A Moveable Famine (28 page)

One look told McGovern it was a venereal wart. He said he would have to do a cystoscopy and remove it at Cape Cod Hospital under general anesthesia. He told me to inform all of my recent partners. I waited for the bus on that road of privilege and splendor. I was lonely, diseased, impoverished inside and out. I went straight to Hester’s though I didn’t want to. She was on the Flagship’s little lawn with Pepe who jumped to see me. I told her she should be checked. She thought I was accusing her and threw a fit in front of passing tourists.

“Who knows where else you’ve been poking your putrid pud,” she said.

“I’m not blaming you,” I said.

She dragged Pepe up the stairs so that his shoulder bounced off each tread. I had become weary of her sexual shenanigans, the last of which required me to strip-search her using a flashlight. The week before, she pulled cat masks from under the pillows.

Without Jeanne, and without evenings of treat-or-trick sex with Hester, I spent time at my desk. I quit the daytime Fo’c’sle crowd, so no one flagged me when I passed. Vince at the front table reminded me of a coyote nailed to a fence to discourage others.

Barkhausen learned CPR, joined the Rescue Squad and kept a walkie-talkie on his hip. He helped with injuries and seizures until medics arrived. He made a life in the life of the town. One afternoon I saw him sitting alone, scrawling on a big pad in the Fo’c’sle window. He told me the owner had installed a tiny grill at the end of the bar and he was writing the menu. A ham omelet was a Hamlet, and the stuffed tomato, The Ultimato. “I’m going for the jocular,” he said. The bar served food for only a week because the owner didn’t bother to get a license.

After a reading by John Hawkes, everyone went to the Fo’c’sle but when we arrived, the bartender had his leg on a stool, displaying deeply torn skin. A diving lobsterman by day, he had been attacked by a goosefish, whose enormous maw clamped on his leg as he rose from the ocean floor. He had bandaged it himself, but felt feverish and decided to see a doctor. He asked Barkhausen to take his place, and Artie immediately wrapped on an apron and wiped the sticky counter, startling the regulars back on their stools. His task would be simple. It was a shot and a beer place. No one ordered mixed drinks. We watched Barkhausen flood the first few drafts from the tap with foam, but soon he drew them perfectly.

Porter dated Nonie, a pretty Provincetown native who had lost two husbands at sea. Vince referred to her as “The Kiss of Death.” She liked the readings and was especially enthused about Hawkes’s new novel whose narrator was driving his family at top speed into a stone wall. I sat with her, Porter and Vince while Jeanne gathered with the other fellows around Hawkes. I couldn’t bear to be near Jeanne. I missed her thoughtfulness. It was painful to see her leaving the Bull Ring parking lot, carrying her copy of the
Boston Globe
to the common room for others to read, and worse when we faced each other—in a few seconds, we were laughing. I was thinking about this when Vince said, “I hope your friend knows what he’s doing.” Barkhausen was stirring a broom under an empty table, saying, “These ghost turds must have been here since Myles Standish.”

“He’s diligent, I’ll give him that,” Vince said. And then he added, “Hey Nonie, let’s have some fun.” He took a bill from his wallet. “Ask for a Donald Duck. But hesitate a moment and say, ‘Straight up.’ ” Porter put his hand on her wrist but Nonie liked the joke and rushed off. Barkhausen was changing stations on the television, searching for the weather.

“A Donald Duck,” she said. “Straight up.” Barkhausen paused at her order. He liked Nonie, although he told me it seemed like it was always raining inside her head. Vince licked his lips. He was literally drooling over the gag. The guys sitting on each side of Nonie looked at her but kept quiet. Barkhausen filled a shaker with ice, and as he did, he squawked, a perfect imitation of Donald Duck, saying, “One Donald Duck, coming up!” He poured from several bottles, shook, drained the liquid into a rocks glass, jammed in a swizzle stick, and pronounced in the same voice, “One dollar, and you’ll find no lip room on that drink!” Nonie walked toward our table cupping the rim of the overflowing glass as if it were a candle that might blow out. As she lifted it to her lips and drank, Barkhausen imitated Donald Duck having an orgasm, building little duck whimpers into full-throated squawks, climaxing in Donald yelling, “I’m coming! I’m coming!” causing Nonie to spew her mouthful onto Vince’s yellow Banlon shirt.

“Must be some grenadine in that,” Porter pronounced as Vince dabbed his chest with a handkerchief.

“I like it,” Nonie said. Vince offered to buy her another. “I’d like to hear the duck get his rocks off again,” he said.

“I always thought Daisy Duck had cute tail feathers,” I said.

“You’re sick,” Vince said. “You’re the sick one!” He went to the bar and ordered a Daisy, and Barkhausen said, “It’s the same as a Donald, but without the swizzle stick.”

As the anesthesia took effect, I heard Dr. McGovern telling me not to worry, saying, “I’m just a plumber, that’s all I am, a plumber.” I woke in a room between two other patients. Newspapers splashed with blood and urine covered the linoleum near our beds. A very old man passed gas with the sound of thunderclaps, yelling, “I’m letting terrible wind!” On the other side, a patient who had a kidney stone removed spent hours on the phone with his children, who lived with his divorced wife. He told them over and over that he was going to be all right, at the same time creating worrisome scenarios until I could tell they were crying. The old man swung out of bed toward me, lifted his johnnie and dripped a trickle of bloody urine onto the headlines. He continued to fart and the middle-aged man continued to torment his children. I had to be catheterized and when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, Hester appeared with a bouquet of daisies.

“Why are there newspapers all over the floor?” she said.

“There are many accidents in the urology wing,” I said. She put the flowers in the urinal. “I’m surprised to see you,” I said.

“Porter told me. How are you?”

“A little numb,” I said, “but okay.” Dr. McGovern came in with a nurse and said I could leave the next day.

“Is this your doctor?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “He’s my plumber.”

“That’s what I am, a plumber,” he said.

She whispered, “I need a doctor. That’s what John tells me.”

“Ask him if he’s a doctor,” I said.

“Call my office,” he said to her, tapping the bed railing and assuring me the discomfort would fade.

Hester stared after his white coat as he left the room and exhaled dramatically. “It’s not queer coincidence he arrived just as I did,” she said in Stanley’s voice.

I became drowsy and dreamt about plumbers and doctors, and Hester and the real doctor.

I did not seek out Hester when I recovered. I stayed in my room, celibate, sober and unhappy. Barkhausen dropped by one night with a bottle of Glen Flagler, a thank-you gift from a man whose life he helped save with CPR. I had been reading Rimbaud, and his theory of disengaging the senses gave me an excuse to drink, so we downed half the bottle and then left for the Old Colony. As soon as we got our drinks, Vince walked in, bragging about his new advice column for the
Advocate,
“Vincent’s Two Cents.” Two women in a corner, a dyed blonde in jeans, and a tall brunette in a giraffe print dress, whispered and gestured. The blonde kept rising to get more beer.

“Cookie’s the blonde,” Barkhausen said. “The other one’s Valley. They act in local plays. I’ve driven them to Cape Cod Hospital a number of times.” He twirled his index finger by his temple, making the cuckoo sign. When I said they were kind of attractive, he called over, and they ignored him, murmuring again, head to head, but soon they languidly moved our way, as if they hated us. They switched to Scotch when Vince bought them a drink. Cookie’s face was pitted from acne, and her painted-on, swooping eyebrows gave her a startled look. She went to the restroom and came back saying the toilet was so filthy she had to helicopter. Valley fluttered her dress to alleviate heat, which made the giraffes jump. The almost dignified look imparted by her high cheekbones was robbed by an overload of mascara. They argued over whether Paul Morrissey made Warhol’s films, and were surprised I’d seen most of them. They leaned toward me, our knees touching. Vince kept buying drinks and I knew at last call we’d be facing a decision. The girls went to the ladies room a few times, more disoriented after each trip. Barkhausen mentioned the Glen Flagler and soon we were on the outside stairs to my place. Barkhausen told everyone to be quiet. He leaned over the railing toward the water and we heard a great whooshing sound. “A humpback,” he said, and we listened again to the watery explosion. “It might be stranded.” He ran onto the beach. “I’m telling Stormy Mayo,” he called into the air and disappeared to find the head of the Center for Coastal Studies.

The girls sat on the couch and Vince and I took the wicker chairs around the coffee table. We drank the Scotch neat because I had no ice. In the lamplight, Cookie’s ravaged face showed her acne was not all behind her. She was skinny, the denim jacket and jeans tight, revealing the build of a boy. When Valley shifted her broad shoulders, the giraffes stretched. Vince, in his khaki pants and banlon shirt, and me in my blue oxford shirt, paired poorly with our guests. Cookie rummaged into her big bag, pulled out an envelope of joints and lit up. Valley popped four beers from my refrigerator and set them next to the Scotch. Valley offered Vince two fists. He tapped the left, and she exposed a red pill. “Zoomer!” she said. She opened the other and said, “You get Buster.” I washed down Buster with a beer and Vince did the same with Zoomer. Cookie sneaked a second capsule into my hand, the way someone discreetly proffers a tip. She said it would add color, and I took that too. The girls were already zoomering and bustering and then they began giggling.

“Do you know your lines yet?” Valley asked Cookie.

“Don’t ask me again,” Cookie said.

“Request permission to ask you again, sir!” Valley said.

“I can’t
hear
you!” Vince yelled. The two girls snapped their heads toward Vince.

“You know the play?” Valley asked.

“Say ‘Yes, sir’ or ‘No, sir’ when you address me,” Vince said.

“The Brig
,” I said. I had seen it on public TV in high school and I remembered it because my mother turned it off.

“Maggot!” Vince said.

“We’re doing it at the Universalist Church next week and Cookie doesn’t know her part,” Valley said. Cookie leaned over the table, lighting another joint and sneering.

“I directed it at the Berkshire House,” Vince said. “Believe me, Cookie, with your looks, you can say anything you want.”

“You’re nice,” Cookie said. Her grateful eyes had turned almost completely white, a half-moon of iris peeking above her lower lids.

“Out of the tomb we bring the flea market maven!” Those were my words though I didn’t think I said them.

“Don’t call me that!” Vince said.

Buster had kicked in, my senses disengaged. Cookie extended her legs under the coffee table, pointing the toes of her cowboy boots toward us. In one motion, Valley stroked Cookie from throat to groin where her hand lingered. She did it again as Cookie stretched like a cat before a fire. Valley motioned to Vince to do the same. Cookie buckled and popped under their simultaneous massage. Valley and Cookie kissed. When they separated, Cookie made a blubbering sound, sending spit bubbles my way. She looked out of her mask-like face, her mascara-streaked cheeks like a shattered windshield, and said, “Every insect has a secret.” She collapsed awkwardly onto the cushions, her neck seeming broken.

I poured a glass of seltzer to revive Cookie. Valley bounced it under Cookie’s nose. Cookie fixed on the bubbles and said, “Tiny igloos!” Then she jumped, knocking the drink to the floor and saying with a mad look, “And in each igloo, an eskimo with a spear!”

Valley lifted the giraffe dress over her head and onto the floor, stood in her bra and panties, and asked, “How many pairs in four?”

Attacked by the question and under the influence of Zoomer, Buster and Buster’s colorful sidekick, Vince and I counted on our fingers, and our fingers multiplied. The giraffes left Valley’s dress and loped across the rug.

“Six,
maggots!” Valley said.

“Six in four?” I said.

Valley crossed her arms, pushing up her breasts, and said, “You and me. You and Cookie. Me and Vince. Me and Cookie. Cookie and Vince. You and Vince.” While she spoke, Vince pointed to his chest and then to me and then to Cookie and then to Valley, then to me, to himself again and back to Cookie. Zoomer couldn’t add.

“Everyone into the bedroom,” Valley said. “I’m directing.” We followed, trailed by giraffes. “Take off your clothes,” Valley commanded.

Cookie’s milky eyes opened wide and she said, “Request permission to undress.”

“Too late, Cookie,” Valley said. “You blew the part.”

Vince dropped his shorts quickly, and we stood naked around the double bed. Valley fondled Vince’s prick and said, “It’s so Chihuahuan!”

Cookie pulled me onto the quilt, but when we kissed, I kissed two mouths. The lamp lit twice and the room fractured. I kissed four lips and four breasts among a thousand walls.

Vince said, “I’m married.”

I turned from the bed. “You’re married?”

It was as if I tangled with a spider with smooth arms and legs as I tried again to figure how six pairs were in four.

“And I have a little boy,” he said.

“We’re making a web!” Valley said, kicking a blanket high.

“I’ve got to go,” Vince said.

The whimpers from Cookie never got louder, but kept at a plateau. Valley said to me, “Don’t expect anything more,” and she and Cookie fell asleep in each other’s arms. Boosted by Buster, I cleaned the living room, alphabetized a shelf of books, wrote a hate letter to Hester illustrating it with color markers I found in the
Mad
magazine artist’s desk, and went to sleep on the couch.

When I woke, Valley and Cookie had gone. I worried about another fern. I berated myself for having sex with them and for getting drawn into the Old Colony cesspool. I looked at my letter to Hester and it was nothing like Rimbaud. I went to the refrigerator for a soda, and found four tumblers of Scotch, an inch or so in each of them, which I had maniacally covered in plastic wrap, a rubber band around every rim. A label on the rug, torn from one of the girl’s clothes, said, “Screamin’ Mimi’s.”