In the City of Shy Hunters (19 page)

Bobbie's splotches were fading back into skin.

Roll me one of those, would you? Charlie said.

Bobbie laughed. One laugh, chest up and down. She flashed the gold flecks of her eyes up to Charlie.

Need a steady hand to roll a smoke, Bobbie said, Now don't you?

Yup, Charlie said.

This time Bobbie's laugh wasn't hard and loud.

Bobbie licked her tongue across the glued end of the cigarette paper.

But I know what you mean, Bobbie said.

About what? Charlie said.

This barn being sexually haunted, Bobbie said. Every time I come up here alone I start pulling back the petals, digging deep into Deep Flower, just pumping poon.

Me too, Charlie said. Sometimes two or three times a day.

You whack off three times a day? Bobbie said.

Sometimes more, Charlie said. Got to tame the savage beast.

What's whacking off? I said.

I've never done it more than twice a day, Bobbie said. At least so far.

Charlie opened the
Playboy
to the centerfold. Laid the centerfold out in the kerosene light. Charlie traced his finger along the woman's naked back.

Bobbie? Charlie said.

Yeah? Bobbie said.

This is a big stack of magazines, Charlie said. Full of half-naked women. You a lesbian?

Bobbie sucked long on her cigarette, let the smoke come out her nose.

I never saw Bobbie look that way, not once, except for that night. She hacked and spit and I was thinking all hell would break loose, but instead Bobbie's face got soft, her eyes got big. Bobbie's lips lost their cuss, just like that, and out of the blue, Bobbie was showing Charlie and me the only part of herself she could keep safe from Father.

Bobbie knelt down next to the kerosene lamp, laid her forearm right up next to the fire.

You know Charlie 2Moons, Bobbie said, Your skin is almost as white as mine.

And those waves in your hair, Bobbie said. Injuns got straight hair. Where did you get them waves?

LATER ON, WHEN
Bobbie and her magazines had gone back to the house, Charlie and I stayed in the barn. Charlie came over to me and lay down next to me on the straw. My head in the crook of Charlie's arm, my ear on his heart.

That sister of yours is something, Charlie said.

She's a lesbian, I said.

Then: What's a lesbian? I said, and moved in closer.

A lesbian is a woman, Charlie said. But she really ain't a woman. What she is is a man with the power to suck his cock and balls up inside himself and push his chest out into titties.

Did you make that up? I said.

No, Charlie said. It's the truth.

Mice in the straw, a gust of wind in the slates on the roof of the barn.

Does it work the other way around too? I said.

Which other way? Charlie said.

Can a woman, I said, Have the power to push out her clit into a cock and suck in her titties?

Of course! Charlie said.

Then, I said, With that power, I said, Bobbie could actually be a boy.

She could, Charlie said.

Charlie cupped his hand over the lantern, blew out the flame. Charlie's skin in the broken bits of moon was the same color as mine. The wind was warm, stirring up the straw, shaking the barn, rattling slates. I pulled myself in closer to Charlie.

Charlie? I said. Maybe I'm really a girl who can push her clitoris out and suck her titties in?

Not a chance! Charlie said. I mean, you'd know, wouldn't you?

It's always me, I said, Who screams like a girl, I said. When we play Door of the Dead, I said, No matter how hard I try not to.

That's when Charlie kissed me. The first time Charlie ever kissed me. On the mouth, just a little, just before we went to sleep.

A blow of love. Wounded. Absolute. Ultimate.

CHAPTER
SEVEN

F
iona was pissed at me for bringing Argwings Khodek to her performance piece without telling her.

In Café Cauchemar, standing under the Sistine Chapel God, staring at Fiona's cruel lip, a life all its own, I made my face go New York drop-dead fuck-you, took a deep breath, and spoke.

My mother's nerves.

Susan Strong, I said, You are a conniving bitch.

And: How dare you. I said, Take my private life, I said, And put it up on the stage.

The curl of Fiona's lip, Fiona's hands on her hips, her black hair flying up every which way. Fiona said, If the shoe fits, wear it.

I almost slapped her face.

Instead I said, You didn't have to, I said, Bring Charlie 2Moons into it.

Fiona said, I didn't. Harry improvised!

So, I yelled at Harry. What the fuck you doing with my private life? It was bad enough, I yelled, having my cock up there on the stage, let alone you drag Charlie's name through the fucking mud.

Harry's pink face went fuchsia. The mud? The mud? Harry said. You call our performance piece mud? Get a grip, Mary! Charlie's name just came out of my mouth. I knew you were looking for him, and onstage at that moment it seemed appropriate so I said it:
Anybody out there seen Charlie 2Moons?
You should fucking thank me for helping you to find your old fuck buddy. Fuck you, asshole.

No, fuck you, Harry! I said.

And I didn't
bring
Argwings Khodek, I said, I gave him a free ticket. It was synchronistic that I sat down next to him.

Fuck your synchronicity, Fiona said.

Fuck you, Susan Strong! I said. If you want to tell the truth so much, put
your
poon up there on the stage. Leave my cock out of it.

Poon? Fiona said. Is that what they call it in Ohio, poon?

Fuck you! I said. It's Idaho.

My, my! Fiona said. Mild-mannered Clark Kent isn't stuttering now!

Fuck you! I said.

Go fuck yourself! Harry said.

Fuck you! I said.

FOR ME
,
THE
whole fiasco was over after the first night. But not for Fiona and Harry. Neither one of them spoke to me until the day Chef Som Chai came back to work.

It's tough—working alongside of people, standing together at the bar, the dessert station, at the espresso machine, smoking at the garbage can—not looking at them, not speaking to them. Especially Fiona. I really missed talking to Fiona, looking at her. Missed not being talked to, looked at by her blue eyes.

The chef came back on a Thursday. I was polishing silverware in Section Two. Fiona walked in the door.

Just like that: Howdy, pardner! Fiona said, breezing by, red lips a life all their own,
sexy totale
, her huge red leather purse over her shoulder.

Chef's back! she said.

IN THE LOCKER
room of Café Cauchemar, I was just reaching for my shorts when Kung Fu salad guy walked into the dressing room, followed by Chef Som Chai.

The chef's hand was a big white boxing glove of gauze, and the chef made like a boxer when he came up to me, like he was going to punch me, but he didn't. The chef put his good hand on my shoulder, just long enough to let me know he'd touched me, then extended his good hand, palm open, toward me. I took his hand, still not smiling, and we stood that way, looking at each other, the chef standing too close, my one hand shaking the chef's hand, the chef holding his boxing-glove hand in the air above his heart, my other hand holding up my shorts in front of me.

How's your hand? I asked.

My boys tell me you good waiter, the chef said. You different from other waiters.

The chef turned and said something in his language to Kung Fu salad guy. Kung Fu salad guy said something back to him.

Respect, Chef Som Chai said. They say you have respect.

Most Americans don't know respect, the chef said. You think you know everything. So we do our best to teach you. Sometimes this very hard.

The chef looked at Kung Fu salad guy, and Kung Fu salad guy barked like a dog. I thought they'd never stop laughing.

Then: Ocean is big, Chef Som Chai said, Because ocean is lower than rivers. But one thing you must always remember. This here New York City, and you need to speak up when you put order in. You speak too soft and not fast.

Yes, sir, I said.

Chef!
the chef said. I am
Chef
.

Chef Som Chai took his good fist and banged it against his chest.

Yes, Chef! I said.

What your section tonight? the chef asked.

One, I said. Section One.

Well then, the chef said, I change schedule. This week you have Section Three and maybe Four and Five, maybe Section Six.

You're going this way and then shit happens and then you're going that way.

Thank you, I said. Chef.

I was still shaking his hand.

How much money you make this week? the chef asked.

Some, I said. Hundred and ninety-five dollars, I said. Seven shifts.

Now you make twice as much in half of time, the chef said.

He let go of my hand and rolled just his eyes up to the unrelenting fluorescence.

But now, the chef said, smiling big, Now you have many enemies.

Chef took my hand that was holding my shorts in front of me and raised it the same way his bandaged hand was raised.

In all the world, naked, standing with two guys from Thailand in a locker room of a New York restaurant, both the chef and I, our left hands wrapped, his in gauze, mine in Fruit of the Loom, left hands in the air.

You are hung like Asian man, the chef said.

Chef looked down at my cock.

Shows wisdom, he said.

Wisdom? I said.

You and your body not identical, the chef said. American men with big cocks don't know that, the chef said, But you been blessed. Your spirit is great, your body is big, and your dick is little.

I was smiling. Stopped smiling. The chef had to sit down, he was laughing so hard. Kung Fu salad guy too.

But when our cocks get hard, the chef said, They get
really
hard, no? Stainless steel! the chef said, making a fist with his good hand.

Then, all at once, my mouth said, Then why you calling me Horse Dick?

Chef Som Chai walked to the door, opened the door, Kung Fu salad guy behind him. I was still standing with my left hand and my shorts in the air.

You in big trouble now, the chef said. Next week you Section Six, and Mack Dickson think your cock bigger than his.

I covered myself with my Fruit of the Looms.

Kung Fu salad guy closed the door behind them: laughing; the two of them laughed all the way up the stairs.

FIONA WAS STANDING
at the espresso machine, looking up at the schedule.

Oh
. . .
my
. . .
God!
Fiona said. They've moved Mack Dickson into Section One.

Then: Fuck, Will! You're in Section Five!

Walter, the ectomorph who drank too much coffee, Walter the actor with the new haircut, boy's regular, just like Davey Dearest's haircut which was just like Richard Gere's, walked over to the schedule, made the sound of inhaling air, said something ferocious, and ran out through the swinging red doors.

Life vérité, Fiona said.

Fiona walked over to the schedule. Put her index under my name.

Then: Will! Fiona said, and looked right at me.

Fiona's blue eyes holding me in them again.

You sly son of a bitch! Fiona said. Way fucking cool!

Over by the garbage can where you can smoke, I was filling out my checks with my name and the date.

What did Walter say? I said.

Something about sucking yellow dick, Fiona said.

Fiona looked through the window on the red swinging doors.

Look! Fiona said. Walter's talking to Daniel! Cool. Now Joanie's getting in on it, and there's Davey Dearest.
Oh
. . .
my
. . .
God
! Mack Dickson's walking over to them now. Look at 'em all together, like flies on shit.

He's coming our way, Fiona said. Mack, Son of Dick! Thee perfect gay man!

Then, cupping her hands around her mouth, she hollered, Prepare for Mack Attack! Prepare for Mack Attack!

I looked around for somewhere to run, to leave the premises, but the only way out was through the swinging red doors. I kept writing my name down and the date. Name and date. Name and date. I was practicing what to say, but I couldn't remember, not one word in English. Language is my second language. There was no time to roll a cigarette; besides, I was already smoking a cigarette.

Fuck! Fiona said. Wish Harry was here!

The swinging red doors burst open, and Mack Dickson was standing there all of a sudden like in vampire movies.

Frozen moments in time.

I acted like I was already dead and wished he was dead too.

Davey Dearest was behind Mack Dickson, then Walter, then Joanie. They were all standing with their hands on their hips, as if they'd practiced at home. If they were cowboys they'd draw six-guns and OK Corral the place.

Then Mack Dickson, Mack Son of Dick, Mack-Attack Dickson, Perfect Gay Man, Republican, tortured gym body, matching underwear and socks, possessor of perfect Caravaggio body, walked to the schedule, followed his finger along the line, came to the place where my name was and his name used to be, turned, and walked the way American men with big cocks walk, right up to me.

Everything about him was beautiful. Even his nose hairs were beautiful.

Horse Dick, Mack Dickson said, I'm going to get you for this!

My arms folded in front of me, I leaned back on my heels and looked Max Dickson straight in the eye.

So I'm a yellow-dick-sucking asshole, I said. What the fuck you going to do about it?

But it's not the truth.

My mouth was moving but nothing was coming out.

That's when Harry walked in through the swinging red doors with Ronald Reagan and Nancy under his arm. Harry set Ron and Nancy up against the counter. Mack Dickson, Walter, Davey Dearest, Joanie, Georgette, Fiona, and I—we all looked at Harry and Ronald Reagan and Nancy.

What is this, Harry said, A convention?