The One Percenters (4 page)

Ten hours if you pop a pill.

Ten wonderful hours.

Ten.

Hours.

Pills are extraordinary things, and insomnia is Satan’s greatest weapon. You know what Satan is? Eat a thick steak. Shit it out, and then eat
that
. Shit again.

That’s Satan. That’s pure evil.

Page 20

I often find myself looking at my teeth in the mirror.

I look at other people’s teeth too. If you use your fingers to spread your lips wide, you can actually see the form of the lower part of your skull. It reminds me of my primality. I think that’s why we shit. It keeps us humble. You can’t be all that powerful if you still shit.

Jill had beautiful teeth. She lost one in her struggle with Jeff Simons. I don’t know if it was ever replaced with a fake by the mortician. The cops told me it would be taken care of, but maybe they lied to comfort me. Cops do that, you know. They say things like, “Oh, he died quickly and bravely,” even if he cried like a baby. Or they say, “Finest man I ever served with, ma’am, honest to God.”

I guess I would say those things too. I mean, what else can you say? Anyway, Jill was close-mouthed at the wake, of course. I have to laugh when I think of Jill in the afterlife looking like a hockey player. She would have laughed, too, so I don’t feel badly about it.

Jill loved rock music. We used to dance naked or semi-naked in our room on Sunday mornings. Neither of us drank coffee, and frankly the newspaper is too depressing for me. So rather than engage in the Sunday tradition that plays out in countless homes across America each week, we’d romp around in our skivvies or thereabouts and jump on the bed to the thrashing of electric guitars. It’s hard to believe, I know. Jill often said one of the reasons she fell in love with me was that I am childlike without being childish. We played a lot of games and had a lot of picnics, and that to me is about as close as you can get to the meaning of life.

I think life is actually like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It’s all about balance. Too much P.B. and your mouth gets all dry. Too much J. and your sandwich gets soggy and drips. Nobody likes a drippy sandwich.

I used to call Jill my little J. and she always thought it stood for “Jill.” I never told her otherwise. Sometimes
Page 21

you like to keep a little something to yourself.

We used to eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches by the lake. Another reason Jill and I worked so well together was the fact that we both were intense nature lovers. I once saw her break into tears while staring at a photograph of a wheat field on a calendar at the mall.

I kid you not. A fucking wheat field. We took a vacation to the Rockies not long after that. I think she needed it.

I think I did too.

My apartment was terrific. It had plenty of windows, a couple of plants left behind by the preceding tenant, and it backed up to a hillside. I had a balcony too. Not much of a view, but a balcony nonetheless.

A total steal. I began to wonder why we hadn’t lived down here from the start, and then I remembered that back then I needed to get a paycheck in a hurry, and northern cities are good for that. That and little else—

angry, clock-run hellholes that they are. There was a little wear and tear to the bathroom, but nothing a little caulking couldn’t fix.

When looking for my first real job, I got lucky.

A woman named Nancy Trevino interviewed me. I thought it odd at the time being hired by a woman. This was quite a few years ago, remember. Long before the glass ceiling was unceremoniously shattered, though many of the bitchy radicals will tell you it’s still there.

They won’t be happy until we all castrate ourselves or grow breasts or some shit like that. Who knows with those people.

Nancy wore a bun in her hair with one of those sticks in it. I don’t know the name; they look a lot like knitting needles. Maybe they’re just called hair sticks. Regardless, they look pretty silly. Women wear some peculiar objects: leg warmers, pantyhose, girdles. Who’d want to deal with all that crap? Not to mention “women’s issues.” Give me a tuxedo and a pair of sweatpants, and I’m good for ten years—double that time if the waistbands are elastic. Women deal with a lot of other funny things, like waxing, ‘jama parties, liposuction and being asked out. Silly creatures. There’s no sense to be found in any of ‘em.

Page 22

Nancy must have liked something about me, because I got the job. I was fresh out of college with a degree in English, and I had prepared some items to bring to the interview, which would showcase my creativity. I never expected it to work, and I had taken the interview mostly to polish my skills in such situations. I have a tendency to stutter under pressure.

Either that or my mouth goes dry. Ever smoke a pack of cigarettes in three hours? Then, you know the feeling.

Anyway, either they were desperate or I came across very well—possibly both—because I started work at Harmon, Inc. the next week. I wasn’t given many talents in this world, but I can sure write copy.

I worked myself up into a damned good position with my former company, and made a good deal of money in the process. That’s probably the one thing I’m really proud about concerning my life. Not the money, but the work. I produced some very good work. I was the guy who came up with “Phisher’s Toys are Phantastically Phun.” It may sound simple, but it made Mr. Phisher a phortune. And it sticks in your head.

Granted, most of the time I used as my incentive the fact that my writing would pull the wool over the eyes of thousands if not millions of naive, unthinking fucks. But hey, that’s the business. And nobody’s forcing you to buy a thirty-dollar pair of underwear just ‘cause the women in the commercials tell you they prefer them. These are the same women who mocked you in grade school and dated guys named Brad.

I’ve done things that I’m ashamed of. We all have, no? I once called my mother a bitch. I stole a basketball I had the money to pay for, just to see if I could get away for it. The clerk must have thought I was one damn ugly pregnant woman, or maybe he just didn’t care that I was stealing. Saved him the trouble of ringing it up. I didn’t even play basketball. What was I thinking?

I tried coke twice. Try it once, and you can say you were experimenting. Try it twice and well, whatever. I’m no moralist. Worst thing I ever did?

Probably hitting a woman in the elevator in the Riggs building. She was being a real bitch, and it had been
Page 23

a tough day. It wasn’t openhanded. It was a flat-out punch. I ran out of the elevator to escape any would-be big-ass boyfriend that might be waiting. I told you, I’m ashamed of it. So I cursed my mother and left-hooked a nasty bitch. Not very nice things, for sure, but I don’t deserve to be a widower so young.

You tell me there’s a God, and I tell you there’s a big, orange unicorn that lives in the Pacific Ocean and hands out laxatives. A force? Maybe. A kind and loving God? Shit, I more believe Santa Claus is gonna glide down my chimney this winter. Not after what happened to Jill. Maybe that unicorn can give one of his laxatives to Jeffrey Simons.

Oh, one more thing about my friend the Solemn Stalker. Seems his morally decent life has one ink-spot. Apparently, the folks living in his neighborhood when he was a youth remember him throwing stones at squirrels, pulling on cats’ tails till they scratched and bit (the cats, not their tails), picking at road kill with sticks, that kind of thing. His parents denied it, but of course, they’re biased. One reporter referred to it as a blemish on an otherwise impeccable record. A

“blemish”? You get your rocks off hurting defenseless animals, they should put you away for life. You think that might be just a small sign that the light’s burning a little dim in the attic? That the meter needs feeding? I almost fell off my chair when I heard about Mr. Simon’s boyhood hobby for the first time. His neighbors should have shot him on-sight right then and there. I’d still have my little J. if they had. Fuck you, Jeff. I hope the food sucks where you are.

Page 24

They’re funny, the things that happen in this life.

I met Cristen Powers in the deli while picking up lunchmeat for my new apartment. Like I said earlier, I don’t normally go up to strange women and chat them up. Thing is, I knew I’d never love again so why even bother trying? I’d never match what I had had, and all trying could bring was heartache. Nothing and nobody could ever fill the void left when that bastard raped and slaughtered my entire world. Knowing this, rejection didn’t matter. What did I care what this pip-squeak, black-haired woman thought of me? Besides, I wasn’t looking for a date; I just felt like commenting on her backpack accessorizing.

“Great patch. Have you ever seen them?”

“Them” referred to The Velvet Delusion, a band that Jill and I had seen a few times up north. Frankly, I was surprised that they were big enough to be known way the hell down here. Ms. Black-Hair had a black and yellow patch sewn onto her pack. The letters V.D. were scripted on a background strewn with question marks lying in different positions. To someone unfamiliar with the band, the patch might have raised questions, but I saw them play before I saw their logo. I have a feeling the band’s initials are more than coincidence.

It’s hard to forget V.D., and it made for good word-of-mouth advertising.

“Oh, yeah, many times. I usually go up to Binter to catch them at the Sin Bin.” The woman was pleasant and smelled of honey. She spoke in a mother’s tone—

soothing and mellow.

“I was actually kind of surprised to see your patch. I didn’t think they’d know V.D. down here.” People turned and looked at me. I lowered my voice.

“I’m from Drexton—their hometown.”

“No kidding. I used to wait tables up there when I was younger. Well, outside of Drexton, anyway.

Lafarre.”

Page 25

Lafarre was 45 minutes from Drexton, which I supposed technically counts as outside. The woman adjusted her pack, lifting it higher on her back, and turned to face me. I was feeling very comfortable speaking with her, and I was hoping the line in front of us would take its time of it.

We spoke for about ten minutes, until she was waited on by a man in green pants. She ordered three pounds of bologna. I remember thinking,
What in the
hell does someone do with three pounds of bologna?

After she was waited on, she turned back to continue our conversation. That’s always a sign that the conversation is going well. Anybody can kill time waiting for bologna or a bank deposit or even a haircut, but to continue talking afterward says, “You’re more interesting than whatever I’m doing next,” even if that’s just putting away bologna. We talked for another half-hour, and like I said, her name is Cristen Powers. I was glad it wasn’t a “J” name. I think I’m retiring that letter.

It’s a good thing I didn’t know at the time how she spells her name. I would have figured the alternative

‘C’ to mean “new-age, hippie parents” which means one of two things: new-age, hippy daughter or tight-assed bitch. People always either conform or rebel. There’s no middle ground, I’m sure. Either way, I would never have had continued relations with Cristen. I guess that goes to show something, but the hell if I know what. I don’t need your patronizing tone—not today, you arrogant son of a bitch. I know you’re thinking of Samantha, out there by that tree, but she is for later.

Cristen informed me that Velvet Delusion was playing in two months in Binter City. She was going with two friends, and told me I should get a ticket so we could all tailgate. She took my number (
she
took
my
number; boy, times had changed) and told me she’d call when the evening of the concert drew nearer.

I was strangely disappointed that I had to wait two months to see Cristen again. No matter; we were just going to be friends. You had better believe I bought a ticket that very same day. I’d never heard of The Sin Bin, of course, but it must have been fairly large and
Page 26

well-known, ‘cause they took credit card orders by phone. That’s unusual for concerts, right? Normally they make you pay at the door. Maybe I’m just getting old.

Jill was barren. I think that’s the word for it.

Anyway, she couldn’t have children.
We
couldn’t have children. No,
she
couldn’t have children. Facts are facts.

Some kind of egg implantation failure. Not enough stick in her uterus, I guess. I think she felt guilty about it to a degree, but it didn’t bother me a bit. I was never gung-ho on the idea of kids, though I wouldn’t go so far as to say that could we have had children, I’d be having them just for her sake. Suffice it to say, kids weren’t a priority for me. I wanted kids like some people want a dog, which probably means it was a good thing she couldn’t have them. I mean, shit in a diaper or on the rug, is there really that much difference?

I often think of where I’d be now if Jill and I had procreated. Up a certain creek, that’s where. I could barely take care of
myself
at the time of Jill’s untimely passing, let alone children. In retrospect, it’s probably good that she had the little uterus that couldn’t. The only thing I feel bad about is the amount of emotional pain it caused Jill. She really wanted children. I think the woman was just so full of love that she needed more outlets for it.

Her last name had been McIntyre. Pretty name, isn’t it? Jill McIntyre. Sounds like a woman who lives up in the hills and hands out shiny, red apples to neighborhood children. “Where are you going, Master William?” “Oh, Mamá, I’m just going to old lady McIntyre’s to get a crisp.” Whoever started calling children “Master” this and that, needs to come back to life and get hit by a train.