Warmed and Bound: A Velvet Anthology (7 page)

Chance the Dick

by
Paul G Tremblay

now: the client 

I say, “My fingers were stolen and replaced with someone else’s fingers.” I hold my left hand out to him as if he could take it, twist it, flip it all around up and down, inspect it like it was a jewel or a fossil or a photo of a crime scene.

I tell him that I woke up leaning against a toilet and my left arm in a bathtub full of ice. It wasn’t my bathtub or my apartment. Only one light bulb in the vanity worked. There was blood on the aqua-green tile and all over my white blouse. I didn’t remember anything.

He says, “Are you married?” He’s wearing a pinstriped suit, like everybody else. His face is hard and rough and back lit in the neon spilling through his office window. I’m supposed to think about having sex with him, but he makes me feel tired instead.

I was woozy when I left the bathroom. Everything had a haze, a fuzz, the edges not sharp, not defined. My hand throbbed and burned, but I could move it and kept it huddled against my chest. I bumped into things in the apartment, overturned and broken furniture biting my ankles and knees. No one was there. I left and couldn’t find a number on the front door. There should’ve been a number there, like 213, or maybe something with a 7.

I say, “I’m not married. See, no ring.” 

He says, “May I?” He lifts up the bandage on my index finger and does find a ring of angry red stitches. His touch is smoother than I imagined. He says, “Sloppy job.” He’s not surprised. He’s seen it all. 

then: the writer 

It can’t be
now: the writer
because I’ll have written this before you read it. A minor detail. 

I worry about the woman with the stolen fingers. Unless I go back into her past, I worry she’ll always be stuck in the present tense, almost like she has no future.

I’ll give the private dick a snappy last name. Something with two syllables. Or Frisk or Frist, or Chance. Chance’s first name doesn’t matter, no one uses it. His office is dark, like his city. I think all cities are dark places. 

All the characters will say cool things and be smart and sexy and weird. I will like all the characters, and I will hate them. How else will they be real to me? I think Chandler hated Marlowe.

then: the client 

I ran out of the numberless apartment building and into a laundromat. I had someone else’s fingers, a blood-soaked blouse, and no quarters. The fingers worked, at least, but the hair on the knuckles was black and wiry. The place was empty and the lights had a green tint, like the bulbs were covered in pool table felt. Wait, the place wasn’t empty. There was a slim man in a pinstriped suit and wearing sunglasses filling one of the machines. I watched him throw in mini-skirts, a curly blond wig, and three brown fedoras.

I wanted to do something sexy or deviant. I said, “Do you mind if I throw in my blouse?” and unbuttoned my shirt. My bra wasn’t very sexy or deviant, but it was supportive and would have to do. 

Sometimes you had to improvise.

The man threw his sunglasses in the washing machine. His eyes were green, like pool table felt again. He was young and he had a scared look about him that I find most intelligent young people have. He said, “Go ahead.”

He had quarters and bleach. I leaned against the washing machine and let myself shake for a bit. He watched but it didn’t make me feel sexy. Then we sat across from empty driers that he turned on, and he’d somehow rigged the machines to work with the doors open. The fried air poured over my skin. He sat on his hands even though I know he wanted to put them on me. My hand felt big and dumb. I tried telling him about my hand and how I didn’t remember anything. I don’t think he heard me because he didn’t speak. When the washing machine was done, my once-white blouse came out the same color as pool table felt, and it came out dry and without the bloodstains.

The man didn’t take anything else out of the washing machine. He lifted my hand, was real gentle with it as if people had always been gentle with me and said, “Find Chance,” and left. 

then: the writer 

Near where I live there’s a busy intersection that has a name. It has a laundromat, too, but with white lights. This past spring there was a man in a pinstriped suit, but this man was older, close-to-retirement age, and he stood on one corner, on the mini-manicured lawn that was owned by Mobil. Behind the man was mulch and shrubbery trimmed into letters that spelled ‘Mobil.’ I only knew that advertising shrub was behind him because it was always there. The man blocked the shrub from doing its duty with his very own advertisement. He leaned on a large piece of plywood with thick, desperate black letters that read:
“40 years of insurance/mgmt experience looking for a job. Hard working. Call 781-_ _ _- _ _ _ _ .”
He was grey and bald at the same time. He wore big glasses that were not in style and were never in style. He was there every morning for two weeks, then he was gone. 

now: Chance the dick 

She smells like a dryer. She has black hair but wears it like it’s blond. Her green blouse stops a few buttons shy of being shy. I can’t see her legs over my desktop but I hear them cross and uncross. A cricket chirping. Knives sharpening. I’m a dead man, aren’t I?

She says, “I’m not married. See, no ring.”

That’s funny. Almost as funny the throbbing pain in my left hand. Wait, that’s really not funny at all. It’s the opposite of funny, though I get the subtle-as-a-sledge-hammer feeling that someone is still laughing.

I say, “May I?” I lift the bandage of her index finger and find a ring of angry red stitches. The skin is raw and swollen and the finger is bloated, throwing an antibody tantrum. The finger doesn’t want to be there. It’s a shame really. Those fingers of mine never hurt anybody that didn’t deserve it.

I say, “Sloppy job.” 

She says, “You know who did this?”

“Maybe. But I know whose fingers you have.”

“Who?”

“Mine.”

I put my feet on my desk and feel sad. The world is running out of mysteries. 

then: the writer 

I was mad at the pinstriped-suit-guy. He shouldn’t be there. Why didn’t he just have a resume made and posted on-line? Why didn’t he hire a headhunter or employment counselor or something? He had to know standing on the corner with a sign was fruitless. Was he taunting me/us with his management-level unemployment, trying to spoil the ritualized commute and coffee? I don’t drink coffee. After anger, came superiority. I would never be like him. So passive. So not-in-control. After superiority came pity and a panoply of demise scenarios. Divorced, kicked out of the house, really was a swell guy just a relic of business-days long past, let go by a mega-corporation after a lifetime of service, just like my dad. Maybe I’d help him, make a resume for him, set up practice interviews, introduce him to people, maybe I’d save him, but then I’d convince myself that it wouldn’t work that he’d be needy and clingy and that he wouldn’t get a job that way and that he’d have to save himself, it was the only way. After pity, came . . . I don’t what. I just wanted to forget. Forget that I was like him, only I might know the current rules better than he does. Or maybe I didn’t. Maybe he knew more. Maybe he knew that none of us were in control and that things happen to us and we can’t stop it. We didn’t live, we reacted. And that’s why I’ve inserted myself into this story because I want some control and that’s why I love and hate my characters and that’s why Chandler hated Marlowe because Marlowe was always in control even when he wasn’t, because Marlowe was action and not reaction, because Marlowe wasn’t real like Chandler. 

now: Chance the dick 

She says, “Should I believe you, Chance?”

That’s a damned good question. One I don’t have a good answer for, so I try the glib, “Why would I lie?”

“Can I see your hand?”

I give her my left. She smiles, like it’s a present with a pretty red bow. I watch her teeth peek out from between those red lips. They’re too neat and orderly. That can’t be trusted. I say, “You like my manicure? Only the best for Chance.”

She takes the index finger, her finger, into her mouth, and holds it there like a thought. I feel the tip of her tongue. She slides it out and says, “Those are my fingers.”

I take my hand back. With the shock of losing my fingers and the swelling of the replacements, I hadn’t realized I had woman’s fingers. Jesus, I’m getting old. I’m slipping. Maybe I need to wear those giant, never-in-style glasses my doc kept pestering me about.

I say, “What are the odds?”

She laughs and says, “Arm wrestle maybe?” She laughs harder. My office gets darker, if that’s possible. She adds, “So what do we do now, Chance?”

Hell if I know. There is still so much I don’t know about this dame. Who did this to us? How did we get here? How did we get to here? Maybe I could drop a fin on Mickey down at the boardwalk. He’s a standup stoolie with good dirt. Then, I’ll . . . 

“Yo, Chance? Why don’t we just swap digits and call it a night?” she says.

“What? I’m gonna get to the bottom of this. I’m thinking it’s Coolie and his Alley Boys, as they’re just sick enough to do this, and they hang out at the laundromat. Or maybe it’s that new Asian gang. I’ve heard they’ve been doing black market organ stuff, and . . .”

She stands up and puts her hand with my fingers over my mouth, and then one into my mouth. It tastes like me. She’s sexy and deviant. I can’t help but stare at her blouse. She steps back and takes off my fedora. I will not tell you what’s under there. She lays it bucket-side up on my desk. She plucks my fingers off her hand. The red stitches snap and fall away. There’s no stopping this. It doesn’t seem to hurt her as she’s smiling, but it’s a sad kind of smile, one that says I know what’s really happening. That kind of smile is always sad. She puts my fingers inside my hat, though she saves one finger and has it trace the curves inside her blouse, tucks it under her skirt quickly, then back inside the hat. She’s breathing hard and I feel nothing. She snaps at me with her good hand and nods. I know to give her my left hand. She grabs the hand and takes back her fingers. I don’t feel pain, but there is an overwhelming sense of loss; it’s huge, sitting in the room with us, making everything heavy. She twists her fingers back on her hand, flexes, and waves at me.

She says, “Which one will you put on first, Chance?” She lifts the hat, shakes it all around like the queen of some church bakesale raffle, then holds the hat above my head. “Come on, now, Chance. Take your pick.”

And I don’t know what to do. I just don’t know what to do anymore. Maybe I won’t do anything. I’ll just sit in my corner office, underneath my neon sign that no one will bother to read, a sign as useless as an unanswered phone call.

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Soccer Moms and Pro Wrestler Dads

by
Bradley Sands

Anarchy fucking rules. My leather jacket fucking rules. The anarchy symbol on the back of my leather jacket fucking rules. The red paint that I used to paint the anarchy symbol on the back of my jacket fucking rules. Saying that things “fucking rule” fucking rules. Riots in the streets fucking rule. Pee wee soccer games fucking rule.

I sit in a folding beach chair on the sidelines, watching my little sister play out on the field. The chair is uncomfortable. A strip of polyester fabric is poking me in the ass. I do not like to be poked in the ass. But it is worth being poked in the ass. It is a really great pee wee soccer game. It is total anarchy, super-retardo anarchy awesomeness. It is the most anarchist thing on Earth, I think.

Oh wait, I forgot about riots in the streets. 

But riots in the streets don’t have little girls picking clumps of grass out of the ground instead of defending their goal, little girls chasing butterflies instead of the ball, little girls tripping over the ball, little girls kicking the ball into the wrong goal, little girls calling their opponents cuntbags, little girls screaming as they run away from the ball. 

Riots in the streets don’t have soccer moms. Riots in the streets don’t have soccer dads. Riots in the streets don’t have riots between soccer moms and soccer dads over pee wee soccer games. Riots in the streets are over real world issues. Real world issues are fucking lame.

I say it out loud, “Real world issues are fucking lame.”

Sometimes when I think strongly about things I blurt my opinions out. I can not help it.

My mom says, “Watch your language, Artie.”

I sneer at her.

She removes a jar of extra hot mustard from her fanny pack.

Extra spicy hot mustard is not very anarchist. Extra hot mustard is the tool the overlords use to keep down the proletarians. It is what they threaten us with whenever we speak our mind. It is what my mom forces down my throat whenever I tell her to go fuck herself. Whenever I tell her that she is a filthy cuntbag. This is unfortunate because I really like the word cuntbag. It is very cute. It rolls off my tongue. The world would be a better place if I could use cuntbag as a term of endearment without feeling like a volcano has erupted in my mouth.

I hate my mom. I will kill her. I will kill her after everybody goes anarchy. I will declare war on her face. I will do this when it is legal to declare war on her face. I do not want to blow up her face before it is legal. I can barely handle a strip of polyester fabric poking me in the ass. I do not think I could handle prison.

I compliment my mom on her T-shirt. Compliments are the best way to prevent mustard volcanoes from erupting in my mouth. “Nice shirt, Mom. I like the soccer-playing bears. They are very cute. I also like that the shirt is ten sizes too small for you. I like how it accentuates your fatty-fattiness. I like how it shows off the blubber of your huge tits. I like how I can see every jiggle of your ginormous stomach. I like how it makes you look like you’re having quadruplets.”

“Aww, thanks, honey,” she says, putting the jar of extra hot mustard back into her fanny pack. 

She stands up to give my uncle a lap dance. I am horrified. My uncle is sexually excited. My uncle is a chubby chaser. 

My uncle is my new dad.

I will launch a Scud missile at my uncle’s head after everybody goes anarchy. I plan to aim my Scud missile at his forehead. I will do this because he has a Fu Manchu mustache and Fu Manchu mustaches fucking rule. I am hoping his mustache will be able to survive the attack.

My little sister scores a goal. Mom and New Dad cheer. 

Mom and New Dad realize their daughter had scored in her own team’s goal. They stop cheering. My uncle starts laughing. His laughter sounds fake and melodramatic like he’s a bad guy in a pro wrestling league. This does not surprise me. He is a bad guy in a pro wrestling league. His stage name is Kin Corn Karn. He stole the name from an old Nintendo wrestling game because he couldn’t think of anything good. Kin Corn Karn is an awesome name, but my uncle sucks.

My uncle stops laughing. He and Mom call my little sister a loser. They tell her they still love her. They say she will do better next time. They blow her kisses. 

I yell, “Anarchy rules!” I feel a little sad about not yelling “fucking rules.”

The goalie for my little sister’s team is very mad. She pulls my little sister’s shorts down. 

My little sister is not pleasant to look at. She resembles a muppet/tank hybrid. She is even more unpleasant to look at when her shorts are wrapped around her ankles. 

My little sister shoves the bottom of her soccer cleats up the goalie’s anus.

The goalie cries. She does not like to have the bottom of my little sister’s soccer cleats up her anus. 

My little sister is the epitome of evil. 

But I still love her. I have a genetic disposition toward loving my little sister even though she is the epitome of evil. I also have a genetic disposition toward obesity. My genetic disposition toward obesity is responsible for my daily beatings at school. My genetic disposition toward obesity is responsible for my nickname, Chubby-Chub-Chub-Chub. If it were not for my genetic disposition toward obesity, I would not have to blow up my high school.

The goalie’s father glares at my little sister. He says, “You are a terrible human being.”

My uncle says, “Listen, brother. Don’t call my daughter a terrible human being!”

My uncle calls everyone “brother.” I think he stole it from Hulk Hogan. Maybe he likes to confuse people? People are very confused whenever he calls me “brother” in public. They probably think, I am very confused. I did not know he was Artie’s brother. I thought he was Artie’s new stepfather. Is he Artie’s new stepfather AND his brother? Is that even possible? Something seems morally unsound about it. Doesn’t anarchy fucking rule?

The goalie’s mother calls my uncle a shitty father.

My mom takes the bottle of extra hot mustard out of her fanny pack, goes over to the goalie’s mother, and squirts two servings down her throat. 

The goalie’s mother screams.

Her husband pulls down my mom’s pants.

My uncle goes over and gives him a piledriver.

The goalie’s father is now unconscious.

The goalie’s mother is very angry. She pulls on my uncle’s Fu Manchu mustache.

My uncle’s fatal flaw in the wrestling ring causes him to howl.

The parents of the competing soccer team watch the confrontation. They look confused. They look left out. They pump their fists in the air and run across the field. They crush a few of their children. Either they do not notice or do not care. 

My little sister’s team’s parents look a little scared. They pick up their folding beach chairs and attack.

The pee wee soccer girls pick clumps of grass out of the ground, chase butterflies, trip over the ball, call their opponents cuntbags, scream as they run away from the ball, and kick it in the wrong goal.

I march through the chaos. I smile. I take pictures. I stomp on the ground. I hoot. I duck to avoid flying beach chairs. 

I feel a tear splatter down my cheek.

The glorious anarchy has made me think of my real dad. He died last year. 

My real dad died during a riot at a pee wee soccer game. It was one just like this, except the opposing team’s parents were wielding broken beer bottles. The mother of a girl who my little sister anally penetrated was one of those parents. 

The mother of a girl who my little sister anally penetrated put a broken beer bottle through my real dad’s brain.

I feel bad about saying that pee wee soccer games fucking rule. Pee wee soccer games do not fucking rule.

They fucking suck.

And crying is not very anarchist. I wish I could get myself to stop. I really miss my dad’s ZZ Top beard.

——————————