The Woman Who Married a Cloud: The Collected Short Stories (46 page)

All of them were there on that narrow country road at two in the morning, all the versions of this man were watching him or talking quietly amongst themselves. He couldn’t hear what they were saying but knew it was about him. Their expressions ranged from joy to utter disgust.

Using all the power he had left, he whispered to whoever might know the answer “What is this? Why am I here?”

“Because you’re
finished.
Your time is up. And now you know it.” Seventeen said with a snicker. “Because now you’re like the rest of us: used up and flicked away like a cigarette butt.”

The older one put a hand tenderly on his shoulder. “It’s true. We’re all one person, but that person grows up or older or whatever you want to call it. Each of us here were only one stage. When that stage was over—”

Seventeen shoved him aside and went up nose to nose with the confused newcomer. “Let me explain, Dufus. You’re too technical. One life is like a pack of cigarettes, like I said. It’s that simple. There are twenty in a pack, right? You smoke one, there are nineteen left. What do you do with the butt? Drop it on the ground and forget it ’cause you know it’ll burn itself out. Only
we
don’t burn out. But nobody knows that till they’re here. Like you now. That’s the big secret to life.

“All of us—” The obnoxious boy threw his arm out in a wide arc meant to include everyone nearby “—were in one pack. One life. One man. But not till you’ve been used and thrown away do you get it. Then it’s too late.”

“But am I dead? I mean, is
he
dead?”

“Hell no! Don’t be so egotistical. He just lit a new cig from your old butt.” Seventeen and some others loved that line and laughed like ninnies.

He had nowhere else to turn but to the man who had touched him kindly before. To his dismay, that one only nodded sadly that the kid’s version was true.

He looked at the crowd. There he was across all those years and so it had to be true. There was no other explanation. “What will happen to me, to
him,
I mean?”

Someone in the shadows called out angrily “Who knows, man? We’re just supposed to sit around here waiting for the next one to join us. Groovy, huh?”

Groovy
? God Almighty, when was the last time he had used
that
stupid word? The Seventies? Feelin’ Groovy. A Groovy Kind of Love. Groovin’ on a summer’s afternoon ...

Help!

This first night of the rest of his life went on but it didn’t end badly. A boy in a Cub Scout uniform,
him,
started a campfire. Another (in pajamas) brought out boxes of hot dogs and rolls. Seventeen used his switchblade to open everything. Many of them sat around the campfire talking and eating. Some fell asleep, particularly the young ones. Someone tried to get the rest to sing his favorite old songs but another said shut up—not
all
of us know those songs.

The good part was it felt like the greatest class reunion anyone ever attended. Someone there knew every detail of their one life. The man who had been kidnapped a few hours before had a million questions because naturally he had forgotten so much. They knew the answers to every one of those questions. It was like finding all the little treasures again he had lost along the way.

After hours together, he had his favorites amongst them but that was only logical. Who likes himself all the time? He had always feared death, but if this was the end of the line it didn’t sound so bad. Having cookouts and reminiscing with the boys ...

No! It was horrible, terrible! It was Waiting for Godot, only there was no Godot or God to wait for, only another version of him and how much of himself could he
take!

That’s when they sprang the last surprise on him, and not a moment too soon! As the first rays of sun shone through the dense forest, they told him to get into the car. He was so exhausted and empty by then he would have done anything they said.

This time different ones drove him back to town. Seventeen had disappeared into the woods hours before and the other kidnapper held a sleeping baby-him on his lap.

They drove in silence into the familiar town. He sat in the front passenger’s seat looking dully out at the place that, until last night, had been
his
life. They passed his apartment, the building where he had worked, the lanes where he had bowled, the church where he had married.

He didn’t say a word until they pulled up in front of the house where he knew his wife lived with Van Dyke Tattoo. “No, I don’t want to—”

“Sssh! Just watch.” The driver said and lapsed back into silence.

A few minutes later a metallic blue Toyota Corolla pulled up and Van Dyke stumbled out. He was clearly drunk and the lewd smile on his face said he’d been a very bad boy that night. With Cora from the bar? What difference did it make? He struggled towards the front door.

Despite the night’s astonishing revelations, the man in the front seat got so mad again that he cried out “Cocksucker!”

Instantly an amazing thing happened: Van Dyke stopped in his tracks and put a hand to the back of his neck, as if sensing something wrong and strange was very near. He was facing away but slowly turned in their direction.

When the cuckolded man saw Van Dyke’s face, he gasped. Because it was his own face; they were the same person. The only difference was one had a beard, a tattoo, and an attitude. Somewhere along the line he changed and became an outlaw or an asshole or something in between. How had that happened? He couldn’t begin to fathom how he ever would have ended up like
that.
But living proof was thirty feet away with a hand on his neck and big doubt in his drunken eyes.

For better or worse, the cuckold realized his wife had neither betrayed nor left him. She just loved him as Mr. Bad now. Was she nuts? Everything about this other guy reeked of dirty jokes, cowboy boots, cheap beer and a broken remote control. What’s worse, it was likely he’d spent the night betraying the only woman he had ever loved. How often had this happened? How could he do this to her?

The man in the front seat ground his teeth in fury and without thinking, started to get out. The driver grabbed his arm and held him back.

“You can’t do that. It’s not allowed. We only brought you here because we thought you’d like to see she didn’t really leave you. Well, she
did,
but—”

“How come I didn’t know it before, when I saw him in the bar tonight? Why didn’t I recognize him then?”

“You can’t until you’ve been with us and learned the truth.”

He was outraged, heartbroken, yet oddly reassured. It was true—she hadn’t left him, she’d only moved on when he had.

He stared at the lucky drunk on the street and hated him as much as he had ever hated anyone in his life. Even though it
was
himself, he hated him.

But then something delicious dawned on him and his face lit up like the morning sun outside the car windows. Turning to the driver, he asked “Sooner or later
he’ll
be used up too, huh?” He pointed to Van Dyke who had turned and was again walking toward the door.

The driver smiled knowingly, that old clever smile, the one he had used all his life. “That’s right, and if you want, you can go collect the cocksucker when his time comes.”

“Right on!” Shouted the one in the back seat, raising his clenched fist in the old 1960’s “Black Panther” salute.

Embarrassed, the two men in the front looked away.

L
OOK AT THIS HAT.
The worst, right? You wouldn’t be caught dead in it, right? Whoops, maybe I shouldn’t say that, seeing as how I find myself at this point in time.

I found it in a two dollar bin on 14th Street. You know, down where all those cheap-o stores are lined up like fifty-year-old whores, selling everything you don’t want. T-shirts that say “Yes, I
am
Elvis,” toy robots, twenty dollar stereos.

But I was in this mood, you know? It was a nice day out. Mary and I’d been in bed all morning, doing the black act ... like that. So we’re walking down 14th, trying to figure out what movie to see. Suddenly I spot this ug-ly-fuck-in’ hat in a two dollar bin. I pick it up with two fingers like the thing is radioactive or got cooties.

I say to Mary, who can go along with a joke better than anyone, “Waddya think of me in this?” She walks back and forth with her hand on her hip, checking me out like I was the Mona Lisa or something. Finally she says “You look like a big plate of ham and eggs when I’m hungry, baby. That hat is
you.
” But you know, she was kidding. If she really meant was she was saying, I would’ve punched her out because that hat wouldn’t look good on anything that
breathed,
believe me.

I start posing like a model. Mary’s laughing, and it’s turning into the best day of the year. “I’m buying this.”

“Good idea.” She’s laughing so hard, she puts her hand over her big kissy mouth and I love her more than ever.

So I go into the store and put it on the counter in front of the Oriental guy there. The place smells strange. Like smells you never had in your nose until that minute? That’s what weirds me out in this city when I’m around the Orientals or the Arabs or any of the others. The Greeks are okay. The only thing they ever do is buy up luncheonettes and change the names to the Sparta or Athens or Zeus and serve their coffee in blue and white cups with pictures of Greek statues on them. The food stays the same. Corned beef hash. Burgers.

But with the others, even thought they’ve lived here for years, you go into their places and it’s like you’re back in the old country. Or on some other fucking planet. Star Trek stuff. I went into one Arab store once and every goddamned person in there was wearing a white robe over their heads.

And not only do things smell different in these places, they got calendars on the walls with nutty writing, the kids are sitting in the corners eating weird food, and a lot of them got that blank look in their eyes like they’re either stoned or goldfish. Know what I mean?

I guess it’s natural, but look, you come to a new country, especially America, you should adopt to the place now that you’re living here. If it was so great in I-rak, why not stay there? I mean, falafel’s okay, but don’t say you’re American if you’re eating that shit three times a day, or with chopsticks or something.

So I go in to pay for the ugly hat and Wing Ting behind the counter barks out “Two Dah-luh” like a Pekinese dog. Like I couldn’t read the sign outside. Now remember, I’m probably the only idiot in the whole city of New York who’d be willing to give up two bucks for this head horror. But when he says it like that, like I was a bum or was planning to rob him, I’m instantly pissed off. That little midget in his Michael Jackson T-shirt and the crap he’s selling in that store: Big pink dolls, Martin Luther King paintings on velvet, gold plastic gondola boats holding clocks that aren’t working ... He should’ve been down on his chink’y knees praying at my altar, thanking me for giving up my two Dah-luh for his hat. But no, he wasn’t doing that. His voice was sounding like I’d stole
his
two dollars and he wanted it back.

The whole thing started as a joke. We’re out for our walk, I see the hat, Mary gets into it, we’re laughing ...

But now I’m angry. I should’ve walked out and just kept going, but this guy was pissing on my paradise and I didn’t like it. So I take out the money and drop it on the counter. One of the bills catches a breeze and floats down to the floor on his side. He doesn’t move.

“I want a receipt.”

“What?”

“I want a receipt for my two dollars.”

“No receipt. You go now.”

There’s where I could’ve gone World War Three but hey, this man had already taken up way too much of my life. That’s what Mary always says—don’t let them take any more of your life than you have to, and she’s right. So instead, I tell the guy Va fongoo and walk out with my new hat.

As I’m going, I realize I want Mary to see me in it when I come out the door, so I put it on just as I’m getting to the street. But two things happen right at the same time. The first is, no Mary. I’m looking up and down the street but she’s nowhere. Mary’s as dependable as they come. She’s got her bad sides, but this isn’t one of them. If she tells you she’ll be there at ten, she’s there on the dot. She says it’s because she’s Sagittarius. But this time she’s
not
there, where’s a minute ago she was. Strange.

While I’m looking around, I notice this big stretch Cadillac limo parked out in front. Thing’s nine miles long. The back door is open and a black guy in a chauffeur’s suit is standing by it with his hand on the door. He’s looking at me and smiling. I don’t pay much attention because I’m wondering where’s Mary?

Then I hear “It
is
him! Oh my God! It’s
him
!”

I’m looking to the left while this comes from the right and by the time I turn my head, these three
very
foxy looking Latino girls are rushing up to me.

“I don’t believe it! I don’t believe it! It’s Rickie! Aaaugh!”

“Hi, uh—”

“Ooo, I gotta kiss you. Please please, can I kiss you? I love you, Rickie!”

“What?”

Now, the one who wants to kiss me is like a seven and I’m thinking, you wanna kiss me, I’m up for it. But her friend, who’s at least a nine, shoves her out of the way, grabs me around the neck and takes first shot. I mean, she pushes her tongue into my mouth like a plug into a electric socket. I’m so shocked I’m just standing there helpless. Sort of. The kiss is all over my face and it’s nice, but her tongue’s as big as a truck and I can’t breathe.

“Hey, hey, that’s enough. Leave him alone!” The chauffeur grabs nine and pulls her off me, really rough. But she doesn’t mind because even held back, she’s looking at me with steam in her eyes. The third girl, who’s pretty damned nice too, tries to come up but the chauffeur is right there and blocks her off. While he’s keeping her back, he says to me over his shoulder “I think we have to get out of here, Sir. We’re going to have a riot in a minute.”