The Pussy Page 5

  I became their top salesman. I beat homeless Cronkite and Alcoholic priest and a bunch of other guys who’d been in boiler rooms all their adult lives, always for companies with three letter names: BTS productions, CBL productions. Selling the chance to send five retarded kids to the Vaudeville Variety Follies in Oregon and Texas and Arizona. I locked on to something and walked in knowing I would kill and so I did. A woman gave a thousand dollars because she was mad at her husband and I was a man to talk to. A man started out screaming at me out for screwing real charities out of money and when I gave him the voice he calmed down and bought. The old codgers showed me respect. I started to think of myself as a salesman. I can close anything, anyone, I thought. Then some girl would ask “what do you do” in a bar and I would cringe. This was before I knew how to lie to girls. “I’m a telemarketer,” I would say. “Oh fuck, I hate you guys.”

  No matter how good you are most of them hate you. Once in a while one of them will get through to whatever tender spot you have left. There are still two people, twelve years later, whose names, numbers and addresses I could recite for you. I’ve taken care to remember because I still might want to kill them some day. Do you know what a waste of a human life you are, one of them told me. At the time I didn’t, although I’ve since been briefed. No matter how good you are, and even if you act like a human being to them, every night there are enough of them being cruel to make you cry. I could stay on the phone with you and make you kill yourself, you think. Or at least tell you to go fuck yourself, but, the boss was very clear. They can say these things. You can’t. That’s what a job is. They can say you’re a waste of human life and you can’t say fuck off.

  If you have a soul, there is a vessel inside of you that gets filled up with all the hate you take in. About a year in it hit the meniscus for me and I had to quit. I got a job selling ads for a newspaper. The same shit, really, but I was dialing the phone with my fingers rather than a machine and could tell girls I worked for something they’d heard of.

  But I remember the lessons that job taught me. Because there are only two jobs in the world: “making shit,” and “selling shit.” Every white collar job I’ve had since is “selling shit.” Picking up the phone and asking people for money. Whether they give it to you depends on what’s in your voice. What’s in your voice depends on whether the last guy gave you money.

  The world only rewards hustlers and liars. People will be cruel to the weak whenever they get a chance. Then they will roll over mesmerized for anyone who doesn’t appear to give a fuck. They’ll trip over themselves to give you anything as long as you don’t need it. As long as they’re not helping you. The job taught me that we are essentially evil. That every nice thing you’ve ever thought about humankind is a flaming crock of shit. That if a righteous God existed we would have been destroyed long ago.

  There were, however, free doughnuts on Saturdays.

  The Soap

  There was thumping coming from the bathroom. Slow at first, then gradually faster, and then a big sound like a bundle of logs being dropped.

  Where’s the soap? She called through the door.

  I don’t know. Where is it usually?

  The door creaked open and her head appeared, face slightly red. If it were where it is usually, she said, would I have asked you where it is?

  Well it’s in there somewhere.

  Are you sure sweetie?

  Yeah, it has to be.

  He stood up from the couch, walked over and stuck his head in the bathroom door. She was back looking in the cabinet under the sink now. Moving items around: toilet paper, baby powder, tampons. There was no available physical space large enough to be occupied by the 8-Pak of Lever 2000® Pure Rain™ bath bars she had instructed him to buy. But she kept looking anyway.

  Are you sure you even bought it?

  I mean, yeah.

  She put down a half-rolled-up tube of triple antibiotic ointment and looked up at him. The triple antibiotic ointment had been purchased for their cat when it had been bitten by a gopher. Later their son fell off his bike and got a scratch. She had insisted on purchasing a new, separate tube of ointment, even though he had looked it up on the internet and the one for cats was the exact same ingredients as the one for people. You’re sure.

  Look, I don’t have a specific memory of the soap among 15,000 other items. But I bought it. OK? It’s gonna be fine. Maybe it’s in the kitchen.

  She followed him. Why would you put it in the kitchen?

  I don’t know. Maybe I filed it under “cleaning products” in my mind.

  In the cabinet under the kitchen sink, arrayed beneath the gooseneck, were the 3-Pak of duel surface dish sponge/ pot scrubbers, the new yellow latex gloves, and the Reduced Environmental Harm pine cleaner he had purchased. No soap.

  Look, he said, I bought it. I remember now, because we had the coupon. I remember giving her the coupon. She said it was only for the 12-Pak and they were out of 12-Paks but the manager came over and told her to give it to me for the 8-Pak. So I definitely bought it. It’s here somewhere.

  OK, “somewhere” doesn’t do me any good though. It exists, that’s great, but it’s not helpful. What I want to know is where did you put it.

  I mean I thought I put it where the soap usually goes…

  She put her palm to her forehead. Inhaled. OK, obviously you didn’t. I have to go. Can you just think?

  I’ve been thinking. I’m not… we’d have to call in a hypnotist to reconstruct what I did with the soap. It’s gonna turn up honey. Why don’t you get in the shower and use shampoo. I’ll bring it in to you if I find it.

  I’m not going to wash my armpits and asshole with shampoo. This is an office, I can’t start smelling like fucking taint halfway through the day–

  Well you’re the one who’s freaking out about being late. I’m trying to be constructive.

  Constructive? It’s not helping, OK? It’s not helping. It’s not like you have a lot to do around here, and the one fucking thing I want, the one thing I ask you for–

  That’s not fair.

  You have no job, you bring in no money, and you can’t even make sure we have basic things like soap in the fucking house. You can’t even–

  Stop.

  It’s not like you’re some emotional rock, either. My work is fucking hard and you can’t even listen to me–

  Will you just stop please.

  My sister says your lack of engagement is a form of emotional abuse. I’m starting to think–

  Let me tell you something. Your sister does not give a FUCK about you or anything else that isn’t her. I don’t know what the fuck, she’s… abuse? Abuse??

  Don’t talk about her like that.

  No, it’s bullshit. She read about some new form of “abuse” on the internet and she thought: how can I get Astrid to move out so I can split the rent. She wants more fucking booze money. She does not give a fuck, she is using you–

  Don’t talk about her– you don’t know anything about her.

  I know everything I need to know and I know this is another fucking bullshit way she figured out to use you, so don’t start quoting her to me about– about the FUCKING SOAP. Jesus.

  At least she listens to me.

  FOR CHRIST’S FUCKING SAKE, HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU? She is a WHORE–

  Don’t say that.

  You know what? You’re a fucking whore too. You act like I’m some fucking bum who’s lucky to have you. I’ve been out of work THREE WEEKS, it’s not the god damn Great Depression. You were a WHORE. You came from NOTHING. You FUCKED OLD MEN for MONEY. You are LUCKY that ANYONE would fucking have you. And you bite my FUCKING head off about the… FUCKING… SOAP!

  She was on him before he knew what was happening. She had a lucky hit, the chef’s knife went right under his ribs. It felt hot. He tried to breath but but only got half full; on his left side the air was hissing out of a wet hole and it felt like someone was standing on his chest in boots. He was sitting no
w. The room moved like when you’d had too many drinks and woke up on the couch in your clothes, trying to lift your head off the pillow. Moving like a boat. Then he was lying down. He was shaking but couldn’t feel it so much anymore. When he was a boy he saw a mother cat get run over, her body scissoring frantically in the street as the kittens looked on from the sidewalk. He must be scissoring like that. The floor was warm.

  There was a lot of blood. Every book where someone stabs someone, she thought, they always remarked: so much blood. It was always more than they expected. But she was able to form a dam with some dish towels to pool it up, keep it on the tile and off the carpet. Her hands were shaking. She had read about this too. Everything was going down exactly as described in countless novels about murder. His blood was all over her forearms. If she could get his body on a dolly she could get in in the trunk, and she could burn it down to something manageable out behind the dump after work. After a day or two she would call the police and say he’d disappeared. Were there any problems in the home, they would ask. Did he have issues with drinking or drugs. Yes and yes. Eventually they would give up. He probably skipped town and went to Mexico. It happens all the time.

  She would only be a little late. She went back into the bathroom to check on herself. No bruises, no scratches. Everything looked fine, except the blood. Fortunately the soap was sitting on top of the sink.

  Can’t Live with ‘Em, Can’t Live without ‘Em

  This is what I remember. I went back in to tell the crazy black chick with the fake blue eyes: come on, just give us a fucking ride two exits up the freeway. You promised you would drive us back, I said. I knew the whole time she would Welsh but I thought she could be reasoned with. She could not. She got angry, very angry, she was yelling at me to get the fuck out of the house and take that crazy ass bitch with you and I said all right, all right. And I’m pretty sure she popped me one. I have no marks on me but I remember laughing and telling her that if she was going to hit me she ought to put some body into it. When in fact it hurt, she had put plenty of body into it. She was African American and a “top” type Lesbian so even though she was a chick, you know, demographically she had the ability to punch. I went back out to the parking lot to find you and go. Figured we would split a cab, which would have taken up all the money I had left, but, we had to get out of there.

  I went back to the parking lot to find you and you were gone. You had been lying on your face in an empty parking space against a cinder block wall one minute and then you just disappeared. The crazy black chick with the vampire-y blue contact lenses followed me out, yelling, motherfucker this, motherfucker that, nigga you better get the FUCK out of here RIGHT NOW and I was like, look, let me wait till Astrid comes back. We gotta get a cab. She kept yelling. So I thought: fuck it. I asked her to open the gate so I could go. She wouldn’t open the gate. She was calling the cops. She was telling them I was menacing her and wouldn’t leave when in fact I was prevented from leaving by the giant electric metal gate to the parking lot, which had no way of being opened without some remote of hers. Yeah, he has a plaid shirt on, she was saying into the phone. I was pleased I wasn’t wearing my distinctive blazer and pocket square or lavender cardigan. I imagined blending seamlessly into a sea of plaid shirts. Eventually I just jumped the wall.

  Now I am in fucking Tarzana late at night, stumbling drunk, no idea if they even have buses this far out and not enough cab money to get to my house. But I was more scared for you, because you were doing that thing you do when you get drunk and you just shut down. You become this floppy corpse who only stirs for a few seconds at a time to slur a couple words and grind your pussy against whoever’s trying to hold you up, the way a dog in heat drags her crotch on the carpet. And you were out there somewhere wandering around this weird deep valley neighborhood and maybe you would pass out in a bush and choke on your own puke and die. Walking down the street I thought I saw you and I was thrilled and relieved. But when the figure turned around it was a different chick with strawberry blonde hair and all white on, seeing a drunk hollow-eyed stranger rushing toward her.

  Then I turned a corner and there you were for real and I thought: great, this is finally over. We can go home. But you tried to run right past me. I was pissed. I grabbed you and said listen: let’s just call a ca– and you bit me. I kept trying to grapple you and you kept biting me. I think I threw you on the ground. Or maybe I just dropped you and you couldn’t stand up. We were in a patch of grass in front of an apartment building and a man was sitting on his balcony watching. I figured he would call the cops; I knew the crazy black chick had called the cops, now here I was, a serial psychopath violently terrorizing women all over this sleepy community. But no cops ever came. You got up and ran away from me and I chased you.

  You wearing all white, so it was easy to chase you even down streets where there were no street lights. And it seemed like you kept slowing down so I could catch you. I think that’s what you wanted. You wanted to drag out this whole domestic violence type hell as long as possible. Some part of you needs to escalate everything, bring it to its worst, see how awful you can make people act. You would slow down seeming to think you’d lost me and look back and there I was. I felt like the Terminator.

  You ran into traffic. I saw you get a car to stop and a guy to roll his window down and you pointed at me and were clearly telling him that I was a violent miscreant bent on killing you. He didn’t do shit. The other guy who saw me putting you in a headlock clearly hadn’t called the cops either, there were no cops on the streets. The good people of Tarzana would hear you screaming like Kitty fucking Genovese and just turn up the TV.

  Eventually I lost you. There was a patch of woods with a big fence around it. The fence continued for a long way in one direction, and I realized it must contain some kind of train or busway. Miraculously, you had led me to the Orange Line, which I could take to the Red Line. On the bus a girl was yelling at a guy about some other girl who had been texting him. The girl was hot. I bet the other one was too. Five guys in the world get all the pussy.

  It took hours to get home. The train stop is three miles from my apartment. Good thing I was wearing sensible shoes.

  **********

  One of you had a fishy cunt. I can still smell it on me. The same hand with your bite marks on the wrist. Souvenirs.

  The girl with the eyes was actually a good host before she went crazy. She gave me a bullet vibrator to fingerfuck you guys with so I wouldn’t feel left out. Meanwhile she was wielding this weird loud salmon colored device with two menacing looking sci fi heads and the cute one was stabbing you in the pussy with two fingers while you were bent over. Do you know how to use this, she said as she handed it to me. What was I going to say, no? In reality I had no fucking idea. Turn it on and put it on someone’s pussy I guess. But it wasn’t about me anyway. I was baggage. The point of the party was for you to get laid and it was a courtesy for them to even allow me in the room. And I was too drunk to get hard. Blue eyes had a whole fucking retail display of Muscat grape wine lined up in her kitchen. It went down too easy.

  In a perfect world I would have mounted up on the cute one and filled her full of mulatto babies I would never know about. But orgies make me uncomfortable. Even a multiracial four way with three hot women. The white girl is a redhead and the black girls are nice and dark; just watching your skin rubbing together should have been something but I couldn’t bring myself to give a shit.

  Still. They were a nice find. We were at the downtown Standard. Pool party. The day looked like a lost cause; four guys for every girl and those guys were plumb ugly. We were both screwed. But then you came up with this black Lesbian couple and suddenly the day turned around. The cute one wanted my Adderall and the weird one, the one with the fake blue eyes and the titanium plate bolted on to her skeleton so she could have metal studs poking out of her skin– the weird one wanted your pussy. She wanted to take us back to her place in Tarzana. The drugs were at my place and I figured once we got
high we’d forget about this ridiculous plan to go to the valley, but no. She insisted. She drove fast and she played dubstep music so loud it put my neckbones out of place. She was embarrassed about her Honda, had to explain that she’d had a BMW and a Ferrari before she’d crashed them into walls. She had been married to a rapper for years. Had kids by him. Before she turned gay. She was studying to be a lawyer. She wouldn’t shut the fuck up about it. Before the fucking and then after when you passed out and scared them and she kicked us out and was calling the cops. Somehow her legal knowledge would make them come faster, punish me harder, she was telling me. As I climbed her fence I thought: you got that and I got racism and let’s see who wins.

  The night turned to shit when you started gurgling and flopping around like you do. You drink and drink and it always hits you all at once. The girls got spooked. Maybe you said something. Maybe I said something, I can’t remember. For some reason I’m only seeing myself as the hero in all this. I promised the cute one I could get her into porn. This was so I could get a picture of her tits. It’s been less than ten hours and I’ve masturbated to it five times.