In the City of Shy Hunters (36 page)

From the Crupper Split, I push myself up and lift my body by straightening my arms, bring my one leg through and around, do a back flip to a full standing Stick Ride position, dildo boinging back and forth, up and down, side to side, a life all its own.

Sock it to me sock it to me sock it to me sock it to me.

My next problem is to take off my pants and my Fruit of the Looms without taking off the strap-on dildo.

There's no solution to this problem, even for Houdini.

I shake my ass around, strut up and down the runway, bump and grind, boing the dildo, but there's no getting away from it.

I got to take the dildo off.

Beyond, out there, John the Bartender starts in first, singing along with Aretha. Then Harry, then Georgette, then Chef Som Chai.

I pull the straps of the dildo down, slow, hips back and forth, the way you would a girdle or a jockstrap.

Everybody out there is singing and clapping. I twirl the dildo by the strap around my head the way you throw a lariat, and I throw the dildo, and the dildo hits Mack Dickson in the head.

Then I dance, really dance, not no closing-time locals-kicking-up: Joe Cocker meets Martha Graham and Gypsy Rose Lee.

I undo the top button of my black waiter pants.

A gasp from the crowd. Cheers.

I unzip my zipper.

Do a Rump Turn, three revolutions this time, step out of my black waiter pants one leg at a time, lay my black waiter pants over my shoulder, the Hooker Arm Drag, I shake it don't break it, walk on the wild side, walk the walk, strut my stuff down the runway and back to Fresh Fruit Truman Compotee and the Brillo box. Drop my pants, my Fruit of the Loom ass to the crowd.

I do a Shoulder Stand, then back-flip and land on my feet, pull my Fruit of the Looms down over one cheek, then the other, pull my Fruit of the Looms down to my ankles, then Go Under the Belly, head down, butt up, to unrelenting fluorescence.

Pull my big balls aside, stick my head down there like I can, put my chin between my butt cheeks, look out at my audience, hands on my butt cheeks—spread my butt cheeks wide, cross my eyes, give 'em a big smile, stick my tongue out.

Who cares what a bunch of assholes think.

Screams and screams. The crowd is going wild.

I reach over, pick up the Brillo box, take my chin out of my ass, raise up, turn my body around, quick put the Brillo box in front of my cock and balls.

Postured disregard, savoir faire, I can fuck you blind and keep it simple,
sexy totale
. I walk on the wild side, walk the walk, bump and grind, strut my stuff down the runway, sashay, do the Rump Spin, reach in the Brillo box, pick out a Brillo pad, and throw the Brillo pad in the air.

Up and down the runway, tossing Brillo pads.

At the end of the runway, when I run out of Brillo pads, I throw the Brillo box.

Brillo box hits Fiona in the head.

Then—
ta-da!
—all daring and courage, I turn around, face the music, face the eyes.

I pull my balls up like John the Bartender told me, walk balls out, cock lying on top, half mast, on the wild side, sashay, strut, it ain't the meat it's the motion, back to the Brillo box.

Nobody even looks at my cock.

IN ALL THE
world, I'm the Leonardo da Vinci guy spread-eagle on a stage. I'm completely present, buck naked, original, pure, red-blooded American boy, high enough to think I am New York, out there in the spotlight, my spotlight for life.

Nowhere.

Now here.

Something from nothing.

Beyond, out there, all around the runway, a semicircle of arms around each other. Chef Som Chai's got his shirt open, his arm over Kung Fu salad guy's shoulder, while Kung Fu salad guy does the bump with the Mexican dishwasher. The sous chef, Walter, and José are leaning on each other, barbershop quartet, singing
Respect
. Harry and Joanie are showing the three other Thai guys in the kitchen how to twist. Davey Dearest and the new Puerto Rican busboy, Georgette, John the Bartender, even Mack Dickson, shaking and rubbing up against each other.

All of us all one thing.

Dancing with God.

Fiona is holding the Andy Warhol Brillo box. She just stands there and stares at me, smiling her broken-lip smile.

* * *

ABOUT
2
A
.
M
., Joanie stumbled a bump and grind down the runway. Off with her white shirt, off with her pants.

Harry yelled, Put it back on! Put it back on!

Fuck you! Joanie yelled.

No fuck you!

Then, just like that, Joanie walked over to the card table, picked up the champagne glass, poured the rose petals out, and with her index and thumb pulled out Fresh Fruit Truman Compotee.

The tape was over, the champagne gone. No more cocaine.

Joanie stood like a cellulite Statue of Liberty in a pink bra and pink bikini underwear, hairy armpit, holding Fresh Fruit Truman Compotee up to the sky.

Joanie started laughing, really laughing, so hard she had to bend over and couldn't talk.

Who knows how long Joanie stood bent over laughing.

How long we stood watching.

When Joanie stood up straight, she held the photo out in front of her, pointed the photo around the room, pointed Fresh Fruit Truman Compotee at each one of us.

Each one of us waiting for the joke.

Then: AIDS! Joanie shouted.

Truman Compotee looks like he has AIDS!

HARRY'S FACE WAS SO
white it was green. The deep breath he took, pushed his shoulders up, his head. His chin rolled back and his eyes were staring up.

Both Fiona and I looked up at where Harry was staring at the ceiling.

Harry, in the basement below the dining room, sat just about right under table twenty-eight, which was just about right under the Sistine Chapel God.

Table twenty-eight just about right under the space between man reaching and God's finger.

The hierarchy of humiliations.

Harry let his head roll. Fiona just like that was next to him, her open palms on his neck, her open palms on his head. Harry leaned into her, put his face against her white waitron shirt, put his head on Bernadette's breast.

Fiona's red lips, a life all their own, kissed Harry's head.

Mack Dickson and Davey Dearest and Walter, Chef Som Chai and the Thai kitchen crew, the Puerto Rican busboys, the Mexican dishwasher, had turned into Art Family.

John the Bartender held his hand over his mouth and ran into the toilet. Only cocaine and champagne in his stomach, John's fountainmouth was one loud long scream and splash, scream and splash.

Joanie had not moved. She still held the photo-booth photo up with one hand, her other hand over her mouth.

Joanie's eyes had the red puffy stare of one who has spoken unspeakable truth.

Mack Dickson stepped out from the crowd, walked slow up to Joanie. His olive-skinned hand made a swipe. Ripped Fresh Fruit Truman Compotee out of Joanie's hand.

Snot out of Joanie's nose; she tried to wipe it.

John the Bartender barfing. Harry weeping. Joanie making little hiccup sounds. Her hands open, palm up.

My God! Joanie said. My God!

Mack Dickson slapped her hard, one cheek, then the other.

Fiona closed her eyes, pulled Harry in closer.

Mack Dickson hit the
EXIT
door, slammed the door open. Then it was Davey Dearest, then Walter.

The Thai kitchen staff left behind them.

Then the Puerto Rican busboys.

The Mexican dishwasher.

In all the world—abracadabra!—in the unrelenting bright fluorescence, all that was left was John the Bartender barfing in the toilet like Bobbie.

All that was left was Harry kneeling on the floor between Fiona's long legs, shoulder-rolling big sobs into Fiona's lap.

Fiona. Her lipstick a big red scar. Her hair every which way. Black mascara puddles under her eyes. Her porcelain arms a loop around Harry.

All that was left was Joanie standing in her spotlight for life in her pink bra and pink bikini underwear. Sobs so big they'd break a rib.

All that was left was a Brillo box.

All that was left was a tiny photo-booth photo next to my foot on the floor.

All that was left was my naked self.

Even myself.

CHAPTER
FOURTEEN

C
harlie's back was to the door. I was sitting on the bed, and Charlie was kneeling on the floor sucking my cock.

Just like that, Bobbie walked in. The doorknob turned, the door opened, and Bobbie walked in.

Bobbie had her hair done up in a French twist, and she was wearing a new dress Father bought her, shiny pink. Bobbie standing in her new shiny-pink dress she wanted to show me, staring. I tried to get Charlie to stop, tried to push Charlie's head off, but he wouldn't stop, not till I said, Charlie, I didn't lock the door. Not till I said, Charlie, Bobbie's right behind you.

Charlie kept kneeling, turned his head around.

Hi, Princess! Charlie said.

Bobbie's hands on her hips.

What the fuck are you
doing
? Bobbie said.

Giving your brother a blow job, Charlie said.

He's just a child, Bobbie said.

He's thirteen, Charlie said.

He's twelve, Bobbie said.

Almost thirteen, I said.

Then: Did Daddy buy Princess a new dress? Charlie said.

Bobbie jumped at Charlie and Charlie got up quick, turned his whole body around, and faced her. Charlie stood in place, his hands fists, his cock still hard enough to bounce, his face smiling but not his eyes.

Bobbie's arms were out in front of her like she was Superman and going to fly.

That's disgusting! Bobbie said.

Disgusting? Charlie said.

You two! Bobbie said.

Not as disgusting as you fucking your father, Charlie said.

Like she was holding a planet of the known universe, Bobbie bent forward more, spread her arms more. You could see she'd shaved under her armpits.

If you can fuck your father, Charlie said, I sure as hell can suck your brother's cock.

Bobbie's fingers spread out; her fingernails were painted the same pink as her dress.

We're not so different, Charlie said. I like Parker dick as much as you.

Bobbie stepped forward quick, swung hard with her open hand, and slapped Charlie across the face. The slap was loud and stayed in the room. Charlie didn't move.

Then Charlie swung hard with his open hand and slapped Bobbie across the face. The slap was loud and stayed in the room. Bobbie didn't move.

Then Bobbie slapped Charlie.

Then Charlie slapped Bobbie.

Those two would've kept on forever until the both of them were bloody stumps, I knew, so I covered myself with a pillow and pushed them apart at the hips, stuck my head up in between them, pushed myself up through.

I was shorter, looking up.

Charlie and Bobbie chin to chin, eye to eye.

Charlie didn't look down at me, didn't blink, kept staring right at Bobbie.

Then: Will, Charlie said, take that fucking pillow off your cock. You got nothing to be ashamed of.

I looked over at Bobbie.

Bobbie didn't blink, didn't look down, kept staring right at Charlie.

You heard him, Will, Bobbie said, You got nothing to be ashamed of!

So I dropped the pillow, my feather pillow I always slept with.

All of us silent, all of us all one thing.

My heart, the broken pieces scratching up against my chest.

The pillow on my green rug, Charlie's cinnamon-brown feet, my pink feet, Bobbie's feet in nylons in her shiny black patent-leather shoes.

Of course I started crying. Big sobs, snot running out my nose, my chest up and down.

Then pretty soon Bobbie was crying and then Charlie was crying too. Two of us naked, one of us in a shiny pink dress, all of us a forearm apart, crying. Then Bobbie leaned over to me and hugged me and said, I'm sorry, Will honey, and Charlie leaned over to me and hugged me and
said, I'm sorry too. And then we were all hugging each other and we were crying so hard, big loud sobs and body jerks, crying our guts out.

Stayed standing, holding each other up that way, most of the afternoon.

Charlie and Bobbie and I are still standing there.

THE SECRET PACT
was Bobbie's idea.

Bobbie and I were sitting on the two-by-six boards of the swings on the old swing set, not swinging up high, just letting our bodies roll around in the swings, our hands on the rusted chains, dragging our feet on the smooth concrete. Bobbie and I chewing on stems of the good kind of grass, the sun low, just starting to set, making the sky fancy with colors. The wind through the cottonwood trees sounded like God whispering. Charlie'd just ridden ayaHuaska home to Viv's double-wide, and Bobbie and I were sitting in the swings, rolling rolling.

Then: You and Charlie been sexifying for quite a while now? Bobbie said.

Bobbie had changed into her plaid pedal pushers and white top. Bobbie was looking at her thumb, scraping pink off her thumbnail.

Beginning of the summer, I said.

You do anything else? Bobbie said.

What else? I said.

Besides blow jobs? Bobbie said.

We jerk off, I said. And rub up against each other, I said. Then one time we cut each other's wrists, and became blood brothers, I said, And promised.

Bobbie pushed her feet against the ground and swung back. Forward and back, forward and back, faster and faster, Bobbie pumped herself up in the air higher and higher. Bobbie's body was dark and the sky was orange and apricot and the swing made the back-and-forth squeak, the squeak pitched higher and higher as the swing got higher. Bobbie's hair was flying all around her head: off her face when the swing went forward, into her face when the swing went back, and sometimes just all over the place because of the wind. Bobbie got the swing so high she almost went all the way over.

Then Bobbie quit pumping, just let her legs dangle, and the back-and-forth, back-and-forth of the swing got slower and slower, and the swing sound not so high-pitched, and pretty soon Bobbie in the swing was sitting still next to me.