How Best to Avoid Dying (13 page)

“Now slow down, friend,” Lord Baxtor had told Stanley only minutes before. “You're going to get us into an accident.”

Stanley slammed on the breaks outside of Paula's building. He jumped from the car and his eyes scanned the one lit office on the sixth floor. There, pressed against the glass, was what he was sure was the fleshy white ass of his own wife.

“You were right, Lord Baxtor,” Stanley choked out.

“Yes, well, now we can go,” said Lord Baxtor. “Just you and me. Let's be off.”

“No, sir,” Stanley said, wiping the gathering tears of rage from his eyes. “My turn to walk in.”

He ran into the building, pounded up the stairs, feeling simultaneously infuriated and thrilled. “Goodness me,” garbled Lord Baxtor from Stanley's boxers. Stanley found Paula's office and burst through the door. “Paula!” he yelled.

“Stanley!” Paula popped out from behind the desk.

“Mrs. Poppen,” Melissa yelped.

“Jesus,” said Juan.

“Bonk,” went the lipstick as it hit the floor.

Paula and Stanley sat across from each other at an all-night diner not two blocks from Paula's office. It had been an hour since Stanley, Paula, Melissa, and Juan had stood silently watching the lipstick case roll across the hardwood floor. No one said a word. No words seemed appropriate. Nothing seemed appropriate. But Stanley could swear he felt Lord Baxtor smirk.

Juan had quickly pushed his mops and buckets from the office. Melissa had shyly gathered her clothes and followed. Stanley and Paula had walked to the diner as if in a daze. The lipstick was left where it fell.

“I'm sorry I didn't trust you,” Stanley said, his fingers fiddling with the silverware.

“Well, you should be,” said Paula, sipping her coffee. It was dismally weak. “To think that I would ever…” She trailed off, implying that to even say what Stanley had suspected was too much.

“I am sorry,” Stanley said again. “You seem so uninterested in being intimate with me, I thought, well…”

“Stanley, oh, Stanley,” she reached across the table and took his hand. “It's not you. The truth is, I just don't like sex.” She thought about the lipstick case and thighs. “At least, I don't like it very much. But I can promise you, Stanley, there will never be another man. Never.”

“Oh,” Stanley said.

“It's not that important, is it? Sex, I mean.” She squeezed his hand. “You don't mind, do you?”

“No,” Stanley said. “No, I don't mind.” Lord Baxtor shifted uneasily.

Later Stanley lay in bed beside his sleeping wife, watching her breasts rise and fall with each breath. He was not touching her, but he could feel her warmth. He thought of the future. He imagined growing old with Paula, sitting on the porch, renting movies, going on vacations. It was nice. It was comfortable. He stared at the ceiling. Comfortable is good. Lots of people never even get that. At least it wasn't battle. At least there weren't things exploding and bullets flying. At least he wasn't alone. It wasn't perfect, but it was safe.

He looked back at Paula sleeping beside him and found he was grateful for her. Grateful that she was there, near, and he wasn't alone. It was comfortable. He considered giving his wife's shoulder just a little peck, but thought he'd better not. Instead he gently touched the ends of her hair. After that Stanley drifted into an almost peaceful sleep.

When he stirred again, it was just before dawn and the room was filled with a pale blue gloom. Looking up at him with a sad sort of affection was Lord Baxtor.

“What are you doing?” Stanley whispered sleepily.

“I'm sorry, Stanley. I can't stay like this,” Lord Baxtor said. “I'm leaving and I'm taking the testicles with me.”

“You can't do that.”

“Yes, Stanley. I can and I will.”

Lord Baxtor leapt off of Stanley's crotch. He called for the testicles, “Tim, Scott,” and they rolled to him, scrotum and all. Stanley thought to stop them, to yell and grab, but he didn't. He knew he couldn't force them to stay.

“No, Lord Baxtor. Please don't do this.”

“It's for the best, Stanley.”

“Who's best? Yours or mine?”

“Isn't it one and the same?” He put on a well-fitting bowler hat and lifted a small suitcase with a tiny arm that had just popped from his side. Then he waddled off the bed and toward the door.

“I would write,” he said before the cracked doorway, “but I think it best if we don't communicate for a while.” He stepped through the door.

“Lord Baxtor Ballsington!” Stanley cried. The penis popped his head back in the room. “Be careful,” Stanley said. Baxtor smiled and left once again.

THE BEGINNING OF ALL THINGS

The Snickers bar, half unwrapped but uneaten, glistens in the wet grass. I watch it from my park bench. Across from me, the squirrel watches it as well. With quick glances we also watch each other. The morning light hits us both from the side, straight rays cut by the tree branches, like shelves.

I'm young. I'm strong. I tense my legs, ready to pounce, grab and have. The squirrel smells my moving muscles and twitches his tail. I'm four feet away. He's five feet away. He's on the ground. I'm on the bench. The Snickers bar waits, maybe it wants the conflict, feeding on the tension as both the squirrel and I hope to feed on it.

I move first, pushing off my left foot and heaving toward the bar. The squirrel jumps from both legs. For the briefest moment we are both in midair. Eyes locked, the Snickers bar between and below us. I'm in the squirrel's mind feeling his fear and his heart, moving like a rolling tongue. I see how he sees me—huge, clumsy, sad patches of hair and bare skin, a mouth like a long cut, and dull, slow-moving eyes.

We collide and meld. I lose me, he loses he, we find we. The claws are ours, the flat feet are ours, the Snickers bar is ours. We fall as one newborn creature, landing on the wet grass. Breathless, confused, trying to slow this rodent heart and human head.

“Old man,” we squeak to a passing figure. “Help.”

The old man looks at us with a cruel grin. “Ah, brain rot,” he says and throws a breadcrumb, a big one, right at our head. We fall back on our tail, quickly nibble through the breadcrumb and scurry up a tree.

We prance out on a branch above the old man and pounce on his head. Now he is with us too, he brings bitterness and false wisdom with him. We scuttle on, accidentally absorbing a slug, which helps slow the heart.

We scamper from the park and into the city, absorbing a poodle. Finding the tallest building we can, we begin to scramble upward, begging for God to come a little closer, moving to meld with Him. Tiny claws grasping at glass, listless antennae looking for the next ledge, a wet snout whining, white wide eyes seeing God and his angels pointing and giggling at our struggle.

We fall—absorbing air as we go, hitting the earth, and the crust is now us, then the mantle, then the core, we are devils
and demons swirling, bubbly, hot, spinning, building, rising, exploding through holes in the earth, melting cities, villages, islands, cattle, Snickers bars, tightlipped school nurses, soiled children, delicate china, synthetic fiber products, the sounds of birth, the feel of gravel, the smell of swamp, all joining in all over the world, sucking in the clouds and the trees and the oceans and everything, everything.

THE FECALIST

Two steps, turn, two steps, turn. Thurston Helbs paced the elevator, his hand ruffling the black beard that curled from his jowls.

“The prose of
Night Eye
is nothing short of trite and horrendously melodramatic. Helbs' earlier work showed promise, but the promise has been broken…” He had recited the review over a hundred times since reading it. Each word hurt.
Trite
stabbed him,
melodramatic
filled his mouth with the taste of metal, but the real burn was
promise
.

Bing.

The elevator door opened and Thurston stepped off. He could hear the party already underway, muffled conversations and light jazz behind an apartment door. His hands started to sweat. Thurston buttoned his camel hair coat over his belly, which stuck out like a well-packed bag of sand—so firm it refused to shake even when he danced or released one of his deep resonating laughs. But Thurston did not feel like dancing or laughing.

He stood, afraid to knock. Usually he enjoyed Peter Wamison's parties—the same Peter who had been his close friend since college, the same Peter who had patted Thurston's solid belly at so many of his parties quipping, “It's the next novel. I think I felt it kick.” The same Peter who had written “… showed promise, but the promise has been broken.”

Thurston had written Peter an email on the day the review came out. “Why?” was all it said.

“It's just literature, Thurston. Don't take it personally,” Peter had replied almost immediately. “See you at the party.”

Thurston ran his hand over his bald scalp and once again kneaded his beard. He knocked. Almost instantly the door opened and the sounds came pouring out.

“Thurston!” said a woman with large eyes. She kissed him and he could feel the thick lipstick like bacon grease smear on his skin. “Let's get you a drink.”

She led him through the crowd to a small bar.

“A champagne for me and a whiskey and coke for—”

“Jägermeister,” he grunted. “Where's Peter?”

“Oh, you know. Prancing around playing host.” She flittered her hands.

Thurston grunted again.

“So, Greenwich treating you well?”

Another grunt.

“Alright then,” her overgrown eyes searched the room. “Oh, look. It's Susan.” And she was gone.

Thurston ordered himself another round. He watched the intelligent, interesting faces, listened to strands of gossip and high pitched laughs and found himself wishing they were all dead—dying in creative, painful ways. After a fifth Jägermeister, Thurston went hunting for Peter.

He weaved through the crowd, past faces of writers, readers, actors, professors, all smiling. He pushed on, hunting for Peter. His feet felt blurry and the front of his brain seemed to weigh more than any other part of his body. There was a rumble and a familiar pressure in his gut. Now he was searching for Peter and a bathroom.

Someone near him laughed and Thurston turned. But the couple didn't notice and continued talking. He couldn't hear, but he knew it was about him, about his trite, melodramatic, promise-breaking novel. Eyes everywhere were laughing at him. A joke of a writer, a buffoon. He found a door, stepped through, and closed it. He was alone in Peter's bedroom.

It was quiet and a little dark. One lamp lit the queen-sized waterbed covered with a red velvet quilt. And on the bedside table lay the latest issue of the
New Yorker
, complete with Peter Wamison's review of
Night Eye
by Thurston Helbs. To his left was the bathroom, but Thurston had a new idea.

He opened the magazine to the review and placed it in the middle of the bed, the glossy pages floating like kelp on a red sea. He stepped up onto the bed, hearing the liquid swish under his feet as he worked to balance himself. When steady, he unbuckled his belt, pushed down his pants, squatted over the
New Yorker
, and crapped. He giggled as he did, tickled by the combination of an act of will and an act of compulsion, the thrill of taboo and the warmth.

He was just pulling his pants back up when the door opened.

“Oh, my God!” It was the large-eyed woman. Others ran to the door, silhouetted by the brighter room behind them. Thurston stood frozen.

“Jesus!” one man shouted, covering his mouth and nose with his arm. Another woman gagged loudly and stumbled
backward. Soon a thin man in a multicolored sweater pushed through the crowd.

“Thurston, what the hell are you doing?”

Thurston wobbled off the bed. “Hello, Peter.”

“You shat on my bed!”

“You shat on my novel.”

“Get out!”

Thurston slowly finished buckling his belt, staring back at the shocked faces. The stink filled the space, but no one left the doorway; they were transfixed. Thurston again ran a hand over his head and proudly left the room.

“I'm going to tell,” Peter yelled as Thurston walked out of the apartment. “You're over.”

Thurston strolled home elated. He had lost a friend and had almost certainly caused his career irreparable damage.
Who cares
, he thought.
The world can do with one less mid-lister
.

Air tasted better, colder, cleaner. He had done what should not be done and it felt very good.

Thurston strode into the Doughnut Palace that occupied a storefront on the bottom floor of his apartment building.

“Bear claw, please.”

“Nice to see you all happy,” said the tiny girl behind the counter. Her nametag read B
EAM
. “You've been wearing a down frown for a week.” She bent over to collect a bear claw from under the counter. Thurston could see the pink skin of the small of her back curving in to meet the purple hem of her panties. She was about twenty, fifteen years his junior. He wondered if through the display window she could see his crotch wriggle to life.