In the City of Shy Hunters (50 page)

I picked up
Cowboys and Indians
with both hands and flipped through the pages. A cowboy sees an Indian and a white horse by a stream. The cowboy pulls a gun on the Indian. Ties the Indian's hands behind him.
The Indian has a big bulge under his leather pouch. The cowboy lifts the pouch, sucks off the Indian. The Indian loves it. Then the cowboy's hands are tied behind him. The cowboy's hat is still on, and his boots, and the holster and gun around his waist and his legs are in the air and the Indian is fucking the cowboy in the ass. The cowboy loves it. Some Union Army guys see the white horse and then see the Indian fucking the cowboy. Then the army guys are all fucking each other and sucking each other and the cowboy and the Indian. Three Indians see the white horse, then see the army guys fucking and sucking each other and the cowboy and the Indian. The Indians all start sucking and fucking the army guys and the cowboy and the Indian and each other. The last page, the Indians and the army guys and the cowboy all are riding off into the sunset on their horses and it says on the last page:
How the west was won
.

In the corner under the stairs was another section and a shelf of books. These books were not magazines, they were novels.
INCEST LITERATURE
the sign said in red letters above the shelf.

Uncle John and Me on the Lake. Out in the Woodshed with Tommy. Kissing Cousins. Sodomy Brothers. Daddy Dearest
.

The guy behind the counter in front of the wall of dildos was white, shaved head, Hawaiian shirt. His nails were bitten. I gave the guy behind the counter one dollar.

Inside the booth, I closed the door, pulled the seat down, and sat in the blue light. Token into the slot.

A football team of jock cocks, a classroom of student cocks. A prison cell of inmate cocks. A submarine full of sailor cocks. An army barracks of army cocks. A swimming pool full of swimmer cocks.

Every cock a huge cock.

Fifty-four channels.

In each side wall of the booth, there was a window with a curtain over it. Two buttons next to a red arrow said
CURTAIN RIGHT
and
CURTAIN LEFT
.

I pushed both curtain buttons and the curtains on each side of me went up, and just like that, on my right on the other side of the greasy Plexiglas, was a white guy, his pants down around his knees, cock poking up, the guy pumping tokens into the slot, watching a video of a guy sitting in a chair, shitting out one firm dark-brown turd at a time, one at a time.

The guy on my left looked like a Korean guy. He was totally naked sitting like Buddha on the seat with a huge black dildo up his butt. The
Korean guy, all Saint Theresa Gone to Heaven, looked over at me, pinched his nipple, blew me a kiss.

And then on down the line, the same way as when you open a mirror and angle the mirror with another mirror so it looks like you looking at yourself forever and forever.

Frozen moments in time.

On each side of me, forever and ever, men in their booths, every kind of man, each man in his booth, dancing alone in his room with someone watching, with his curtain up, with his savage beast, his tiny Catholic heart, his legs up, his cock out, his cock against the Plexiglas, his butt hole against the Plexiglas, his mouth. Men in the blue light, the images on the videos screaming and fucking and coming and shitting and sucking. The men, each in their booth, jerking off with one hand, pushing tokens into the slot with the other.

The janitor at Show World looked like Grandfather Alessandro. The guy had a mop in his hand, a mop bucket next to him on the floor. I went to step around the guy. I looked down at my feet. I was standing in his mopped-up pool. The pool looked like sticky New York City melting gray snow.

But it's not the truth.

DURING THOSE MONTHS
Rose was so sick, I called and called Romeo Movers. I really needed to talk to someone besides Rose, and Fiona was always wound up in her trip with Stranded Beings Searching for God. But True Shot never picked up, or wasn't there, or else had suddenly dropped off the face of the earth. Ever since that night in the meat district when I told True Shot about Charlie 2Moons' scar, there had been no communication, nothing at all.

Ruby kept calling. Same old shit. Breathing, burping, street noise, sirens. One time I picked up.

Ruby, I said, where's True Shot?

Ruby coughed and coughed and coughed, hacked up, spit.

William of Heaven, Ruby said, from underwater.

Ruby, I said, Where's True Shot? Is he all right?

Street noise.

Ruby, I said, Can you stop being so fucking stoned for just a second and tell me where True Shot is?

Fools, Ruby said. Pharisees, he said. Noam Chomsky.

* * *

I
'
D CALLED THE
Columbia Writing Program several times. I'd spoken with a Joe, a Mary, a Harriet, a Mark, a Liz, a Jane, even the head of the department, a Stephen Something-or-other, but no Janet, and not once did anyone ever know anything about Sebastian Cooke.

Sebastian Cooke never returned my letter.

Most of all, nothing, nowhere, nohow, ever, never one single iota of a shred of info about Charlie 2Moons.

Nothing.

No Charlie 2Moons.

Nowhere.

APRIL OR MAY
1987. Outside on East Fifth Street a Conran truck was double-parked. Someone was yelling so I opened my window.

It was Fiona.

You're two fucking hours late! Fiona was screaming. Next time I'm going with Pottery Barn!

The truck driver was a small brown man. He just stood on the back of the truck, staring at the screaming woman in a black leotard, her hair flying up all over the place.

The chairs were in cardboard boxes and Fiona didn't want the cardboard boxes, she only wanted the chairs, and the truck driver said the chairs come with the boxes, and Fiona said, I have no place for the boxes, and the truck driver said, That's your problem, lady, and Fiona said, I'm not a lady, asshole, and why can't you just put the cardboard back in your truck and take it off with you to cardboard heaven? And the truck driver said, It's against company policy, and Fiona said, Fuck company fucking policy, I've got a tiny theater and what the fuck am I going to do with three acres of cardboard? Burn it?

You can shove it up your ass, lady! the truck driver said.

Fuck you! Fiona said.

No, fuck you! the truck driver said.

No, fuck you! Fiona said.

Fiona stomped back into Stranded Beings Searching for God. The truck driver was just about to jump out of the truck.

I yelled out at the truck driver to wait. I ran out of my apartment, out the front door, down the stoop. Stopped running, walked up to him, reached up my hand for a handshake. The truck driver looked at my hand New York drop-dead fuck-you. I took my hand back and put it in my back pocket.

This woman, I said, She's my friend. Her name is Susan and she is a very high-strung person. I said, She's taking high-blood-pressure medication.

The truck driver stayed squatted. The muscles in his legs were tight against his jeans. He was wearing a red T-shirt, rolled-up sleeves, a tattoo of Puerto Rico on his right bicep.

The truck driver said something in Spanish,
puta
, I think.

She's got an even bigger problem, though, I said. In fact, everybody in the building has this big problem.

I stepped closer to the truck, leaned my arm against the truck bed. When I spoke, I kept my voice low.

The building's super is the voodoo super from hell, I said. He's a devil worshiper who casts spells on the tenants if they fuck with his garbage.

The truck driver looked up the street and down the street when I said
voodoo
.

Please, I said. Can't you please take the cardboard?

Then I brought out the twenty-dollar bill.

On the inside of his arm, the truck driver had a red heart tattoo that said
Crisantema
across it.

The truck driver took the twenty.

I helped him take each black steel folding chair out of its box, fold up the carboard, and put the cardboard on the truck.

Fiona said, Cool.

We were just bringing in the last of the chairs when it started to rain. I grabbed two chairs, and Fiona grabbed two chairs. We were just running down into Stranded Beings Searching for God when Rose came walking down the stoop.

First time I'd seen Rose outside his apartment since he went in. His face under a huge red umbrella looked purple. Rose was wearing Lolita sunglasses, a checkered skirt like the Prince of Wales, combat boots, a leather jacket, and a black T-shirt with yellow lettering that said
FUCK JESSE HELMS
. Mary, Mona, and Jack Flash were on leashes.

When Fiona saw Rose, Fiona dropped the chairs she was carrying and headed quick for the door.

Rose stopped on the stoop, leaned over the railing.

Shit spray, my dear? Rose said.

Fiona stopped.

It was not a heavy rain but a quick splash, just enough to make everything wet.

Argwings Khodek, Fiona said, and looked up Rose's skirt, You're my Absolute Ultimate Idol.

AUI, Rose said, bracelets clack-clack.

In all the world, at the bottom of the stoop, on the sidewalk, in the rectangle of earth where I'd plant the cherry tree, everything wet, the dirt wet, Rose's huge red umbrella scratching the top of my head, is where it happened.

Argwings Khodek, I said, Susan Strong.

Susan Strong, I said, Argwings Khodek.

Fiona's hand was so small and so white inside Rose's.

Fiona knelt down. At first I thought it was supplication, but she was kneeling so she could pet Mary and Mona. Jack Flash started growling.

Then: I understand, Rose said, That you need a headliner to open up your new performance space. I've heard many good things about you, Rose said. I understand you have a fine spirit, so I agree to do it. You can talk to my agent, William of Heaven here, for the details.

Fiona stood up, and it was like when you stand up too fast and you see colors.

Oh, my fucking God Jesus Christ shit! Fiona said.

I assume that means yes, Rose said.

Rose's bracelets clack-clack.

Yes, Fiona said.

Shall we set a date then? Rose said.

Fiona looked around for something, for anything.

June, Fiona said. The first Saturday in June.

Rain again. Harder this time, then hail.

Rose and Fiona and Mary and Mona and Jack Flash and me all trying to stand under Rose's huge red umbrella, big white pieces of hail banging down on cars and on the sidewalk and on the umbrella.

The first Saturday in June it is, Rose said.

Cool, Fiona said. Totally cool.

THE LAST WEEK
in May, posters all over the Lower East Side, on every telephone pole and empty wall space you could imagine, all different colors—purple, pink, green, blue, yellow—there it was, the Xerox photograph of Rose in his Antigone drag.

STRANDED BEINGS SEARCHING FOR GOD OPENING NIGHT
,
ARGWINGS KHODEK SATURDAY
,
JUNE
7, 8
P
.
M
.

On Second Avenue and Fifth Street I tore a poster off a telephone pole and thumbtacked Rose's picture to the wall above my bed next to Daniel's beer-can dick.

SATURDAY AT LAST
. My hair was still wet from the shower, and I wore my black cutoffs and my black T-shirt and my white socks with a red stripe at the top and my combat boots and a string of cheap imitation pearls Rose gave me.

I taped
RESERVED
on four chairs : One chair for the
Village Voice
, one chair for
The New Yorker
, one chair for Dance Theater Workshop, and one chair for
The Times
.

A snowball in hell, Fiona said,
The New Yorker
or
The Times
showing up, Fiona said. Still, it looks cool.

At seven-thirty, when I unlocked the door to Stranded Beings Searching for God and looked outside, already there were a dozen people standing on the steps and on the sidewalk. I took everybody's five dollars at the door.

At seven-fifty, the place was almost full. There was a break in the line of people coming in, so I ran over to Fiona, who was busy behind the counter selling corn dogs and beer.

Is he here yet? Fiona asked.

Who, Harry? I said.

No, Fiona said. Argwings Khodek.

Not yet, I said. He's changing upstairs, I said. Don't worry, he'll show.

Where's Harry? I said.

My parents here? Fiona asked. I haven't dared look.

Don't know, I said. What do they look like?

Fiona gave some guy a napkin with his corn dog.

High-maintenance chick, Fiona said. Silver hair, tall, covered in silk.

With three guys? I said. Who look like lawyers? I said.

Oh, fuck! Fiona said. My father and my brothers.

Aren't your brothers sick? I said.

Fiona was looking across the audience. Then all at once Fiona smiled so all her teeth were showing and waved. The high-maintenance silver-haired chick covered in silk waved, and the three lawyers.

Where's Harry? I said.

Throwing up, Fiona said. He's real dizzy. Just opening-night jitters. He just called, Fiona said. Said he'll be here. It's cool.

Who's going to run the lights and sound if he doesn't show? I said.

He'll show, Fiona said. Harry will show.

ROSE CAME THROUGH
the door just before eight o'clock with his purple velvet cape draped over him with the hood up. All I could tell was he had a lot of makeup on. Dark glasses. He was carrying the large
BARNEY
'
S
bag and went straight to the dressing room.

Eight o'clock, I walked out onto East Fifth Street.

No Harry.

No Charlie 2Moons.

I closed the front door. Fifty-four people. Forty seated, fourteen standing. Only two empty seats,
The New Yorker
and
The Times
.