PARADOXIA (3 page)

Sal gets the brilliant idea of dragging me into it. Instructing me to remove my cunt from Warren's face and pick up the Coke bottle from the dresser. A filthy leftover from the last tenants. Crusted with dust and dried sugar water. Motions me over to Gina, still obediently bent over, waves me in her direction. Tells me to stick the Coke bottle inside her. Stick it in her pussy. Fuck her. Fuck that cunt. I spit on the rim, dribbling a little inside. Gina starts begging, “No, Sal, please, not this again—”

“Shut your fucking mouth, you scumsucker, open your pussy. Open it, you fucking cunt!”

Gina starts to whine. And wiggle her fucking ass. The bitch thrives on humiliation. She parts her hairy slit, revealing deep purples, browns, gray, pink. Warren cocks his head to improve his view. He's taken his dick out, halferect and moist, resting against his belly. Sal's rubbing his prick against the pillow, slow-humping, raised up on one elbow. “FUCK HER, YOU FUCK!!!” he bellows, never tiring of playing dictator. I slip the tip of the bottle inside her sloppy hole, moistened by the shouts, the instructions. It swims inside her slick. I pump the bottle slowly, up to the round swell past the neck … The bitch moans, wagging her ass. She actually wants more. I begin to jerk it in, steady pump of glass in cunt. Sal becomes delirious. Shaking his prick, flailing it in circles, squeezing the purple head in both fists, he shouts, “Do you fucking know how to fuck???” Leaping off the bed, he grabs the bottle from my hands with a loud
plop
, as her struggling cunt begs for more fuck. I remember my mother confiding to my aunt about her job in a Coca-Cola bottling factory in the late '50s. How they'd supposedly find mice embalmed in bottles, or roaches. She said it was her job to inspect the line to make sure no vermin were visible. How one woman had to be rushed to the doctor after getting a bottle stuck inside her. That's why Coke bottles now have concave bottoms, so they won't get stuck inside. I was only five when I heard this, but I never forgot it.

Sal was pump-fucking her with the glass cock. Pulling her hair with one hand, pumping with the other, shouting out a string of brutal obscenities. Violent curses. Threatening to jam the bottle up her cunt until she was spitting shards of broken glass. Slapping his cock against her. He spun her around, bottle dangling between her legs, told me to get behind her, keep that cunt full, while she sucked him off.

Gina was shaking, choking on his cock. He had her by both ears, fucking ruthlessly into her face. Suffocating her with his horrible prick. Warren was still blissfully silent, stroking himself off, ready to unload. Group frenzy. Gina sobbing, slobbering, gagging; Sal bucking quicker still, ready to explode. Me pumping, slapping her now, punching at her with the bottle. A hideous collective orgasm swept the room. Grunting, groaning, crying, screaming, an audio-nightmare of ungodly proportion. I felt filthied by the hot come which seemed to bathe the room in a ghostly film. Thirty seconds of silence.

Sal plopped his cock free. I pulled the buried treasure out. Warren scooped a load of sickly white onto the arm of the chair. Sal walked to the window overlooking 23rd Street, grabbed a cigarette, and shook his dick at a passing school bus. Gina ran to the bathroom, slamming the door. I took another drink. Lit a roach.

Fifteen minutes pass. We sit there spent, collecting ourselves. Gina reemerges from the bathroom, showered, wrapped in a towel. Smiling. Sal asks her what the fuck is she doing. Why is she so fucking happy? What the fuck is wrong with her, why hasn't she left yet? She stammers a “But … Sal …” He tells her to disappear, he can't stand her fucking glee. To get gone. Get out. Get the fuck out. He rushes over, shoving her on her ass, kicking her once for good luck … “What the hell do you want now … you got off, now go!” He rips the towel away from her, snapping it against her thighs. Pulls her up by the hair. Rushes her over to the door, opens it, and shoves her out.

Gina pounds on the door, begging to be let back in. Pleading for her clothes, her purse, the ring she left in the bathroom. Sal ignores her, staring out the window picking his ass. Warren, used to years of their bullshit, announces he's taking a bath … would anyone care to join him? The pounding continues, Sal grabs the coke bottle off the floor, smashing it into the door. Glass splatters everywhere. Her footsteps trail down the hall. Sal says he's taking a nap. See ya later. I collect my shit to leave. A timid knock on the door. Hotel management, asking for the lady's clothes back. Sal demands, “What lady?”

Another timid knock. “Sir, please …”

Sal grabs her clothes and purse, wings them out into the hall, slamming the door. Gina whines about the ring she left in the bathroom. Sal yells for her to fuck off. He'll see her this weekend. She can pick it up then. She kicks the door and storms down the hallway.

Her footsteps fade. The three of us have a drink, Warren pink from soaking, Sal greasier than ever. I decide to split, swearing I'll never see Sal again. Warren walks me to the door, whispering, “I'm gonna fuck you. A good fuck. Next time I see you. Just the two of us. Soon, okay?” He kisses the top of my head. Opens the door, steps aside for me to pass. Bows at the waist. “Bye, beautiful …” He blows me a kiss, slipping behind the door as he eases it shut.

I met up with him a few nights later at Club 82. A stinking basement dive. I dragged him into the ladies' bathroom, last stall. We blew a joint and finished our beers. He stood me up on the toilet seat, had me face the wall. Began a glorious finger-fuck, penetrating my asshole with long lean fingers, moistened with spittle. Whispered he wanted to smear my shit all over the bathroom walls. Would take my ass until it was so juicy and loose that my bowels would explode, perfuming the room. Wasted, high, horny, he eased another finger in. Then another. Urging me to come, to shit, to erupt. I came screaming, a small trickle of liquid gold expelled from my asshole. He wiped his hands on the stall door, drawing a Star of David in chocolate. Licked the last of it from his middle finger. Just as the club's manager walked in, alarmed by our muffled screams. Kicked us out, banning us from returning. Haven't seen him since.

W
ore out my welcome with the good doctor. Concocted a new scam. Even less taxing. Took to Sixth Avenue and 8th Street, equipped with yellow notepad. Claiming to be soliciting funds for cancer research. I'd approach women with small children. Singing a sad song about babies born with incurable diseases, how much a small donation would mean. Our headquarters on 57th Street encouraged by recent breakthroughs, a cure just around the corner. What was needed was more money. The government as usual stingy. It worked every time. A dollar or two added up quickly. I'd retire for the day after milking ten or twenty greenbacks off of guilty liberals. Prey on their heartstrings. Another victimless crime.

It was still easy to skip out on the bill at any number of restaurants. Two people walk in, order, eat. One hits the john, the other disappears. Last man out had the more difficult job of a casual navigation to the exit. An air of indifference is the key to a smooth getaway. Pulled that trick off many times. Until the character I was with got caught. I left first. Propped myself against the designated corner, three blocks away. Fifteen minutes later my cohort shows up. Two greasy toes sticking out through old holes in tattered socks. Management had confiscated his shoes. Would return them once the bill was paid in full. Cheaper to buy new shoes. Never went back.

Started pilfering from supermarkets. Walk in, wolf down a few quick snacks, stroll to the counter, buy a pack of gum, cigarettes, a banana. Negligible goods. The cheaper the better. Pretend you had a reason to be there. The shitty bodega on 5th Street and First Avenue was an easy mark. Thought they were safe, half a block from the precinct. They weren't.

Clothes were always easy to come by. Street vendors selling stolen goods on Astor Place a few bucks a pop. Or a quick jaunt to one of the smaller department stores, dressed in layers to exchange for better shit. Worked fine until they installed surveillance cameras in every dressing room, and even the toilet stalls. Employed undercover grannies to pose as shoppers to eagle-eye the bathrooms. Attached those hideous metal tags to every top, trouser, panty.

I had a favorite spot I'd always hit for clothes. A shitty mall in downtown Brooklyn. Must've lifted two grand worth of shit from it. Even when hustling chump change, I needed to look good. Never know who you might run into. Might wanna sweep you away. Might wanna suck you off.

I walked in wearing a long leather trench coat. Bound tightly around me. It concealed three complete outfits I was planning to replace. Slipped into a short black dress, lace camisole, patent-leather miniskirt, black velvet jacket, and a fifty-two-dollar pair of silk panties. The clothes I walked in with were strung up in their place. Headed over to the kid gloves. Should have known better. But I was greedy. The downfall of every criminal.

I could smell him before he put his hand on my shoulder. Small black man, ringer for Sammy Davis, Jr. Asking me to come back to his office. Claimed to have been trailing me for months. Gave a rundown of everything I had pilfered, a catalog of infractions I was no doubt guilty of. Said he was calling the police, and if need be, he'd send them over to my house to retrieve every last item I'd pocketed. That's when I cold-cocked him. Dead on the jaw. Massive roundhouse right. Took off running. Watching him splatter into the plate-glass window near the exit. I prayed it would break and crucify him with splinters of tinted glass. He toppled.

I must've been high priority. He had radio'd for the cops as soon as he spotted me entering the store. They approached me laughing. They hurried me around the corner and congratulated me for sending Sammy flying. Confided they couldn't stand his self-righteous bullshit. Claimed a nigger in a suit was still a nigger. Asked for my side of the story. Told them it must've been a misunderstanding. Tried some panties on and forgot to pay for them. Asked them if they'd like to look. Hiked my skirt up, a flash of pink twinkling beneath black silk. One of them spotted the fifty-two-dollar price tag. Fingered it. Shook his head. Admitted he wouldn't pay for it either. Told me to split. They'd tell Sammy that they lost me in the crowd. Couldn't catch me. Just to spite him. One of the cops slipped me his phone number. Told me to stay out of trouble. Skipped to the subway. Whistling the theme from
Rocky
.

N
ew York City did not corrupt me. I was drawn to it because I had already been corrupted. By the age of six, my sexual horizon was overstimulated by a father who had no control of his fantasies, natural tendencies, or criminal urges. Like father, like daughter. Before my teenage years I had already experimented with mescaline, THC, pot, acid, Quaaludes, Tuinals, Valium, and angel dust. I was already an experienced pickpocket, shoplifter, short-shift hustler. New York was a giant candy store, meat market, insane asylum, performance stage. Surrounded by five million other junkies, addicts, alcoholics, rip-off artists, dreamers, schemers, and unsuspecting marks, New York afforded me the luxury of anonymity. The devil's playground.

Shitty stoop outside some crappy club in lower Manhattan. Not stoned enough. Two bucks and a token in my pocket. Lipstick and keys. Still squatting with the hippies in Chelsea. Looking for a way out. No fucking clue how. A taxi pulls up, dimmed headlights. Jumps the curb and stops a foot or two from my left knee. The driver cocks his head, says, “Get in …” Tell him I'm broke. Says he's not looking for money.

I hop in the front seat. Asks if I want to go to Coney Island. It's 1:30 in the morning. I ask what for. Says he's gotta make a pickup. I shrug. He lights a joint, slyly passes it over, turns the radio on, singing along with Gene Pitney to “Town without Pity.” I plant my boots on the dash. Staring into his profile. A cross between Cagney and Chaney. I remember a lousy late night black-and-white,
Man of a Thousand Faces
…

So I'm with another strange fuck. This one's got a fetish for evil clowns. Killer clowns. Alcoholic acrobats. One-armed knife throwers. Midgets, trapeze artists, anything to do with the circus. Being a taxi driver is almost like running away to join the circus every night. So he says. Every kind of freak wants to go here, there, anywhere for a short reprieve from the monotonous chaos of their festered apartments.

I'm no different. I'll jump headlong into anyone's car, pry a little into their night, their life, just to forget my own. Just to forge a new identity for a few hours. A short reprieve from my own chaos. My own monotony.

Cagney's on a roll now. Pissed that
The Day the Clown Cried
will never be released. A buried film where Jerry Lewis portrays a painted freak who leads the children of Nazi Germany to the ovens. Says he's started a one-man drive to petition Lewis not to buckle to Hollywood pressure, to stick to his guns and get it out. We both know it'll never happen. Everyone needs to cling to a dream, no matter how far-fetched, no matter how petty or ridiculous. Cagney claims he'll make it to Hollywood one day, meet with the last great clown, and convince him. Keep dreaming, Cagney.

We're cruising the main drag of Coney. All the lights are dimmed, except those illuminating a sleazy old man's bar stuck on the ground floor of the massive, tattered subway station. I already know it's our destination. We pull up to a deserted taxi stand and park. Cagney tells me to go wait inside, he'll be back in ten minutes. Incredulous, I ask him if he's joking. He tells me if I get sick of waiting to take the train back to the city. He flips a token into my lap. I call him a fucking asshole and slam the door. He pulls off. I take a chance and enter the bar. Filthy white lights, much too bright for this wasteland of aging dreamers. All so fucking drunk they don't even notice me. Even the bartender's soused. The place stinks of spilled beer, vomit, piss, and rot. I pretend to study the jukebox. A horrible selection of Merle Haggard, Patsy Cline, George Jones. “Stand By Your Man” comes on. A toothless grandpa sidles up to me. So sloshed he can barely focus. His sixth sense tells him I'm female. That's all he needs to know. Asks me politely, shyly, pathetically, if I'd like to dance. Out of sheer perversity I agree. He places a sweaty hirsute hand on my hip. I lightly touch his shoulder. Moist with toxic run-off. He quietly sings along, silent tears drenching his dirty face, slicing through the deep crevices, hollowed pocks which litter his cheeks. I pretend he's Bukowski. Not a big stretch. For all I know, he too has copious volumes of sad old man musings stuck in a browning folder up at the transient hotel he probably calls home across the street near Nathan's Famous hot dogs. He smells of years of bad food, booze, and self-satisfied sex. I take a twisted pity upon him. Realize it's just one bad turn too many that separates him from me. One rent check too short. One layoff too soon. One too many broken hearts. And too much fucking booze. I almost want to walk him home. Invite myself in. Clean his battered old man's body. Cut his hair, give him a shave. A manicure. Cook him breakfast. Massage his blistered feet, which reek through his holey shoes. The song ends. I excuse myself, shaking off my demented fantasy, walk into the ladies' room. A sobering experience which disperses the last remnant of my Mother Teresa dreamscape. The single stall is smeared with dried vomit and shit. I decide to piss in the small wastepaper basket overflowing with dirty brown paper towels. Not realizing it's made of mesh. As I piss, a thick trickle ebbs through the weave, flowing toward the entrance. Not that anyone in this dump would notice. I dry myself with the last paper towel, deciding I need to get the hell out of this tortured purgatory where old men sit it out till Judgment Day. Death is always too long in the making. Death can never be hurried. Cold and cruel, death smugly waits for the body to poison itself beyond repair. Its final spasm will not bring relief, merely erasure.

The hippies finally laid down the law. Wanted me out in three days. Said I was taking up valuable real estate. Yeah, right, the cramped cubicle above John and Yoko's was prime accommodation for a midget with no sense of smell. Of course, I'd never paid them the thirty dollars a month they attempted to weasel out of me. But that wasn't the real issue.

Word got out that I was chasing someone around the loft, threatening them with a pair of lawn shears. An insane exaggeration. I had invited Cagney over. The taxi driver who dumped me in Coney. I ran into him outside a nightclub. Invited him over to smoke a joint. He had no idea I carried a grudge. Of course, he probably never rode the F train from the last exit in Brooklyn to 23rd Street at 2 in the fucking morning. Never had to fend off a small army of teenage black boys looking to gang rape some white chick stranded on a subway platform in the middle of the night. I got Cagney good and stoned. Brought him up to my bunk. Slipped a small pair of stainless steel scissors out from under my pillow. Snipped off a lock of his hair. He wigged, falling down the rickety ladder that led up to the loft. I scurried down the steps, chasing after him. Laughing like a madwoman while he shrieked like a little girl. He thought I was trying to slash his throat. I might have, if there were any place to dump the body.

He found the front door, bolting out of it yelping murder. Which fucked up John and Yoko's heroin-induced high. That was the final straw. Interrupting their dreamstate. The next day they asked me to leave. I said I'd try to be out by Monday.

I lied.