Disintegration (5 page)

There's another side to that tape I play, the voicemail. I don't press that button very often. Tonight, back at the apartment, my head hung, a cold beer vibrates in my hand. It's not the first nor will it be the last. I flip the tape over and click it in. I raise my head and glance around the dark kitchen. This could be a submarine, buried deep under the weight of the ocean, sonar pinging around the metal cage, instead of a car backing down the alley. This could be a cave, water dripping from an ancient stalactite instead of the rusty faucet, the stench of bat droppings filling my sinuses. This could be extended solitary confinement, cold concrete on all four sides, thin prison fabric and a metal tray sliding under the door. But it isn't.

I press the tape and it rewinds, the clicking and shushing filling the room. My right hand starts to shake and I drop the bottle on the floor. It hits with a hollow thud and falls over, spilling out the white foam and amber liquid. Whirring and whirring the tape spins around and around, faster and faster. I can't do it. I can't push it tonight. I don't need to be reminded. I don't. I turn to the bathroom to hunt down a bottle. I am a failure in so many ways. In every way.

Sad.

Three capsules, as a punishment.

My back is against the wall, several empty bottles toppled over on their sides, several full ones too, all within reach. I suck the cold liquid down as if gasping for air. The darkness washes over me, an angry wall of water, littered with the wreckage of my actions. Bobbing in the bottomless liquid, the shapes and pieces are broken and sinking, falling apart, and drifting to the ocean floor.

I press the button.

“This is the Mundelein Police Department, Thirteenth District, Officer Weis calling…”

Standing in the hot shower, my tears blend with the water, and I don't know where I stop and the rest of the world begins. My skull rests against the cool tile, fingers locked behind it. The water beats down on my back, steam rising up in the dark. My legs tremble as I return to the womb.

At some point I passed out on the kitchen floor and pissed myself again. Covered in stale beer and urine, hours later I wake up cold and lost. Standing up I bang the back of my head on the fucking sawhorse, tearing a gouge in my skull. I scream deep inside my head, wanting to pummel the wooden equine, the walls, anything around me, but I fear that I might impale myself and end it all. And my work is not done yet. So instead I strip off my clothes and drop them on the floor. I kick the bottles in the darkness, and navigate around the exposed nails, my naked flesh willing the metal to reach out and tear me apart.

By the time the water turns cold I am in the fetal position in the corner, talking to God, mumbling threats and prayers. He holds me in His massive hands and whispers in my ear. He loves me and He sees it all. He cannot direct me, but He does not condemn me.

Holly takes me by the hand and lifts me up—I'm as blind as a mole. She dries me off, cooing in my ear, rubbing me down like I'm five years old and stepping out of the bath. Momma's gonna make everything all right. This diminutive mouse somehow leads me to the sanctuary that is my bed. I curl up in a ball, unable to stop my crying. Everything matters, it's all
connected—every
action is tantamount to the end of the world, the destruction of all that is holy and pure. I am the linchpin. I am the catalyst.

She rubs my head, over and over, like a puppy, and it calms me down. I turn and rest my head on her chest. I hold her tight, fearful she will disappear in a wisp of smoke. Her sweet scent is clean—soap and flowers. I finally take a breath that doesn't end in a rattle or a shaking sob, and go to sleep.

When the sun eventually rises, however many hours later it is, my apartment is still dim. She is gone again. She has a low tolerance for my antics. I need to piss, and head through the kitchen, wary of the mess I left. It's empty except for the sawhorse. My clothes are gone, the bottles picked up, the floor clean, a hint of citrus misting the air. I walk over to the garbage can, and it has a fresh bag in it. There is not one bit of glass, or paper towels, no stench of urine or beer. Empty.

She continues to take care of me. And I don't know why.

On the counter sits a box of Kleenex, open, with a yellow floral print on it.

Against all odds, I am hungry. As fast as my sluggish legs will take me, I brave the sunlight behind thick dark sunglasses. Out my apartment door and down the steps, I'm careful to avoid every last stitch of humanity. There is a tiny convenience store right next door. The selection is terrible, but if I have to walk past some lonely housewife in the produce aisle of the mainstream Dominick's up the street, I'm not sure what I'll do. I could just as easily cry at her pant leg as rub up against her like a dog in heat.

I'm in and out before I can get into any trouble, and back in my kitchen in no time. The counter is littered with items, and it gives me a rush of emotion. I'm almost human again. Coming down, I always get like this. I need to leave it alone, the bottles. I need to do that.

Three scoops of a Kona blend I keep in the freezer go into the shiny metal coffeemaker, and it starts gurgling in minutes, the smell a sharp knife in my gut. I push down the visions of hugs and kisses and out the door to work. I push them down and step on their necks. It never happened.

Cracking three eggs into a bowl, this is a past habit, a Zen meditation that I left behind. I run the whisk around the bowl, faster and faster, my arms tight and sore, knuckles bruised and cracked. A scratch at the back window and I glance over. My friend. She knows when it is safe. I push the window up and in saunters Luscious. Not a word from her, but her eyes say it all. They run over me, this short-haired judge and jury. She deems me acceptable and plops to the floor. I grab a gallon of milk out of the fridge with a quick yank and fill her empty bowl halfway. She laps away, but keeps one eye on me at all times.

The pan is hot, so I slice some butter off the end of the stick and toss it in. Grabbing a red onion and the chef's knife I chop off the end, flip it, and slice it in half. Peeling off the outer skin, I run the knife slowly across it, twice, and then down it fast, dicing it in a flurry of silver. Into the pan. I grab a hunk of ham, cut off a thin slab, and dice it into tiny cubes. Into the pan. A tomato, turned, sliced, quartered, and into the pan. Two garlic cloves, smashed on the side of the blade, a quick mincing with the edge, and into the pan. I grab the handle, flip it up and back, the ingredients mingling, the sweet smell rising, my stomach taut, a dull pain spreading. Food. I'd forgotten it.

Under her watchful gaze, relaxing by the back door, curled up and facing me, Luscious licks her paws as I fill the omelette with the sautéed vegetables, sprinkle grated cheddar on top, and fold it in half. The pan spits and crackles and onto a plate it goes. A garnish of cilantro and a couple dashes of hot sauce and I sit down on the floor next to the fat cat, my coffee on the other side. I'm ready to eat.

I shovel it in, domestic again. She purrs and rubs against me. I choke back the tears.

When the darkness falls again, I am well rested. There is no need for another envelope, no need for Vlad to remind me of my duties. I close my eyes and I'm outside Masterson's loft again, standing in the street, with hardly a car in sight. It's quiet tonight, no party. There is a lone light from the top floor, above the gallery. He's home. I called from a pay phone down the street. He sounded tired. I don't care. Maybe he's worn out from fucking little boys.

I'm holding a pizza box in one hand. It's empty. Tonight the addition to the wardrobe is a beat-up Chicago Cubs baseball cap. I move to the door, and push the doorbell. Somewhere above a buzz echoes, and a shadow passes by the window.

“Who is it?” warbles through the intercom.

“D'Agostino's. Pizza.”

“What?”

“D'Agostino's Pizza”

“I didn't order a pizza.”

“Masterson? 2139 East Fulton Market Place?”

“That's me.”

“Pizza, man.”

“Oh for Christ's sake. I'll be right down.”

Hasn't failed me yet. Maybe he thinks he'll get a free pizza. That's what I'd be shooting for. Somebody screwed up, and now a free pizza. Feet echo from the stairwell inside, stomping down a long set of steps. He pulls open the door. He looks beat. Worn-out. There is a scratch by his left cheek, and a small bruise by his left eye.

“Hey, man,” I offer up. “$21.45.”

“Listen, buddy, I didn't order a pizza. I don't know what to tell you.”

He goes to close the door.

“Shit, you sure? Large sausage? No? Crap. May I come in and use your phone to call dispatch? My cell is dead. I can't believe this shit. They sent me all the way over here for nothing.”

He stares at me, sizing me up. A beleaguered sigh escapes from his thin lips.

“Fine, come on in, you can use the phone in the gallery.”

I follow him in and up the stairs. On the sixth step there is a faded Matchbox car, a 1966 Mustang, candy apple red. The man is thin, very thin, pale and sickly. We enter the gallery and I stop in my tracks. On the white walls are dozens of paintings featuring a mix of young kids, mostly boys, half naked. Very young. Too young. But there is something odd about them. These aren't the summertime testimonials of an uncle, a family member. These are not the fond memories of a broken man, looking back on his childhood with sweet emotion. These are fantasies. I lean over to the one nearest to me,
Raphael Reclining.
In it a young Italian boy with buck teeth, who can't be twelve, lies back on a chair at the pool. His swim shorts are bunched up around his crotch, pale thighs exposed too much. He glints into the sun, one hand shading his eyes. He sips on a drink that looks alarmingly like a strawberry margarita.

“Isn't that hilarious,” Masterson says from behind the counter, pulling out the phone. “My nephew, Raphael. We were at this pool down in San Juan, he's such a clown. That's my cocktail, but no matter what I said or did, he kept grabbing it and taking a drink. I think he was a little loopy by the time his mom came to get him. All day she was out at the beach, having her little vacation, while I watched her kid. Not that my sister would even notice, she's a bit of a drinker herself.”

He smiles at me, reciting this tale. One he's told many times, I'm sure. When my expression doesn't change, his smile quickly fades. I must look a bit green.

“Here's the phone. If you don't mind, I'd like to get back to my shows, please.”

I glance down the long, thin gallery, across the hardwood floor to a sitting area. A peach sectional sits in a soft glow of light, and across from it is a gigantic flat screen TV. Must be at least sixty inches. Across the screen scrolls the
Sesame Street
logo, and I twitch, my shoulders rising up and dropping.

“You a fan of Big Bird or something?”

“Oh, I was just channel surfing. I've got too many children's stations programmed in to my favorite channels. For when my nieces and nephews come over, you know.”

“Right.”

“The phone?” he offers.

“Thanks.”

I walk over and set the box on the counter. As I reach out to take the phone from him, the pizza box tips over and starts to fall. My eyes go wide, and I reach for it, but it glances off my empty hand. It clatters to the floor, wide open. Empty.

He runs.

Chasing him down as he heads for the rear of the gallery, I grab the back of his collared shirt and yank him to the floor. I don't want to hear a single fucking word so when he opens his mouth to plead, I shove my fist in it. There isn't much to him. A couple of fists to the head and he's out, nose squashed, blood streaming down his face. I drop him on the floor and turn back to the paintings. They disturb me.

As he lies gurgling on the hardwood, I head back toward the sitting area and click the TV off. Bert and Ernie don't need to see this. Farther back there is a tiny kitchen, white on white. I shuffle through the drawers until I find a large knife. Walking back to the gallery he starts to sit up so I kick him in the head. Down he goes, a dull moan escaping his lips, hands to his face.

One by one I walk up to the paintings, starting with Raphael. I slide the knife into the canvas and run it across. I pull it out and do the same from the other corner. One by one I slice them up. These kids.
Bath Time Bobby. Pauly at the Pool. Seaside Sammy. Sally Shopping.
That one must have been to throw them off. They all have this deadness behind the eyes, this curiously adult expression, beaten down and resigned to failure. If I met them in person, I have a feeling they would flinch if I extended them my hand. When I'm done with the pictures, I head back over to the man.

Standing over him I think of cutting his dick off. Cutting the whole package off and shoving it down his throat. But I don't have the stomach for it. I don't want to touch him. But I do want him to suffer. When he opens his eyes, I shove the blade so deep into his stomach I hit the wood floor on the other side. He gasps, his mouth wide, eyes open, and I pull it out. And shove it in again. The blood pools around him as his skin dulls to gray. I swallow back the vomit, and step away, the knife still embedded in his gut.

They'll call it a hate crime. And in some ways, they'll be correct.

As I walk out the front door, everything has been wiped down. My gloves are back on and the pizza box is in the garbage can out back. Let them think it was a delivery guy. That's fine with me.

East on Fulton back toward Milwaukee, I'm just another asshole walking down the street. Just some jerk in jeans and a leather coat. I say this to myself, over and over again. My heart pounds and the streetlights feel like spotlights, too much of a stage. Almost at the edge of the warehouse district, I can see the cars whooshing by up ahead. A bus rumbles south, chugging down the hill. I swallow and crack my neck. I don't want to go home.

As the last brick warehouse looms on my left, I catch a glimpse of movement down at the end of a narrow alley and stop. The wind blows cold in my face but a red light glows warm over a metal door, as a solitary figure stands still in the shadows. Even from here I can tell it's a woman, a gentle wisp of cigarette smoke drifting up. A faint pulse of music flows to me from her general direction. What is she wearing? It looks like fishnets and a garter, some kind of pointy bra, and dangerously tall boots. She spins around, flicking the cigarette butt in my direction, her hair tied back into a dark ponytail braid. As she yanks the heavy door open, she descends into the red velvet mouth, the music louder now, throbbing and then quiet.

Walking back toward the music my vision telescopes, the real world falling away, and all I can see is the door. Something scuttles beside me, knocking over metal and glass, a dry tinkle followed by a dull thud. At the concrete steps I stop and turn back, a postage stamp of light so very far away. There is nothing waiting for me back there anyway.

I grab the handle and pull. Nothing. It's locked, solid. Standing back, I look for a buzzer, a sign, a mail slot, anything. Nothing. So I knock.

My knuckles on the door hardly make a noise. So I pound.

Nothing.

I turn to walk away when the door flies open. It's the girl in the outfit, with the long braided hair.

“You're late,” she screams, grabbing my hand. “Why didn't you ring the bell or call?”

“I was—”

“Shut up. Come on. It's okay.”

As I'm pulled through the door, everything goes red—like entering the chamber of some enormous beating heart. A dull pounding bounces off the walls, heavy bass chords, and the low end of the keyboard. I can hardly see, but she smells like hibiscus undercut with bourbon. She turns back, a smile across her face. Her body bounces up and down, side to side as she clomps down the hall in the six-inch boot heels. Her pale skin shimmers under the fishnets, her neck and shoulders delicate. Voices drift to me and we speed past an opening that reveals expansive space.

Everything slows down for a moment as she pulls me past.

“Not here, not yet,” she squeals.

But for a moment, I see it all. Flashes of light, flames shooting into the air, the ceiling forty feet high. Dull neon seeps around the edge of the room, pockets of glowing orbs hanging over piles of flesh. There is every manner of dress and fetish, squirming bodies and murmuring heads. Pulses of light reveal bloody lips, flashes of skin cinched tight by restraints. Tall cylinders filled with glowing liquids fill slender hands, guzzled down in rapid swallows. Black cups with steam rising out of them are man-handled by rippling biceps and PVC straps. Leather and denim, plastic and lace, metal piercings and moonlit tattoos.

What is this place?

I can't tell the staff from the patrons. Fountains in the corners gurgle with light and liquid. Tall shiny pyramids of metal and crystal, overflowing with bounty to be supped at will. No money is changing hands but everything else is. Every possible act is being committed. Two leather goths flirt, his arms crossed, her dainty hand on his forearm. A pack of fairies with iridescent wings are dancing in the middle of the room, tiny breasts exposed, sweat glistening over translucent skin. A blood-red bodice straddles a mountain of black muscle, riding up and down, her neck tilted back, surrounded by onlookers, sipping at their cups.

“Hurry,” she says, and it's all gone.

Around a corner, and I can barely see her, a left turn and then a right and through a door with a shove. Incense burns on a table, musky and sweet, dim candles flickering are the only source of light. She turns to me and puts her hands on my shoulders.

“Get undressed. Here.”

She hands me a drink and is gone. A dull blue liquid gurgles, cold air rising off of it. I take a sip and it is religiously cold. It is sickly sweet, and then it heats up, a rich darkness coating my mouth. Light shimmers at the edge of my eyes, the candle sparkling. I drink it all down and the room shifts to black. There is a flash of white and everything reverses. My heart stops for a second and I can't breathe, as if I have just jumped into the Arctic Ocean, my every nerve and cell frozen for a moment, and the air rushes back in.

She comes back into the room carrying a car battery and some jumper cables.

“You're still dressed, come on. You want me to get fired?”

No, I don't. I can't speak and the thought of undoing a button or clasp feels like astral physics right now. She pauses, a faint hourglass of ghostly white. I can barely see.

“This is your first time, isn't it?” She smiles.

Her teeth are blinding white, her lips black death.

“Man, I can't believe they did this again.” She sighs and puts the battery on the table.

“Baby, it's going to be just fine. I won't hurt you. Not much. You can trust me.”

She takes the empty cup from me and sets it down. She leans over and presses her lips to mine. It is chaste somehow. Peeling off my leather coat, she runs her hands down my arms. Kneeling down, she starts to untie my bootlaces, and I still can't move. In the time it takes her to undo the boots, I've revisited every woman I've ever slept with, buried again every corpse I've made, and I still can't move.

She stands up and presses her body against mine.

“You'll warm up. The drink is just so the blood won't get too thin. We don't want you bleeding to death.”

She pulls off my black turtleneck, unbuckles my jeans, and pulls them down. She grabs ahold of me.

“Save it, tiger.”

I pass out.