Inappropriate Behavior: Stories (8 page)

Song for Jodie #156 (a ballad)

Come live with me and be my love

Come live with me and be my love

Babe———————————

Come live with me and be my love

Without you I can't seem to move

There's more in me than you can ever see from where you are

So come and live with me and be my love

My brother sends me out armed with literature. Fliers and bumper stickers in a milk crate at my feet. The candidate's face on a sign. He grins. He has Lubbock on his mind. From Lubbock,
For Lubbock. I stand at the corner of Broadway and Tenth, near Sneed Hall, holding my sign, armed with my literature that I keep in a milk crate at my feet. If anyone comes up and asks questions about the candidate, I'm supposed to be polite and give them some literature. I'll work anytime, anywhere. The city's motto is: Lubbock!

Spoonbenders and other psychic phenomena. Christopher Marlowe was a spy. Clive asks why haven't I paid the phone bill. Clive says he distinctly remembers telling me to pick up some paprika and Marlboros. Clive is writing a treatise on human consumption of natural resources. Clive knows about Allison.

Today I saw her leaving her biochemistry class. I was standing on the corner of Broadway and Tenth with my sign for the candidate and my milk crate full of literature and bumper stickers. The following experience occurred:

A lady comes up to me at the corner. A lady who is probably fifty years old, and dry. She asks me why she should vote for the candidate. She's wearing pants. Black polyester pants tight on her dry hips and flared out around her legs. And a white shiny shirt with ruffles. What does he stand for? she says. In the case of this experience occurring, I have been instructed by my brother, director of campaign operations, to say the following eight things:

           
1)
   
The candidate believes in America first.

           
2)
   
The candidate believes in lower taxes.

           
3)
   
The candidate believes in God.

           
4)
   
The candidate won't raise your taxes, like the other guy.

           
5)
   
The candidate understands Lubbock.

           
6)
   
The candidate puts Lubbock first.

           
7)
   
The candidate thinks it's high time we took this country back.

           
8)
   
The candidate asks for your vote for the House of Representatives.

Then I'm supposed to give her some of the literature I have in my milk crate.

But when the Dry Lady asks me, I can't think of any of these things. It's all in the flier, I say. I hold out a flier, but not a bumper sticker. Bumper stickers are more expensive and should only be given to those who specifically request them, number one, and number two, my brother says, I'm supposed to get some kind of feel for the people who specifically request bumper stickers, to try to gauge how firmly they support the candidate and how likely they are to actually go out on Election Day and vote. He says there are lots of people who just want to take a bumper sticker and then not do anything about it, not even put it on their car. Why, I don't know, he says, but it's true. People just like to get things of value, however small, as they're walking around town. Especially college students. Which is why we don't want to give out bumper stickers to just anyone and everyone.

Here's what I think, the Dry Lady says. I think you don't know
what
he stands for. I think he doesn't stand for anything. I think if he stood for something you'd be able to tell me straight out. I think you just lost my vote.

Just take the flier, ma'am, I say.

I don't want anything to do with your flier, and I don't want you people knocking on my door anymore, either, she says. I've had it with you. She either said that or How sad for you, I couldn't tell which. She walked away, her dry legs bone-clattering up Tenth, and got into a gold Valiant parked there on the street. I was sweating terribly.

So now I'm back on the corner with my sign, and Allison is walking with her slut tramp whore roommate toward Bledsoe.
Her light blond hair shines even in the thin September twilight. Her friend is a toad of blood.

Song for Jodie #161 (a ballad)

When you feel the terror of existence

I will comfort you like a child

When you feel awed by my insistence

Then I'll know your blood is running wild

When you mewl just like my little kitten

I'll know I have you

When you cry———————————

When I leave———————————

Then I'll know I have you

Clive is drunk. He sends me out for more Evan Williams bourbon. He distinctly remembers writing me a check for his half of the rent. He remembers where he was sitting when he wrote the check. Among Clive's magazines:

           
•
   
The New Yorker

           
•
   
The Nation

           
•
   
Screw

           
•
   
Southern Living

           
•
   
Guns & Ammo

           
•
   
Harper's

           
•
   
Foreign Affairs

Clive tells me that in twenty years the world will run out of carbon dioxide. I got the wrong size bottle of Evan Williams bourbon and now I have to go get more. My feet hurt from
standing on the corner all day with my sign. And because I either erred or perhaps willfully disobeyed his instructions and didn't get the right size bottle, I have to pay for the whole thing.

Or else he'll call my parents and tell them the truth about Allison.

Today in English class the teacher talked about John Donne. A poem called “The Flea.” It's about how this girl should stop holding out on him, since he's been bitten by a flea, and she's been bitten by the exact same flea, and inside that flea their blood is all mixed up, so why should she be so prissy about letting him have sex with her? Allison didn't seem impressed by the argument. Allison does not exist in a world of blood and fleas. The teacher returned another paper at the end of class. Again, I didn't hand one in so I don't get one back. I knew this one was due, but I was working, standing on the corner with my milk crate, holding the sign for the candidate. Last week, when I should have been working on my paper, I was holding my sign. Anytime, anywhere.

All my life needed was a sense of somewhere to go. The teacher has stopped asking why I haven't been coming to class.

Clive.

Clive distinctly remembers giving me a check for his half of the rent. Clive has no friends, no one ever visits Clive, no one ever calls Clive, Clive never goes anywhere or sees anyone. Clive refuses to let me look at any of his magazines, even though I pay the subscriptions on more than half of them. Although sometimes when I'm in the bathroom, struggling with a movement,
he slides a dirty picture from
Screw
or
Leg Man
or
Oui
under the door. Have fun, Clive says.