House of Leaves (5 page)

“Mommy!” Daisy shrills.

“You heard what I said. Chad keep an eye on your sister.”

“Mommy!” Daisy squealing even louder.

“Daisy, mommy also wants you to look after your brother.”

This seems to appease the little girl, and she actually settles down, smugly eyeing Chad even as she continues to snip wicks.

Strangely enough, by the time Karen reaches Navidson in the foyer, she has quite effectively masked all her eagerness to see him. Her indifference is highly instructive. In that peculiar contradiction that serves as connective tissue in so many relationships, it is possible to see that she loves Navidson almost as much as she has no room for him.

“Hey, the water heater’s on the fritz,” she manages to say.

“When did that happen?”

She accepts his brief kiss.

“I guess last night.”

[
18
—
I
got up this morning to take a shower and guess what? No fucking hot water. A pretty evil discovery especially when you’re depending on that watery wake-up call, me being massively dehydrated from a long night drunk my road-dog Lude and I winged our way onto last night. As I’m remembering it now, we somehow ended up at this joint on Pico, and soon thereafter found ourselves in conversation with some girls wearing black cowboy hats, supposedly lost in their own private-blend of brain- hatching euphoria—Thank you Herbal Ecstasy—prompting us to put a little Verbal Ecstasy on them which would, as it turned out, ultimately lead them giggling into the night.

I’ve forgotten now what we did exactly to get the whole thing rolling. I think Lude started giving one of them a trim, whipping out his scissors which he always has on hand, like old gunslingers I guess always had on hand their Colts—there he goes, snipping locks & bangs, doing a great fucking job too, but hey he’s a pro, and all of it in the dark too, on a barstool, surrounded by dozens of who knows who, fingers & steel clicking away, tiny bits of hair spitting off into the surrounding turmoil, the girls all nervous until they see he really is the shit and then they’re immediately chirping “me, next” & “do me” which is too easy to remark upon, so instead Lude & I remark upon something else which this time round is all about some insane adventure I supposedly had when I was a Pit Boxer. Mind you I’d never heard that term before nor had Lude. Lude just made it up and I went with it.

“Aw come on, they don’t want to hear about that,” I said with about as much reluctance as I could reasonably feign.

“No Hoes, you’re wrong,” Lude insisted. “You must.”

“Very well,” I said, starting then to recall for everyone how at the lonely age of nineteen I had climbed off a barge in Galveston.

“Actually I escaped,” I improvised. “See, I still owed my crazy

Russian Captain a thousand dollars for a wager I’d lost in Singapore.

He wanted to murder me so I practically had to run the whole way to
Houston.”

“Don’t forget to tell them about the birds,” Lude winked. He was just throwing shit at me, something he loved doing, keeping me on my toes.

“Sure,” I mumbled, stretching for an explanation. “This barge I’d been on was loaded with dates and pounds of hash and an incredible number of exotic birds, all of it, of course, illegal to transport, but what did I know? It didn’t exactly affect me. And anyway, I wasn’t sticking around. So I reach Houston and the first thing that happens, some twerp comes up and tries to rob me.”

Lude frowned. He clearly wasn’t pleased with what I’d just done to his birds.

I ignored him and continued.

“This guy just walked straight over and told me to give him all my money. I didn’t have a dime on me but it wasn’t like this weasely sonofabitch had a weapon or anything. So I slugged him. Down he went. But not for long. A second later he pops up again and you know what? he’s smiling, and then this other guy joins him, much bigger, and he was smiling too and shaking my hand, congratulating me. They’d been searching all day for a Pit Boxer, pay was two hundred dollars a night and apparently I’d just made the grade. This weasely sonofabitch was the head interviewer. His partner referred to him as Punching Bag.”

By now the girls were crowding around me & Lude, sucking down more drinks and all in all falling into the rhythm of the story. Carefully, I led them through that first night, describing the ring with its dirt floor surrounded by hordes of folk come to bet a few dollars and watch guys hurt—hurt themselves, hurt someone else. Gloves were not an option in this kind of fighting. Miraculously, I made it through alive. I actually won my first two fights. A couple of bruises, a cut cheek, but I walked with two hundred bucks and Punching Bag forked for ribs and beer and even let me crash on his couch. Not bad. So I continued. In fact, for a whole month I did this twice a week.

“See the scar on his eyebrow there—” Lude pointed, giving the girls one of those all knowing completely over-the—top nods.

“Is that how you broke your front tooth too?” a girl with a ruby pin in her cowboy hat blurted out, though as soon as she said it, I could see she felt bad about mentioning my busted incisor.

“I’m getting to that,” I said with a smile.

Why not work the tooth into it too?, I thought.

After three-four weeks, I continued, I had enough dough to pay back the Captain and even keep a bit for myself. I was pretty tired of the whole thing anyway.

The fights were bad enough. “And incidentally I’d won every one,” I added. Lude scoffed. “But having to be wary all the time around the likes of Punching Bag & his partner, that was by far the worst aspect. Also, as it turned out, the place I was staying in was a whorehouse, full of these sad girls, who between their own senseless rounds would talk about the simplest, most inconsequential things. I liked it better on the barge, even with the Captain and his murderous moods.

“Well my last night, the twerp pulls me aside and suggests I bet my dough on myself. I tell him I don’t want to because I could lose. ‘You stupid fucking kid,’ he spits at me. ‘You’ve won every fight so far.’ ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘So?’ ‘Well figure it out. It’s not because you’re any good. They’
ve all been fixed. I find some l
ump, pay him
fifty bucks to swing and dive. We make a killing on the bets. You won last week, you won the week before, you’ll win tonight. I’m just trying to help you out here.’

“So being the stupid kid I was I bet all the money I had and walked into the ring. Who do you think was there waiting from me?”

I gave everyone a chance to come up with their own answer while I drained my glass of beer, but no one had a clue who I was about to fight. Even Lude was a step behind. Of course, that depends on how you look at it: he was also fondling the ass of
a girl with a tourm
aline in her cowboy hat while she in turn, or so it appeared to me, was caressing the inside of his thigh.

“In the middle of all those Houston losers, all of ‘em screaming odds, screaming money, licking their gums for blood, stood Punching Bag, fists all taped up and not even the flicker of a smile or the slightest bit of recognition in his eye. Boy, let me tell you, he turned out to be a mean-spirited remorseless S.O.B. That first round he knocked me down twice. The second round I almost didn’t get up.

“All month long, he and his partner had been boosting the numbers on me so that when Punching Bag—and at this point he was the long shot—slaughtered me, they’d walk with a small fortune. Or run. Me though, a
dumb
nineteen year old who’d wandered into Galveston after three months at sea, I was going to lose my money and wind up in a hospital. Maybe worse. Since the fights were just three rounds long, I only had one more left to do something. His partner threw a bucket of ice water in my face and told me to crawl out there and get it over with.

“As I wobbled to my feet, I shook my head, and saying it loud enough so he could hear me, but not so loud so he’d think I was selling something, I said that it was all too bad because I’d been planning to use my money to buy a shipment of some stuff worth at least a thousand percent on the street.

“Well, the next round, the last round I should say, Punching Bag broke my tooth. I was out. They’d both originally planned to ditch me but my little gambit had worked. After what the partner had heard me say, which I’m sure he shared as soon as he could with Punching Bag, they dragged me along, dumped some whiskey into me in their truck and then started grilling me about that stuff I’d been babbling about, trying to find out what was worth a thousand percent.

“Now I was in a bad way, more than a little afraid that they’d do something really evil
if they found out I’d been bull
shitting them. Still, if I stayed in Houston I’d probably be lynched by the bettors who by now had figured out something was sour which could only mean one thing to them (all explanations to the grave): Punching Bag & his partner and me were to blame. I had to think fast and besides, I still wanted my money back, so—”

By now even Lude was hooked. They all were. The girls all engrossed and smiling and still shimmying closer, as if maybe by touching me they could find out for sure if I was for real. Lude knew it was pure crap but he had no clue where I was heading. To tell you the truth neither did I. So I took my best shot.

“I pointed them to the barge. I hadn’t figured out what I’d do once we got there but I knew the ship was leaving with the tide early next morning so we had to hurry. Luckily we arrived in time and I immediately went off to find the Captain who as soon
as he saw me
grabbed me by the throat. Somehow between gasps, I succeeded in telling him about Punching Bag & his partner and their money—all their money which included my money most of which was in essence the Captain’s
money. That got the bastard listening. A few minutes later, he sauntered over to the duo, poured them coffee mugs full of vodka, and in his incomprehensible accent, began going on and on about pure New Guinea value.

“Punching Bag had no idea what this idiot was talking about, neither did I for that matter, but an hour and two bottles of vodka later, he came to the conclusion that the Captain must be talking about drugs. After all the Captain kept mentioning euphoria, Spanish explorers and paradise, even though he refused to show Punching Bag the tiniest bit of anything tangible, vaguely referring to custom officials and the constant threat of confiscation and jail.

“Now here was the clincher. While he’s babbling on, this van drives up and a guy no one has ever seen before or ever will see again gets out, gives the Captain a thousand dollars, takes one crate and then drives off. Just like that, and boy does that do it. Without even examining what he’s buying, Punching Bag hands over five g’s. The Captain, keeping his word, immediately loads five crates into the back of Punching Bag’s truck.

“I’m sure the twerp would of inspected them right on the spot, except suddenly in the distance we all start hearing police sirens or harbor patrol sirens or some such shit. They weren’t after us, but Punching Bag & his partner still got spooked and took off as fast as they could.

“Even after we got out to sea, the Captain was still laughing. I wasn’t though. The bastard wouldn’t give me any of my money. By his way of thinking—and him explaining this to me in that incomprehensible accent of his—I owed him for saving my life, not to mention
transporting my sorry ass all the way to Florida, where I finally did end up going, nearly dying in a cold water place called the Devil’s Ear which is an altogether different story.

“Still it wasn’t so bad, especially when I think now and then about Punching Bag & his partner. I mean I wonder what they did, what they said, when they finally tore open all those crates and discovered all those fucking birds. Over fifty Birds of Paradise.

“A few months later I did read somewhere how Houston Police busted two known felons trying to unload a bunch of exotic birds at a zoo.”

Which was pretty much how that story ended or at least the story I told last night. Maybe not verbatim but close.

Unfortunately nothing happened with the girls. They just ran off giggling into the night. No digits, no dates, not even their names, leaving me feeling dumb and sad, a bit like a broken thermos—fine on the outside, but on the inside nothing but busted glass. And why I’m going on about any of this right now is beyond me. I’ve never even seen a Bird of Paradise. And I sure as hell have never boxed or been on a barge. In fact just looking at this story makes me feel a little queasy all of a sudden. I mean how fake it is. Just sorta doesn’t sit right with me. It’s like there’s something else, something beyond it all, a greater story still looming in the twilight, which for some reason I’m unable to see.

Anyway I didn’t mean to wander into all this. I was telling you about the shower. That’s what I wanted to deal with. As you probably know, finding out there’s no warm water is a particularly unpleasant discovery simply because it’s not something you figure out immediately. You have to let the water run awhile and even though it remains icy, part of you still refuses to believe it won’t change, especially if you
wait a little longer or open up the valve a little more. So you wait but no matter how many minutes run by, you still see no steam, you still feel no heat.

Maybe a cold shower would of been good for me. The thought crossed my mind but I was already too freezing to try for even a quick one. I don’t even know why I was freezing. It was pretty warm in my place. Even warmer outside. Not even my big brown corduroy coat helped.