Hot Pink (10 page)

I had this mutt once. Medium-to-large. A gift from my father, a schmuck. I forget the mutt's name. It had a few before it died and I can't remember what we finally settled on. When we dropped its corpse into the ditch we'd dug, my schmuck father said a prayer to his schmuck higher power in which the mutt's name was mentioned, and I remember feeling confused for a second because the name wasn't the name I was expecting to hear. Whether my father'd used the mutt's most recent name and I'd been expecting to hear an earlier name or it was the other way around I couldn't say, but it sounded all wrong. It sounded wrong to my brother, too, now that I think about it, so that probably means Dad used an earlier name because my brother was not sentimental—he was a mental cripple—and he corrected my father's prayer, and my father gave him a kind of schmuck-type look, though he let the correction stand, and Billy piped down.

Billy was also one of the names of the mutt, not just my brother, who was, understandably, confused by this fact, though it was my brother himself who named the mutt Billy. Billy, now that I recall it, was the mutt's original name, and that, in fact, is part of how the mutt came to have so many different names.

I said the mutt was my mutt, but the mutt started out Billy's mutt, who Dad brought the mutt home for and then told to name it. When Billy named it Billy, I said it was a bad idea and my dad said it wasn't up to me. What he actually said was, “Not your dog,” which is how a schmuck talks, but what he meant was what I just said he said—wasn't up to me—and then he left the room and ate some cold chicken.

A few days into having a mutt with the same name as him, which made Billy-my-brother more confused and scared than usual, Billy said he wanted to change the mutt's name, and my dad said he could not change the mutt's name. Said he had to stick with his choice, honor his commitments, the schmuck, though what he actually said to my brother when my brother, mentally crippled, said he'd like to change the mutt's name was, “Can't. Made your bed.” I made, in response, a kind of fuck-you face, and my father told me, “Not your dog,” so I offered my brother a dollar for the mutt and Billy sold me the mutt and ran off to buy candy and I gave the mutt its second name, which I don't remember, and my schmuck father gave me a kind of schmuck-type defeated look, so I gave the mutt a third name, right then and there, and received another schmuck look, and I gave the mutt a fourth name, and so on, until the schmuck stopped looking at me, which didn't take that long.

The thing about it was, though, I didn't much want the mutt and had bought it only to help out Billy and get at the schmuck, and had, in fact, later offered to sell the mutt back to Billy, newly named, for just a penny, but Billy didn't much want the mutt either, poor mutt. Poor schmuck. Poor Billy. Poor me.

A couple days later, the mutt got sick with something I can't remember, something painful we couldn't afford to treat, and the schmuck, who said it was my responsibility, would neither let me handle his gun nor would he shoot the mutt himself. I'd had enough of this schmuck ruling over me and Billy, and I did what I had to. I raised up a shovel and ended the mutt and raised up that shovel and turned to the schmuck and told him some things had to change around here and I told him he would help us bury the mutt.

No.
A SENSE OF ENTITLEMENT
—a phrase better suited to describe the quality possessed by freshmen who park their Jeeps in the handicapped spaces of faculty lots and contest B-minuses with intendedly rhetorical questions like “How do you expect me to be accepted into a top-tier law school if you won't give me an A?”—would not describe the
DRIVING FORCE
that had led Professor Jon Maxwell Schinkl, medievalist, to drag three fingertips along the curve of moon-faced sophomore Hallie Benton's jawline and speak
INAPPROPRIATELY
about her mouth. Nor, for that matter, did
PERVERSITY
describe the
DRIVING FORCE
. But then no one on the committee had posited
PERVERSITY
. To accuse Schinkl of
PERVERSITY
would endanger their whole
PROJECT
, for
PERVERSITY
was a
HEGEMENOUS
concept responsible for
SOCIAL BIAS
against the likes of furries and N.A.M.B.L.A. constituents, no less so coprophiliacs and gerbilers. (Though to be fair, just last semester
THE RIGHT OF GERBILERS TO GERBIL
was hotly contested by a special panel comprising six members of the very disciplinary committee before whom Schinkl was presently speechifying, and while it's true that during that panel-discussion—over the two-hour course of which the words
NATURAL
and
UNNATURAL
remained impressively unspoken—three of the committee members had defended the gerbiler assertion that
GERBILS SEEMED TO ENJOY GERBILING
, it is also true that the other three members, while they readily defended
THE LEGITIMACY OF THE
DESIRE
TO GERBIL
, and even the possibility that gerbils themselves enjoyed
THEIR ROLE IN THE PROCESS
, were also
MADE UNCOMFORTABLE BY THE IDEA OF SPEAKING FOR ANY POPULATION BEREFT OF A VOICE WITH WHICH TO PROTEST ITS OWN OPPRESSION
and therefore opined that
THE WILL TO MAKE SUCH PROTESTS, HOWEVER FRUSTRATED BY SYSTEMIC LIMITATIONS, IS MORE SAFELY ASSUMED MANIFEST IN GERBILS THAN NOT
and that furthermore
WHETHER THEIR ROLE IN THE PROCESS IS
EXPLOITATIVE OR TRULY CONSENSUAL, GERBILS, AS OFTEN AS NOT, DIE INSIDE THOSE WHO GERBIL THEM
. Thereafter ensued a firestorm of fresh debate about the meaning of
CHOICE
and
THE RIGHT TO DIE
. The firestorm had raged beyond the bounds of the panel, for the most part via listserv, until just last Monday, at which point Hallie Benton's formal complaint, to the relief of everyone in the college but Schinkl, decisively snuffed it.) No, it was not
PERVERSITY
the committee had accused him of. Had they accused him of
PERVERSITY
, they would have been vulnerable to the counter-accusation of
HYPOCRISY
, an accusation with which they had—each and every one of them—made their careers by uttering skillfully, liberally, without hesitation. Like a master long-swordsman and a long sword, the committee members had wielded
HYPOCRISY
so many times, had landed so many fatal blows with it, that they almost couldn't have helped but to forge and don the superlative armor they'd forged and continued to don against the accusation. Even if their armor's impregnability was an illusion—even if the armor was, as it were, a little bit pregnable—the members' reputations as masters over
HYPOCRISY
served to prevent all but their most reckless enemies (doomed from the outset by their recklessness anyway) from testing that armor with the one weapon it was specifically designed to frustrate. No, to stab at their helmets with
HYPOCRISY
would only serve to humiliate Schinkl further. In pursuing the death of master long-swordsmen, one's only hope is to mount a cliff and take aim with a crossbow, if not a carbine. Yet
THE PATRIARCHAL RHETORIC OF ROMANTIC LOVE
was all that Schinkl had come to the hearing strapped with, and even if that old cannon
had
retained some firepower, he was far too scared of heights to climb any cliff, and so instead he said a number of lofty-sounding things that smelled of self-pity and resigned.

That to hide amid the strip mall's dumpster-array and unbox, uncap, and—tipping her head back, squinting against the high summer sun, nozzle whole inches above her lips—empty the tube of frosting she'd stolen from Pattycake's Partystore into herself had provided Danielle Platz, who was lately getting stocky,
AN EROTIC CHARGE
was not the kind of information her father, Richard, had meant to solicit when he queried their neighbor, Dr. Linus Manx, about whether Danielle had behaved that afternoon on her trip into town with the Manxes. It seemed to Richard Platz the kind of information that a decent human being, psychotherapist or not, shouldn't ever share with another human being about his child—the second human being's. Either one's, actually, come to think of it. And Richard Platz, coming to think of it, had no doubt at all that Dr. Linus Manx would have proffered the same untoward information about Johan Manx, who had after all hidden amid the dumpsters right next to Danielle, sucking down his own tube of stolen frosting, were Johan, rather than budding his way into sequined, lisping, limp-wristed queerdom—Platz had seen him mincing in overtight T-shirts around the sprinkler, dancing serpentinely in their unfinished basement, making pouty faces when he swung on their swing set—also getting stocky. Which is just what Richard Platz, in so many words, said to Linus Manx on the trapezoid of grass that split their two driveways.

The funny thing about Kelly's body was the way it appeared to weirdly bulge above the puss area whenever she wore clothes, but then was fine (flat, smooth) once she got naked. (This might more accurately be described as the funny thing about Kelly's
pants
, seeing as it had to be the pants that caused the bulge. And yet the pants were normal, Levi's five-oh-whatevers, so it wouldn't be the way the pants were made that was funny, but the way the pants fit her body. Unless it was a funny way she
wore
the pants, i.e., maybe they would have fit just fine if she didn't pull the waist so high or low, or—it didn't matter. What mattered was that the way her overpuss area bulged or
seemed to bulge
when she was clothed, but then didn't bulge or seem to when she was naked, was… funny.) Cort didn't know whether to think of this as a gift or a curse, though. On the one hand, the bulging overpuss area was off-putting, and that kept, he assumed, any number of other dudes from hitting on Kelly, which, for Cort, meant (most likely) a more grateful girlfriend in terms of how she fucked, not to mention less competition. But on the other hand, was Kelly T
HE
O
NE
? Because if Kelly
was
T
HE
O
NE
, then hey, great: no downside to a seemingly bulging overpuss whatsoever. If Kelly was
not
T
HE
O
NE
, though, and Cort would, eventually, be moving on, then couldn't dating her hurt his chances with other girls later? Might not other girls, later, remember him as the guy who'd settled for that girl with the overpuss out to there, and thereby fail to feel flattered enough by his interest in them to give him a shot? And even if, with his native charm (he had a way with words), Cort could overcome that particular hurdle, might not a longer-term girlfriend, at some point further along in their relationship, find herself incapable—upon recalling Kelly's (seemingly) bulging overpuss—of accepting Cort's assurances that she was as attractive as she wanted to be? (“He says I'm not fat, but what does he know? His last girlfriend weirdly bulged above the puss area!”) Or, worse, might not the new girlfriend choose to let herself go (split ends, rough knees, dimpled cellulite, etc.), believing that Cort, who had, after all, dated someone with a (seemingly) bulging overpuss,
wouldn't mind
? Well… sure. Of course. Sure. All kinds of retarded stuff
could
happen, thought Cort, but that was only the scratched-up lousy side of a coin whose shiny nice side was all the cred he'd get from girls for going out with Kelly despite her unfortunate overpuss bulge. And if it
did
turn out that Kelly wasn't T
HE
O
NE
, and that Cort had been suffering the overpuss bulge for a smaller payout than real true love, not only would that land him in the black, karmically, but these cred-giving girls would be all over him, knowing he would never say anything, or even
think
anything, about their bodies to cause them any feelings of insecurity, because, as he'd have demonstrated by dating that girl with the weird bulge above the puss area, Cort wasn't shallow.

As he approached me on the sidewalk, I noticed the important man had the kind of face that would look exactly the same with or without a mustache. He was carrying a black-lacquered cane with a diamond-studded handle and I envied him his cane. I imagined thumping my fingertips against it, the sound that would make, and flipping it upside-down to make believe it was the letter
L
. If the cane were mine, I would pretend it was a long-barreled pistol with a diamond-studded grip. I would holster it in the elastic of my jockey shorts and have friends. When I came across a friend, I would pull the cane out of the holster and point it, say: “Gotcha.” I could do that as many times as I wanted, and it would never stop being a good joke. I would be what they call “a character.” People would want to see more of me. They would say of me, “That character! Always with the cane he pretends is a pistol!” and exchange intimate glances with one another, then wave the whole thing off with both hands and decide to lunch together. “Lunch?” one would say. “Let's,” would say another.

The important man continued in my direction, until he was right in front of me. I made myself sideways so he could pass. My fingernails grazed the button on his epaulet. “Pardon,” he said, and he was walking away.

Just like the last one.

“Come back,” I said.

He waved me off and sped his pace. I went after him. I walked beside him. The heat was unbearable that day. I was sweating.

“I have something to ask you,” I said.

He said, “
What's
that?” but he kept walking, like he was scared of me, like I had done something wrong or something dangerous. I was going to ask him if he ever imagined his cane was a pistol, and then say, “Me too,” and we would have something in common. But I knew that would scare him and I didn't want that to scare him so I said something
I
thought was scary so we could both be scared together. I said, “The voice of your brother's blood cries out to me from the ground!” and made a movement with my shoulders like I would hit him, and he flinched. That was when another man (bearded) came along. This second man owned the hat shop that we were standing in front of, but he was not wearing a hat and he said to me, “What the fuck? Who the fuck?”

“I don't know,” I said. I was ashamed to look at him. I looked at the display window. It was full of breastless, earth-tone mannequins in bowlers and derby hats sitting in folding chairs around a square table, one on each side. There were playing cards affixed to their hands by means of an invisible adhesive, probably the quick-dry liquid variety. There wasn't a single thumb between the four of them and this second man expected me to pretend they were playing poker.

“Who the
fuck
?” the second man said again.

I imagined he knew I didn't understand him and that was why he said it the second time. I think he gave up on me after that.

Still watching the mannequins, I made a thinking face to appease him. Then I started thinking. I thought: They do not have ears and they do not have hair, yet their hats do not fall over their eyes—there must be adhesive. I thought: But a liquid adhesive of the kind affixing the cards to the hands would, if used on the heads, irreparably gum up the fibers in the hats and ruin their potential to be sold well. No, I thought, a liquid adhesive would not be appropriate at all, and therefore the mannequins must have strips of adhesive
tape
between their heads and their hats, and these strips must be looped into O-shapes. Oh, you're stupid. You thought you were smart, but you're stupid, I hate you. There is double-sided tape for sale at stores. There is the law of parsimony. Nothing need be looped into O-shapes—not when both sides adhere with equal potency. You should have thought of that first, but you are not elegant.

The second man said, “Go,” and pointed me across the street.

I crossed the street and straddled a construction horse. I watched the second man talk to the first. They spoke like friends. The second man set his hand on the shoulder of the first man and the first man leaned on his cane toward the second man and soon they were laughing. When they laughed, I could see the steam of their gasps converging. I thought: Maybe they don't know each other at all and the second man is the greatest salesman who ever lived, is selling the first man a hat without the first man even knowing that he is being sold a hat. I thought: I wonder if they notice the way their steam is converging. I wonder if the second man does but the first man doesn't, if knowing how to foment this convergence is one of the secrets to being as great a salesman as the second man. Convinced of it, and convinced that the second man, despite his canelessness, was important, possibly even more important than the first, I set out to find someone to mingle steam with. This is not as easy for me as it is for others. It is not as easy as it should be.

I walked a block and found two men talking. I approached the younger one and said, “What the fuck? Who the fuck? Who the fuck? Go.” It didn't work.