Headless (12 page)

In art class the boy puts the finishing touches on an animated movie he’s shooting with a super-8 camera. He pulls white yarn through the stem of a pickle. Then he stands the pickle up and attaches the stem to the lower third of the pickle’s body. Frame by frame the boy shoots the white yarn slowly creeping out of the stem. The teacher is pleased with the boy’s innovation. Oh, that’s semen, she says. A male pickle ejaculating onto a female pickle—that’s not the safest or most reliable form of birth control. I had two abortions when I was in high school because I never used contraception. My boyfriends and I would use the pull-out method—which is no method at all, really, it’s plain stupidity—but when I’m all hot down there sometimes I don’t think and I’m just screaming for more. The guy would pull out at the last mega-second and cum on my belly, but inevitably a drop or two would make its way inside me, and since I’m the most fertile woman on the planet, it would always be straight to the pregnancy-termination center. The teacher says, I know the school bus passes that orgy house where all the Reef Girl models sunbathe naked. What a treat that must be. I hear all the boys jump out of their seats to get a better look. Makes going to school kind of a necessity. I know you’re probably a little young for this, but next semester I’ll bring in a book called the
Kama Sutra
which describes hundreds of positions a man and woman can be in when they have sex, each with a wonderful name like the Butterfly Plow and Circle K, all of which I have tried. The thing I learned was that different positions work for different body types. It’s funny, when all is said and done, I’m really just an old-fashioned girl that likes the missionary position. I like being on the bottom. I like to look up and feel the weight of the guy. Also, I can really thrust back when I’m down there; it’s like the crushed-petunia pose in yoga. If I’m on my side or on my hands and knees, it’s sexy and everything, especially if we’re in a motel and there are mirrors everywhere, but I’m not as agile as I’d like to be. You’ll know what I’m talking about when you get a little older. And if you’re gay and prefer being a bottom, well then, girlfriend, we’re going to have plenty to talk about. The teacher gives a limp-wristed slap in the air. The boy writes
restroom assassin
in his notebook. Then he writes
don’t flush.
Then he writes
wipe front to back, not back to front.
The teacher says, You can’t have a movie without a movie poster. She hands out huge sheets of paper and charcoal. The boy draws pictures of knives, rows and rows of them, stacked up, single file, knives falling from the sky like snow. I love your knives, the teacher says. My first husband used to love to have sex with various accoutrements, including knives. He never cut me, thank heaven; I was just excited by the whole danger thing. These were in our cocaine and vodka gimlet days, before we got married. Once we exchanged rings and vows it was all downhill. Sad story. We both went into AA and straightened out our lives. Your knives are quite lyrical, the teacher says, focusing on the boy’s drawing, but where are your two pickles? Your poster might mislead viewers, but only you have a clear vision of the final product. Why don’t you draw hands? Hands and knives together. After the boy draws a picture of a hand stabbing another hand, the teacher leans over his desk and says, Now you’re talking, try a face, to hell with the pickles. Soon the boy is drawing big heads with knives stuck into eye sockets and ears. The teacher sees a big curved line and suspects the beginnings of an ass. Ah, the butt crack, she says, we’re not doing nudes until next week, but I’m not going to hold you back. The teacher drops the pencil she’s holding and gazes at the ceiling, lost in thought. She smiles and says, The ass is a sacred area. It’s the only place on the human body where tragedy and comedy reside together in conflicting harmony. Young man, you are a skilled draughtsman. The teacher walks to her desk and pulls out a tape recorder. She places it on the boy’s desk. Then the school bell rings. Day over. Time to go home. I think you’re ready to make sound art, she says. I want you to take advantage of all the interesting sounds on the way home. Don’t take the bus. Walk. Put this microphone in unusual places.

On his way home, the boy walked through the park. He had to make a Number Two. The sun was going down. He saw a scruffy man in a bathrobe standing by the restrooms, holding a wire coat hanger. The boy pulled the tape recorder out of his backpack and pressed record. Hey mister, the boy said, are you going to strangle someone with that wire hanger? My mom warned me against people like you. He said, Let’s go inside where no one will see us. He held open the door. After you, he said politely. I’m recording this for class, the boy said, do you mind if I ask you a few questions? That’s cool, the man said, fire away. What’s your favorite method of murder? He held up the coat hanger. Then he said, Actually, I prefer my bare hands. Why do you do it? Well, my father sort of did stuff like this and I’m just following in his footsteps. You got to follow your father. Strike that from the record; one can’t help following one’s father. You do everything you can to resist but there’s something in the genes or the psyche that clings to the lineage no matter how destructive. But, aside from natural forces driving me to kill, it’s just a great feeling, like riding a giant wave and surviving. It’s a total rush. That sounds awesome, the boy said. Yeah, but it depends on who you kill; some people are not as enlightening as others are. For instance, I can’t understand the appeal of killing the elderly. They’re almost dead to begin with. There’s no challenge there, plus they confuse you with their children. They think you’re part of the family, one of their grandkids or nephews. You find yourself explaining who you’re not right before they die, which is disconcerting. Plus, they’re not challenging. They’re physically so weak. They die at the drop of a hat. I tried to strangle one gentleman who offed himself with a heart attack the second I touched him. I like a little struggle. Also, old people tend to be religious, at least that’s my experience. They babble. They’ll say anything to survive. Why do you wear a bathrobe? Aren’t you cold? No, I’m actually perspiring. I’m hot. I’m kind of nervous. This is my good luck bathrobe. It’s never been washed. It makes me feel like I’m home in front of the TV no matter where I am. The boy said, That’s enough questions for now. I have to go to the bathroom. The man said, Are you going to record it? You should. The whole kerplunk thing will sound great if you get your microphone close enough and then the big flushing sound. The toilet is the classic metaphor for a ruined life. The boy went into a stall. Leave the door open in case you need any help, the man said. I’ll be fine, thanks, the boy said, and locked the door behind him, pulled down his pants, and sat on the toilet. The man in the bathrobe put the coat hanger down for a second and splashed cold water on his face. In the stall the boy spoke to the tape recorder. Here we are, ladies and gentlemen; I’m about to let loose a big nasty poop. We’re hoping for a figure-8, but any configuration or letter of the alphabet will be considered kickass. It’s only a matter of time. Wait, I feel something poking through; could it be, yes it is, the blind snake is venturing out of his hole. He’s making an appearance. There he is. He’s stretching farther and farther down. He’s about to cut his losses and fall into the round sea. He’s dangling quite nicely. Oh yes, he dropped right in. What a quiet little plop. Let’s spin around and have a look-see. Ah, the letter U. Is the black butt-snake trying to tell me something? Should I leave the creature in the water for the next kid? So many questions. One thing is for sure, I must wipe, front to back, not back to front, like my mother taught me. The boy turned off the tape recorder and said, I didn’t flush. The man with the coat hanger said, I know. I could hear every word. Maybe I’ll tell the next kid that walks in here all about the kid who laid down the U-shaped turd. The boy said, Make him eat it.

When the boy returned home his mother was in the kitchen cooking. The boy said, Mom, I hate liver and onions more than anything in the world. The mother said, Wash your hands and set the table, your father should be home any second. The boy said, I’m doing so well in school that my teacher let me borrow a tape recorder. She told me to make sound art so I went to the park and met this really cool guy in a bathrobe that said he strangled little kids but he wasn’t going to kill me for some reason. The mother said, You don’t listen, do you? No matter what I say, it’s in one ear and out the other. Before I had you I was an actress. I had a promising career in the theatre. I was in
Auntie Mame,
Off-Broadway. I wasn’t much of a dancer, but I could sing. We were trained in those days. Not like now where the first thing the anorexia actress does is stuff her chest with silicon and pose naked. Now they’re all prostitutes posing as thespians. I gave it all up to have you. I said goodbye to all that and I became one of the great mothers in the history of childbirth. I fed you with my own bosom. Now you tell me that whore teacher of yours gave you a tape recorder and told you to make sound art? The mother put down her wooden spoon and turned off the gas flame. The sizzling onions, which were once so loud, quit wiggling and grew quiet. The mother picked up a butcher knife and approached her son. No, Mom, the boy screamed. Yes, the mother said calmly. It is time. You’ve read the Bible. This happens now and again. It’s the natural order of things. Plus, no son of mine is going to fornicate with his eighth grade teacher. I am not going to stand around and cheer while she licks and sucks on my baby. I will not light her marijuana cigarettes, nor will I provide her with a clean ashtray, nor will I change your disgusting sheets. I will not be ridiculed in my own house. You are a little bastard. Since when do you think it’s okay to break every natural law known to man? The boy hit record and said, Mother attempting to kill her son, into the tape recorder. She took a swing at him with the giant blade, and the boy said, Tape recorder doubling as shield, son blocks deadly weapon, stabbing action continues. The boy dropped the machine. Batteries skidded across the linoleum. Liver and onions are my favorite, he said. I changed my mind. I love liver and onions. The mother lunged at him, knocking the phone off its cradle. The mother plunged the knife wildly, and repeatedly missed the flesh of her son. The boy picked up the phone and struck his mother on the head. She dropped the knife. She fell to the ground dazed. The boy wrapped the phone cord around his mother’s throat in the same manner that a cowboy ties up the feet of a young calf. She struggled to breathe. The mother said, I have to set boundaries, a mother can’t say yes to everything. At that precise moment, the father came home from work. He put his briefcase down and watched his son strangling his wife. That’s interesting, he thought, before realizing the severity of the situation. He ran across the kitchen and jumped on the boy and slapped him across the face. Then he hugged and kissed him and started to cry. The boy cried. The father unwound the phone cord from around his wife’s neck. Are you all right, he asked? I’m fine honey, she said. Mom tried to stab me, the boy said. The father said, Everyone wants to stab everyone, son. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t love in the air, flowers in our hands, and benevolence in our hearts.

CLIFF

My children disappoint the crap out of me. I haven’t done anything wrong.

Cliff tried to teach his children to be normal. As toddlers they crawled across the carpet, sniffing furniture, licking up bugs and lint. When the children grew to teen-size, their behavior was no different; they refused to be human. A reasonable urge, or anti-urge—the limitations of being a person among people can seem, to the unenlightened citizen, an overrated pursuit. No argument there. His daughter said she wanted to be a butterfly, a hopeful declaration; and his son pretended he was a side of beef, or was it a vampire? Something having to do with veins, arteries, and pools of blood.

Like any perplexed father challenged by parenthood, marriage, and middle-life dilemmas, Cliff was going through some changes of his own. For instance, he didn’t want to be heterosexual anymore. His petite, lemon meringue−flavored wife no longer ignited his oil spill. He wanted a foul-smelling male ogre to wreck his sorry ass, a wild boar that might rekindle long-buried passions.

Cliff’s daughter confined herself to a caterpillar existence, lying around all day on the couch drawing pictures of wings. Not ready for butterflyhood. Maybe never. Hard to say. “I’m fine, really,” she said, daily, to anyone who asked, “I love my daddy.” She was only 15, with miles of life ahead of her.
My son, the boy is 17, hangs upside-down from a meat hook in his room that he has fashioned into a walk-in refrigerator, a brisk 42 degrees. He’s emotionally distant, rigid, pale, currently registered in a low-residency vampire training program in Oregon that I’m paying for in quarterly installments. His incisors are sharpened, but lopsided.
The son had this to say: “Damage has been wrought. I am not whole, that is why I am a creature of the night.”

Cliff made it clear to the world that he was the patriarch of the family, Chairman of the Board. He was financially liable, responsible for the family’s every action. If either child used a weapon in a crime, the District Attorney would immediately look to the father. Cliff was to blame.

Question: What about the wife, his dessert-flavored spouse?

Answer: Like most women, she sought shelter, safety, intelligent conversation, and love, which is why she moved away to live with her mother.

Cliff’s reaction:
The kids are saying the phrase, Right on, these days, so I’ll say it, too … Right on.

A bushy Eucalyptus tree, whose branches seemed to hold numerous birds and trash-diet vermin such as raccoons, opossums, and flying squirrels, spoke to him.

It was a windy day. Thick branches swayed in slow motion. The tree’s message: “A policeman will pull you over for speeding. He’ll try to rape you. Turn it into love.” Several squirrels jerked their large tails and chirped out a mechanized sound that was secret code for approval. The wise, thoughtful tree, with so much integrity, had been stationed on earth far longer than Cliff.