"
"This apartment."
"As long as it takes for us to find a place we can afford."
"Doesn't it bother you?"
"What?"
"Livin here."
"Why should it bother me? This is what friends do for each other."
"But you're not friends. You were datin his brother. That's not friends."
"I do what I gotta do to keep a roof over our head. If you got a problem with that,
leave. And besides, now you have Manny to keep you company. And Junior as a father
figure - like if you ever need advice about girls or anything."
"I guess he would be a good person to ask about women," I said ironically.
I opened the door. "If I'm not back in fifteen, robbers killed me. Give my stuff to
charity. Except my records. Give those to Frankie. Oh, if he calls, tell him I'll be right
back. Unless fifteen minutes have passed. Then tell him I'm dead."
"So dramatic," she said.
When I arrive the kids are sniffing around their parents' bedroom door. Danielle
and Michael peer underneath. Kevin jiggles the lock with a screwdriver while a soap
opera blares inside. "Watch out," I say, scooting the kids aside. Then I go, "Wataaaa!"
Bruce Lee style and deliver a heel blow to the doorknob.
The room: a maelstrom of fetishist paraphernalia. Dolls. Dildos. Flavored
lubricants. "Get the fuck outta here," I yell at the kids and cross the threshold. On TV, a
black woman weeps in a rickshaw. Kill it. Scan the room. Swinger newspapers cover the
floor like a drop cloth. A strap-on dangles from the dresser. "I said get the fuck outta
here!" I charge the kids and they retreat. My heart pumps fight or flight as I softly close
the bedroom door. A greasy vibe permeates this place.
The telephone beside the bed rings and I jump like a sucker. I consider not
answering, then tentatively raise the receiver, hold it an inch from my ear.
"Hello."
"Vic?"
"Yeah."
"It's Roberta," she half-whispers.
"Hi."
"How are the kids?"
"Fine. Wanna talk - ?"
"In a minute. How does it look?"
"I had to kick in the door - "
"Don't worry about that. How does the room look?"
"Well, there's a lot of stuff lyin around."
"Don't pay any attention to that, okay?"
"No problem."
"Vic, can you do me a favor?"
"Sure."
"I want you to go over to the closet by the door. Is it open?"
"It's open."
"Now don't be nosey, but look on the floor. Is there a leather duffel bag?"
"Yeah."
"Good. Lift the bag. Does it make a clanging sound like there's pots and pans
inside?"
I peek inside. A shiny triple beam scale catches the light, blinks at me. I shuffle it
around to produce the desired sound.
"It's clangin."
"Good." She's slightly relieved. "Now like I said, don't be nosey, but I want you
to peek under the bed and tell me if you see something that looks like…like a baseball
wrapped in plastic."
"A baseball?"
"Yes."
"Hold on."
I rest the phone on a pillow, lower myself to the ratty carpet. Now I'm eye-level
with the guts of this room. Random objects lay exposed like secrets: a wash cloth, a nail
clipper, a rubber glove. Feeling vaguely guilty, I lift the bed skirt.
There it is, Saran-wrapped beneath the center of the queen-sized Sealy. It's dark
under there, but the object seems to glow and pulse like some rare stone. It calls me,
draws me to it. I rise to my feet, crack the door and listen for the chatter of the kids in
their rooms. I glance briefly at the phone and return to the floor.
My arm stretches to its max but I clutch dust. Shimmy under the box spring as
bed skirts brush my face. Finally it's in my hand, smooth and solid. I stand and toss the
nugget onto the pillow beside the phone. What's in all those sandwich bags? I can't
discern any particular color or form beneath the layers of plastic.
"Hello?"
"Yes, Vic. I'm still here."
"Don't see anything."
She sighs.
"Should I check again?"
"Please."
I toss the phone to the cummy pillow, stare at it. Then I stare at the nugget. Then
back at the phone. A small voice inside tells me it's not too late to do the right thing. I
can still turn this around. Who needs the guilt?
I pull a deep breath, exhale, pick up the phone.
"Nothin."
Roberta is disappointed. She thanks me for my troubles. Can I put up some water,
prepare mac and cheese for the kids? No problem, I say, stuffing the nugget down the
front of my jeans. She wants to talk to the kids, so I call them in and they take turns
whining and asking when she'll be home. Finally Danielle returns the phone to me.
"Interested in babysitting?"
I'm a bit surprised she'd go out and leave the kids home after what happened. But
I'm not one to judge. It is New Year's, after all.
"Sorry," I say, "Castrator's playin tonight. I've been waitin months for this."
As I wrap it up with Roberta, I notice Danielle staring curiously at my feet. My
first thought is that the nugget has somehow slid down my pant leg. Glancing at the
carpet, I'm relieved - well, somewhat - to find this isn't the case.
The child's innocent gaze has fallen upon a veiny black dildo. There is an
awkward moment when our eyes meet. Then I kick it under the bed and boot all three of
them out of the room.
