The Sex Lives of Siamese Twins (10 page)

I’ve shanked that fat whore through her blubber, struck right at her very core with my words. I can see her psychic wounds bleed in front of me. And the worst thing about it from her point of view is that she knows I’m
one hundred percent
correct; that I’m only saying this for her own good. — I know, she feebly begins, — I know what you’re saying is right—

I raise my hand. The fat need to find their voice. But
not
the quitter-victim voice. They cannot be permitted to speak, unless they speak like adults. — Don’t give me the big fucking “but,” I shake my head in scorn. — They always give the big fucking “but,” that caveat that makes it all okay, that renders everything acceptable. Let me tell you, sister: the only big fucking butt is the one you’re sitting on.

— You can’t talk to me like that—

— Yes I can, and I will, I tell her, my hands on my hips, my jaw thrust out. Then I drop my voice. — Because I want to help you get better. I know you don’t want to hear what I’m going to say, Lena, I cup my ear, — because that
not wanting to hear
, it’s just all part of the disease. You feel your ears physically shutting. There’s a tune, a trivial mantra playing in your head, to drown out my words, which are punching into your chest like arrowheads. Am I correct?

— I . . . I . . .

— Well, sister; welcome to the
real
world. You
are
going to hear my words. You
are
going to take cognisance of those words. Perhaps not today, perhaps not even tomorrow, but I will break down your defenses and you
will
listen to what I’m saying. Cause I’m gonna get you the fuck outta your comfort zone!

Sorenson’s physically shaking, quailing away from me, barely able to look me in the eye. I put my hand on her shoulder. Then she suddenly turns her head and stares at me, pushing her hair out of her eyes. I give her a big, open, affectionate smile. — Now show me around!

We walk outside into the backyard. I’m still interested in her studio, which sits in front of the small pool. — That’s where I work, she explains, adding, — I haven’t done much in a while.

— Can we take a look inside?

— No, it’s a mess, she says. — I don’t like to show people where I work.

— Oh-kay . . . I raise my hands in mock surrender. — But maybe later, once you feel more comfortable. I look to the studio, then back at her. — Because this place is important. This is where you need to be, here, I tell her, then I point inside to the kitchen, — not in there.

Sorenson nods at me, in the failing light. A breeze clatters the swordlike leaves of the big palm against the window, scoring the silence. Because although it’s tearing her apart to admit it, she knows it’s true, every fucking word.

She offers to drive me home but I insist on getting a cab. — I can pick one up on Collins.

— It’s really no bother.

— No thank you. You’ve done enough already.

— But that’s nothing, that night on the causeway, you don’t know how much you’ve already given me.

— Honey, I ain’t even started yet, and I throw my bag over my shoulder and walk out into the night.

Of course, when I get outside I double-back into Sorenson’s yard. I’m crouching under the window, looking at her through the blinds. Sorenson is sat at the computer. She’s gaping at what looks like pictures of fluffy baby animals and it seems she’s crying. Fat loser tears. Well, let her bubble away, but if I see that bitch take that shit out the trash and stuff her face I swear to God I will kick that door in and ram my fingers down her throat till that poison comes up . . .

Fuck . . . my cell makes a soft purr. I click it onto silent. Sorenson’s heard nothing. Some emails have come in, one is from Sorenson! I skulk out the yard to look at it.

To: [email protected]; [email protected]
From: [email protected]

Subject: Did You Ever See Anything So Cute?

Kim, Lucy,

This is to cheer you guys up!

Did you ever see anything so cute?

Lena x

The rabid but pitiful bitch has linked me to a website called Cute Overload. It’s all puppies, kittens, bear cubs, hamsters, and bunnies. Judging by the posts on it, everyone is a mentally retarded soccer mom, or a mentally retarded soccer mom in waiting.

I BLINK AWAKE
into a mango light that paints the room. The digital display on the clock—9:12—jolts me alert.
What the fuck, I never—

I have a client at 10:30!

—
shut the front door . . .

Heat and mass by my side; a storm of awareness that the bed is co-occupied thuds into my chest. My first dread thought: Sorenson! No, surely not. I turn slowly to look at the slumbering chick next to me; that femme who really liked the taste of pussy and getting fucked good. I went out on a cunt hunt last night, and I hate when I break my own rules and bring a chick back. She even has a leg over mine. As I roughly disentangle she blinks into life and groggily gapes at me. Without makeup she looks so young, a college freshman or sophomore type.

Getting stuck with experimenting bitches isn’t my preferred modus operandi, but hey-ho, you can’t critique a chick who took the plastic you were packing so eagerly. — Good morning, she yawns and stretches.

— And to you. I force a smile. Then it gets uncomfortable. I’m no good at this.

She gets out of bed; tall, lean and hot. I dig that blond-white hair, cut short, but this chick could
never
be a proper butch, not without at least five years and 100,000 calories. She pulls on her clothes. — I gotta go. Classes. Then she smiles at me. — I can’t believe I made it with the Causeway Vigilante Chick!

— Yeah, I say. How the fuck can you respond to that?

— See ya.

She gets out, and I wait till I hear the apartment door open and close, then spring up. In the kitchen area she’s taken some orange juice out the fridge and slugged it from the bottle without putting it back. Fucking gross: young bitches got no manners.

I’m pissed at myself for sleeping in, I mean, how fucking lame, so I jump in the shower then swiftly dress. I’ve got time to quickly check my emails. Fuck me, I cringe as I see that one Sorenson sent me last night. And she at least has a friend, though heaven knows what this Kim chick is like.

Fuck her. I’ve more important correspondence to be getting on with.

To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]

Subject: So Good To Hear From You!

Michelle,

Can’t even begin to tell you how juiced I am about you getting back to me. My life has gotten a shitload weirder since the incident. I have a manager! And I’ve a woman from VH1 TV who’s signing me up to do this makeover show for fat suburbanites who’ve let themselves go. It sounds pretty much like what I do now, but only to camera and on a fucking cruise boat! I know, right? The thing is, they’ve lined up some preening hair, cosmetics, and clothes guy to partner me. My warning bells kind of went off. I don’t want them launching the career of the unemployable faggot son of some TV company exec on the back of my heroic actions, right? LOL!

Not all good, though. A fascist prick running for office down here, Quist his name is, has me on his radar. Turns out the gunman was a kid who had been abused by pedophiles and went under the causeway where those perverts live and started shooting them up. Good luck to him, but like, hello, I was meant to know that? It’s all getting sick, but not in a good way.

Please advise!

Oh, and representation, have you heard of Valerie Mercando? What’s she like?

Oh, FINALLY, and you wouldn’t believe that one of my clients now is this self-styled “artist” girl, the one who witnessed the bridge incident. She sought me out. Creepy or what?

Best,

Lucy x

As I hit the send button, I realize that my nails, clicking on the keyboard, are getting too long. I’m scrolling through my inbox and back to Sorenson’s weird animal pictures website. Then I think I really should go, but to my delight, a reply comes right back!

To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]

Subject: So Good To Hear From You!

Lucy,

Great to hear from you again, and delighted that things are working out so well. VH1 is an awesome channel, and they will give you a great profile. Of course, the right collaborators are important, but this is a golden opportunity! Bite their hand off! BUT leave the negotiations to your rep.

Which bring us on to representation. Yes, Valerie Mercando is very good. She’ll be able to handle all the VH1 negotiations.

Clients are clients, I don’t think it’s important where they come from, as long as there is mutual respect and the proper boundaries are observed.

Yes, I heard that politicians were trying to use your case to gain leverage. Don’t worry, that will blow over, but I’m sure your PR person will tell you that.

Well done! I’m excited for you!

Best,

Michelle

PS Did you try out Morning Pages?

I’m so buzzed, and get right on to Valerie.

To: [email protected] cc: [email protected]
From: [email protected]

Subject: Let’s Do It!

Dear Valerie,

After sound advice from my trusted friend and confidante, Michelle Parish, I’m writing to formally confirm that you are indeed the best person to represent me. I’m copying Thelma Templeton of VH1 into this email.

Let’s get the ball rolling and kick some serious ass!

Best,

Lucy x

In my postage-stamp kitchen area I mix and down a protein shake. Emerging into the sunshine, I’m ready to bust the chops of any asshole who comes into my space, but the paparazzi seem to have vanished again. Striding across Flamingo Park, I head toward the gym. A couple of guys in their twenties are running and one stops, pulling himself up on the bar by the basketball courts. He does seven pull-ups, struggles on number eight, fails on nine. I get straight on it. — Here’s how it’s done, I say, knocking out a dozen, finishing the twelfth as strong as when I started the first, then doing the same number of chin-ups, beaten by nothing other than the clock.

— Wow . . . the guy says.

— It’s all in the breathing, I tell him. — If you’re doing pull-ups, your grip should be slightly wider than your shoulder. For chin-ups, the underhand grip, keep them around shoulder width.

T2 style! Sarah Fucking Connor! Joan Fucking Jett!

When I get to the gym, Marge’s already there, and she’s stretching out. She’s getting the stink-eye from Toby, the fag receptionist, who describes himself as a DJ, because they let him occasionally spin his flouncy, ambient, antimusic, antilife CDs when the joint is empty. When it fills with suburban housewives, he has to cede his place to Coldplay and Maroon 5 mixes, and I’ve even grown to accept those wrist-slash inducers as a blessed relief to his tepid shit. I swear my ass turns to peat bog at the very sight of that pretentious, bitter queer. His earshot makes me instinctively drop my vowels into Southie caricature. Heavy-muscled and cut in typical South Beach pseudo-homo style, he’s blissfully unaware as he pops his steroids and presses his one-fifty that a throwaway jab would bust his faggot nose and have him in counseling for years, spilling bucketloads of pansy tears. — You’ve been in the news again, he announces, then his head swivels to a mounted screen. — Oh, look. He points at the TV.

Joel Quist is on the screen. He’s running for office on every hate-and-fear policy you can think of, and shit-talking every alternative:

Terrorism: killing innocent Americans

Gun control: killing innocent Americans who can’t protect themselves

Higher taxes for the super-rich instead of bailouts: killing innocent Americans

Not killing Arabs: killing innocent Americans

Abortion: killing innocent Americans (before they’re born)

Gay marriage: sodomizing, then killing, innocent Americans

I’m on his radar and it sucks. Oh shit: now my big oval mouth is gaping and stupefied into the camera, like Marge’s when confronted by a treadmill. I signal for her to pick up the bell weights, but I can’t keep my eyes off the screen. All I needed to say was, “Of course male victims of sexual violence have the right to self-defense. This is appropriate when they are being attacked. Mr. McCandless wasn’t being attacked, he was pursuing two unarmed men, and shooting at them. If he was the victim of a previous crime then we have a criminal justice system that exists to deal with such cases.” But that ship, the vessel of reason, has long fucking sailed.

Thorpe appears, and he’s making that very point, but in his rambling, pontificating, lecturing, half-assed way. You can tell that everybody hates him. He’s slippery and effete. He’s a fucking
lawyer
.

Man the fuck up!

— Right Marge, get that fifteen-pound kettlebell and gimme four sets of swing and squat, twelve reps per set!

Quist cuts right in over the protesting Thorpe, who is waved down by the anchor, a guy this time, though he still looks like he wants to take the dribbling snail of this semi-continent old fuck into his tight, priggish mouth. — Well, I am all for the rule of law, as is well known by my voting record on such issues, especially when you compare it to Mr. Thorpe’s one of mollycoddling the criminal element in our society . . .

Marge is going through her stuff. — Raise the weights higher and get your butt lower! Swing and squat! And swing and squat!

They cut to Thorpe long enough for a petty pout of a reaction shot and a muffled off-camera plea, then to the anchor who waves him down with the back of his hand, — Please, allow Mr. Quist to finish.

— But sometimes our politicians and bureaucrats in Washington let the people down, Quist rooster-puffs himself up. — Lemme ask this question: How long was young Sean McCandless let down for? Lucy Brennan, albeit unwittingly, came to help those sick perverts, as everybody seems to do. But who was there for poor little Sean McCandless? Who came to help that kid?