Authors: Benjamin Weissman
Headless (13 page)
Fast-forward to ecstasy.
Right now I’m very happy,
Cliff announced, again, preferring to ride shotgun in this fiction and tell the tale himself rather than be inaccurately profiled.
I just had sex with a policeman in the backseat of his squad car, and I am under the impression that Officer Milk and I will see each other again. He asked for my phone number, said he’d call. “No worries,” was how he put it (a figure of speech that induces mountains of anxiety in me, perhaps because I’m Jewish. You’d never hear Kafka say, “No worries”).
Cliff fretted that he appeared grotesque and needy. He consoled himself with the thought that desperation is sometimes an appealing personality trait to the cold, waspy, all-American cop type who’d grown up on sports, violence, and meals featuring cloven-hoofed animals and lard.
And another thing: Don’t assume the gentle handling, maneuvering, rotation of a nightstick is heinous until you’ve been on the receiving end of said black oak. After Officer Milk pulled Cliff over and asked if he knew how fast he’d been driving, he requested Cliff’s driver’s license, vehicle registration card, and proof of insurance. It was early morning. A small bird sat on a fence, staring at a field of cows, trying to select which thousand-pounder was best to land on and rest atop for the day. Officer Milk asked Cliff to step out of the vehicle. Cliff noticed the cop’s rosy lips nestled behind a thicket of brown, porn-star moustache.
Hello, Fuller Brush man. Talk about cleaning up the neighborhood; that broom could sweep up Calcutta.
When Officer Milk first brought the baton into their sexual conversation, Cliff thought,
Let’s save the nightstick for jail and the last three minutes of my life
(he didn’t actually think words).
I was gripped by horror in its purest form. I was frightened and nauseous. Then I thought, Just go with the flow, Mr. Rigidity, and believe it or not it was actually a perfect fit, you know, like when all the muscles in your legs and torso are totally relaxed … I just kept looking at the happy bird on the big cow … Plus, a nightstick is what, like three and a half fingers wide? No biggy.
Cliff heard Officer Milk back there spitting in the general direction of his bum, missing badly, wads of saliva, intended to be a natural lubricant, all over his backside, a gesture which gave this encounter a very contemporary feel since it was the new macho rage to spit at the orifice. With his eyes closed, he imagined a loud hippo or a water buffalo back there playing a loud juicy game. Being a naturalist or a humanist, it’s hard to say which, and a regular consumer of pornography, Cliff was fond of guttural bile. Sometime during this 40-minute tryst, Cliff opened his eyes and noticed a large paisley-shaped leaf flutter through a backseat window. The leaf landed on the driver’s-side headrest and murmured, “It’s just another part of the human animal.” The leaf was curved like a pale green smile. He pictured football players roughhousing on grass, spitting everywhere.
I am a gridiron.
Yes, the ass is a 24-hour civil disturbance. “Fight crime,” Cliff purred into the upholstery as the nightstick inched its way through him. Choking, too, when applied in small doses, has its place in lovemaking. It tells the partner in no uncertain terms that this exact moment is life or death. How come Officer Milk never choked him or cuffed him or burned him with his wonderful-smelling Dominican cigar?
This is all good to know, and useful in taking your mind off the aforementioned wayward children and separated wife.
I am a homosexual now. The transformation is complete. A member of the other church.
I spent the night in a motel and woke up disoriented but happy. I could feel it. The idea of love returning to my life, driven through me. I could feel it like a stake in my heart, or wherever, in my bottom-heart. I was actually bleeding.
Officer Milk never called like he promised.
When the children were young I had trouble sleeping. I used their beds with them in them. First one, then the other. There was a lullaby in my head. My intent was to hum, to make their sleep sound. To remind them how tight our family is.
Without warning, apropos of nothing, the children taught me things, contradicting my forecast of doom. For instance, I asked the daughter what the greatest artwork of the 20th century was and without hesitation she said the train. Her answer mesmerized me for days. My son, member of the undead, dreamer of jugular veins, sucker of human flesh, said he’d prefer being called Count. The name change suited him. He said that sunlight and garlic didn’t bother him at all. When he was an infant, I used to call him Skipper. His big round head made me think of sailors.
There are days when no matter how fast or how badly you’re driving a cop is nowhere to be found, and, if he does appear on the horizon, he isn’t especially interested in your misconduct. Cliff had been driving erratically for a solid hour, on freeways and down main boulevards, in search of a hunky cop. When he finally spotted a black-and-white cruiser coming the other way, he waited until the two vehicles were very close before he hit the brakes and spun out. The two cops, who were both sporting fiery mirrored shades, drove by slowly, shook their heads in disbelief, and laughed. They passed a large messy burrito back and forth that they appeared to be sharing, taking giant bites and saying something that only made them laugh harder.
Wow, two hotties, and they won’t pull me over?
Cliff was not their type, simple as that. Before the cops drove away, they tapped the horn twice, a little toot-toot, and the officer in the passenger seat leaned over the driver and gave Cliff a mocking demi-wave with his fingertips. Then at the last second, he tilted his head to the side and stuck out his tongue.
Fucking little flirting fucks. Think you’re so tough with your badges and uniforms. I’ll ram you with my rear end. How’s that? You can make your inbred love in a hospital.
Cliff threw his car into reverse but the engine stalled. He took a deep breath and grabbed the steering wheel like it was a life preserver. He looked up and watched the cop car disappear down the street in his rearview.
Settle down there, little lunatic. I’m not hysterical. I think we’re just trying too hard. Don’t attack the policemen and wind up with bullet holes in your face. That’s not our objective today.
Cliff, naked in the bathtub, an hour after the hot water has been turned clockwise (off), chin on chest, staring at his penis:
It’s lost cartilage or tissue or whatever substantive things generate meaning, muscle, oomph. It really is just a pissing device at this point. Now I just inhabit the earth. There was a time when I used to really be here.
My mother calls this morning to check up on me. The weekly call from Ann Arbor. I don’t want to talk to her or anybody else. Why do I pay money to hear that little machine ring if all it does is wipe out my ever so fragile tranquility? Rarely do I use it to call out. Getting rid of the thing—it’s my next big step toward becoming 100 percent unsociable. No phone. Reach me on the street. That’s where I’ll be.
It’s been a bad week.
Whether I like it or not, my mother and I are talking away; there’s nothing I can do about it. The same questions come from her, followed by my regular answers, my evasions. My life, no different than last week. All fucked up. I don’t tell her this oh-so-terrible fact because she’ll insist that everything will be fine. If I challenge her theory of the happy world, she cries. That’s what I hate most. She feels responsible for the way I am, and I feel responsible for putting a kink in her smooth cheerful outlook. So I keep things from her. My mother gets upset when I tell her I’m sick of talking, or okay, that I’m in a quiet mood. That scares her. She thinks quiet is for the dead. She believes we should all think and say nice things as long as we’re alive. And smile more. But Mom, I’m dying inside. I’m so incredibly unhappy.
No, can’t say that. We hang up.
Ten minutes later, my older brother calls, obviously on orders from Mom. He doesn’t know what to say.
“Lou, how are you?” he asks.
“Hey, I’m fine,” I say, straining to sound upbeat. “How are you?”
He tells me about this trip he took to Florida. On the drive back, he stopped at a pet shop and purchased four lizards for his three children—four, just in case one died in the car. It would save him an explanation. All the lizards survived. Martin, the three-year-old, asked his daddy why there were four—who was the fourth one for? My brother told Martin that one of the lizards had a baby. Martin asked which one. My brother pointed at random. Martin asked where it came out, and my brother said underneath the tail.
Great. We hang up.
Unplug the phone.
My brother’s approach to life is unsettling. I know he’ll continue to tell his safe little lies forever. It’ll never stop. But those common changes in the truth will turn him into a fake, and in 10 or 20 years his children won’t even recognize him.
Who’s the impostor? Where’s Dad?
That’s him. That’s the guy.
I’m no different. We’re both terrified of life.
When I used to think of dying, I always pictured myself stepping into the feeding ground of a tiger. The image just came to me one night and stuck for years. It seemed appropriate for who I was. I can’t say why. Now I feel differently. I see another animal. I still want to be eaten alive; only now I would prefer a dip in the ocean followed by a serious attack from an angry sea lion. However unlikely that may seem, it’s what I truly want. In the end I pray that I am torn apart. Not whole.
Maybe a walk would do me some good. Yes, a long walk. It’s cloudy today. I’ll put on my hat and fill up the canteen. Then I’ll be off.
A dad briefly, five years, and then no dad. A dead mom, a sister I’ve never met, a little furry substitute for everything, Gluey, my pooch, named after my dad who’s serving a life sentence in Leavenworth for living up to his nickname, by gluing people’s mouths shut until they stopped breathing. As a little boy, I remember holding onto my dad’s giant shoulders when he swam the breaststroke the length of a pool. The big hairy ride, my swimming bear. He made decent money as a carpenter, but he was paid 10 times that for performing unusual tasks for crooks he knew growing up in the neighborhood. His specialty was strapping a guy down onto his worktable and filling his mouth with glue. Then he’d flip them onto their sides and do the same to their ears. Speak no evil, hear no evil. If the guy was supposed to remain alive, he’d fill up their bung holes or seal up a man’s genitals in resin the way a craftsman embalms scorpions in amber to make jewelry.
After my dad was taken away, I would like to say that I was raised by wolves, but I wasn’t, unfortunately. I was brought up under the slow-moving gloom of my grandparents, Izzy and Ida. A cartoonist could zipper a blabbermouth’s face shut and all the kids would laugh: My dad does it in real life and goes to jail forever.
I make drawings of people with webbed feet. I have dreams of becoming a frog. I’d like to remain a frog, sit half-submerged in a lagoon at 3 A.M. croaking with a gang of other frogs, eating insects, having sex with other slippery frogs. Never do I want to turn into a prince. I want to decapitate the prince.
My dad was a good father, a gangster in the grand tradition of Jewish gangsters, once a singular presence on the American scene, like the Jewish boxer or baseball player. I love him. He doesn’t accept visitors anymore. Not even me. He’ll draw a heart on a square of toilet paper and drop it in the toilet. He’ll watch the ink bleed. Then he’ll flush it down. I could see him doing that.
In the book
World of Dogs,
it says that Gluey, my furry partner with whom I prowl around, exudes a
shy mournful brilliance.
Truer words were never written. He smells the earth as if he were taking notes for an encyclopedia. A hummingbird jams its dipstick into a succulent flower, withdraws some juice, and flies away. I know it might seem disrespectful to name a dog after your own living father, a no-no in the Jewish religion, but I don’t see it that way. My intention was to think of my dad whenever I shouted Gluey’s name. I accept visitors. A woman so beautiful she causes trees to sway and bow when she walks by comes up to us, or to Gluey, and says, Hello, sweet thing. I could swear she says, Gallows geek spring, but that’s not what she says, because she’s talking to Gluey. She kneels down and both her knees make a faint cracking sound. She looks up and asks, What’s his name? I say his name is Gluey. I kneel down with her and scratch his chest. The woman rubs his behind. Gluey’s rear leg convulses. She says, Oh I got you now, what a sweet boy you are, Lou. She asks if he has any puppies, and you say he has puppies; would you like to come home with us and see all the puppies and pick your very favorite and take him or her home with you, would you like that? Oh yes, she says, that would be divine, fantastic; she follows us home, and while we’re having sex, I have this vision that the inside of her body is lined with pink satin, then she whispers, while bobbing up and down on top of me, Open me up, so I say with the butcher knife, and she says, Yes, with that, so I reach for the huge blade that sits on the nightstand beside a stack of books and hack away only to realize that this beautiful girl is an ordinary human being with the same insides as everyone else and I didn’t have to go and slice her up like that even if she begged me to do it; but I didn’t. I just thought it up, so no harm done, none, no harm, still free to live and breathe. Gluey hangs his tongue out, drools a little thank you. He’s tired maybe. The woman says goodbye and I tip my hat. I try to be polite to everyone.
At first I was horrified when they drew swastikas on their foreheads, but then I remembered that all of their markers are water-based and non-toxic so there would be no side effects. I knew I could wash the swastikas off with soap and water, which I did as calmly as possible. I knew they’d kick and shriek. I anticipated that. No one likes his or her forehead scrubbed like a dinner plate. I also knew, and I still know—fathers are built for knowing—that a swastika doesn’t necessarily connote bad things like Germany, human extermination and what’s-his-name (A.H.), that it also stands for sex, energy, and rebirth in Native American cultures for example, and in Korea.