Every Shallow Cut Page 5

  She eyed me hard but I thought I saw a little curiosity there, as well as compassion and even a touch of love. Her lips almost framed a smile but never quite got there. She stared over my shoulder checking the street. Then she spun and glanced behind her at the hall to see if anyone was there. When she turned back to me I noticed how her hair framed her jaw line and I felt a pang for those days in tenth grade when I stared at the side of her face across our English class. I’d write typical romantic teenage angst-ridden poetry. I’d slip unsigned love haiku through the vents in her locker. It embarrassed the hell out of her.

  At a party, bolstered by beer and 151 rum, I eventually found the nerve to lead her to the basement couch and flail against her. We made out, her mouth the flavour of kamikazes. I worked her pants down while she asked, “Will you still be my friend, after?” I told her I would always love her.

  Her hair swept to a standstill against the fabric of her collar while she searched my face and found everything that was wrong and lacking.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” she said.

  “Why not?”

  “I’m married now.”

  “I know that.”

  “I have three children.”

  “Congratulations.”

  She frowned, not sure how to take it, but accepted it as it was meant: honestly. “Thank you. You really should go.”

  “Why are you back living with your mother?” I asked.

  “We’ve had some difficulties. My husband lost his job.”

  I nodded. I didn’t know what else to do.

  “He’ll go berserk if he finds you here.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s very jealous.”

  I remembered him. He was a couple years older than us. She’d met him at a school dance he shouldn’t have been at. He drove up in a well-waxed, fuel-injected red Mustang, timing his entrance perfectly for the greatest effect. The kids were all outside in line waiting to get into the rec centre. He stomped the gas about a block away so that by the time he cruised into the parking lot the engine was roaring like a jungle beast. He climbed out wearing a rat packer black suit, white shirt, black tie, his cuffs shot. They were back in style. Aloof expression, hair slick, a trimmed van dyke.

  I danced with her most of the night but every time I went for punch I came back to find him talking to her. Afterwards, when I was about to drive her home, she got into his car instead. For months after I thought he would use her, break her heart, and she’d limp back to me a wiser woman ready to receive my genuine love. It never happened.

  “If he doesn’t have a job where’s he at right now?” I asked.

  “Over at the Dugout.”

  Christ, I thought, the Dugout. It was a hole in the wall dive where me and my buddies used to hang out Friday nights shooting pool. I could imagine her husband in there, in the middle of the day, with the place packed wall to wall with similar silent, stewing, jealous men. I would fit right in. Maybe he and I could finally be friends all these years later. He would break down and weep into three fingers of Jameson’s and explain to me how life had gone downhill since that night at the rec centre. That’s when he’d been at his coolest. I’d rub his shoulder and say I understood. We’d come back here and scrape together enough money to rent one of those Asian teenie bopper assassin flicks and laugh our guts out while we ate his mother-in-law’s munchies.

  “Let me in,” I told her.

  “I can’t let you in.”

  “Just for a minute.”

  “Why?”

  “Why do you think?”

  “I have no idea.”

  I thought of bulling my way inside. I thought of pressing my new slim body up against hers and letting her feel the corded muscles of my chest. I could take off my jacket and show her the veins bulging in my arms. My hands were still soft but they were strong, finally. I thought I could grab her by the wrist and lead her past her three kids and tell them not to disturb us for about an hour. I’d drag her into her old bedroom. I’d never stepped foot inside it. I would stand at the edge of the doorway and glance inside while she finished brushing her hair or putting on her shoes. Her mother would hover nearby waiting to crack a vase over my head.

  “You have to go now.”

  “Can’t I just talk to you for a little while?”

  “We have nothing to say to each other.”

  It was probably true. Besides, I didn’t really want to talk to her. I wanted to haul her onto her bed and brush the hair away from her jaw line and kiss her throat gently. I wanted to work my lips in deeply and gnaw. There would be nipping. There would be biting. I’d kick the door shut and shove the dresser in front of it. I’d take off her top and maul those tits. They were still large with some nice bounce. I’d cup them and hold them up to my mouth and suck them until she whimpered. I’d tear her jeans off and shred her panties. I’d be rough. I was never rough, I wasn’t aggressive, I hardly ever made the first move, not even with my wife, but I would be rough with her. Maybe she’d want it that way, maybe not. It wouldn’t matter. We’d fuck like terrified lemmings about to go over the cliff. She’d mark my chest with her nails. I’d have half-moon scars forever. Her jealous, drunken husband would bang on the door and ask in a liquor-spattered voice what the hell those weird sounds were. The kids would describe me. He’d remember. He’d throw his shoulder against the door and the lock would rattle and the dresser would dance while the mattress rocked insanely. She would scream. It would be part bliss and part cry for help. She’d be begging him for rescue and begging me as well. I’d do my best. I’d ride her across the mountaintops of hell. He would wobble into the kitchen and go through the junk drawer looking for a hammer. He wouldn’t find one. He’d have to check the garage. He’d get his hand on a ball-peen but it would be too small to do any real damage. He’d take up an awl, a socket wrench, a tire iron. Finally, he’d find a huge claw hammer and run back in. The kids would be crying. He’d shout at them to shut the fuck up, you little shits. Once, twice, three times he’d strike the doorknob of the bedroom but the lock would hold. He’d kick at it, throw his hip against it. Then he’d use the hammer again. I’d be deep in his wife and nearly there as she wrapped her legs around me and told me not to stop. I wouldn’t stop. I’d never stop. I would always love her. We’d come together and she’d lick at my bleeding chest, lie back and light a cigarette. The claw of the hammer would start breaking through the door. Splinters and chips would shower over us.

  She’d blow a long stream of smoke that would break wide across her chin and say to me, Okay, so what do you want to talk about?

  The car horn blasted. I started and jumped a little. I turned to see Churchill standing on his front paws propped against the steering wheel. His tongue lolled. He cocked his head and gave me a look like, What the hell are we doing here?

  She leaned in closer. For a moment I thought she might kiss me. Her breath tickled my nose hairs. I half-closed my eyes. I waited. She whispered, “It was nice seeing you. I wish you all the best. Now please please please . . . don’t ever come back.” Then she shut the door and double locked it.

  Under protest, my brother let Church stay with him while I took the train into Penn Station and walked over to my agent’s office.

  Of course my agent hadn’t been expecting me. When I walked in he put on a false broad smile and went three shades of pale. He still had three of my novels circulating. At least he’d had them in the slush bins up until I’d had to disconnect my phone and sell my computer. He asked me how I’d been.

  “Any word?” I asked.

  It was a stupid question. I’d been compelled to ask it anyway. I wondered why I even cared anymore. Maybe I didn’t. I could feel my time running out, and I liked the feeling. I’d had two mentors in my life and they’d both died at their desks. I wasn’t going to go out that way. Their sales were still good and their royalties kept their families comfortable even now, years later. Me, I was going to die with my hands wrapped around someone’s throat, maybe my
own.

  “No, we haven’t had any offers yet,” he said. “We came close with . . . ah . . . with . . .” He dipped his head trying to remember which publisher might’ve shown the slightest interest in my work, but he couldn’t come up with it. “Anyway, they balked because they felt it wasn’t commercial enough.”

  “Do we even know what the fuck that means?”

  “It means not enough middle-age women or tween girls are going to like it.”

  “Is that the only audience left?”

  “The only one that counts.”

  His phone rang and he held up a finger to shush me while he took the call.

  I got out of my chair and looked through his bookcases. The same old feeling of envy began rising inside me, but it was muted this time, so deep that it couldn’t seem to break the surface anymore. I saw books that were massive bestsellers yet showed no style or originality. I didn’t blame the authors for writing them. I didn’t even blame the readers for reading them. I plucked a novel up and flipped through some pages and found a sentence: I was so angry I kicked him in the shin.

  I wondered how angry that might be. I wondered just how mad the author had to feel in order to kick someone in the shin. Everything was relative. Was that the culmination of his fury? Was he worse off than me? Did his wife have to leave him for a sweetie before he would kick someone in the shin?

  My agent was giggling, saying, “Right right right, oh yes, yes! Yes!” It sounded like phone sex to me. He quivered in his seat. He was in love with his other clients, at least the successful ones. I still hadn’t cashed my royalty cheque for $12.37.

  When he finally hung up his eyes shimmered with genuine affection. I almost asked him who he’d been talking to. But when you got down to it, I really didn’t want to know.

  I asked if there’d been any film interest in my novels. He just pursed his lips and shook his head. I asked if there was any other work to be found. Writing comics, being a ghost writer. Anything.

  I’d asked these same questions a year ago, and six months ago, and three months ago, and six weeks ago, each time the strain of desperation growing in my voice. Now though, I was surprised to hear myself sounding quite calm. Bored even. I wondered what would have happened if he’d said there was a producer interested in turning one of my books into a movie. Would I have shouted yippee? Did I have the ability to shout yippee anymore? Had I ever?

  “I’ve been working on a new novel,” I said.

  He was busy checking his daily planner and nodded without interest. “Good good. What’s it about?”

  “I don’t want to ruin it for you. I think you should go in cold and unbiased.”

  I opened the rucksack, reached in, and brought out four of the full legal pads. They weren’t numbered. I wasn’t certain if it mattered. I put them in the order that I thought I’d written them in, and I put them on his desk.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “Like I said, my new novel.”

  “It’s not even typed.”

  “I don’t have a laptop anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  I knew he hadn’t really been listening to me over the last year. I knew that he didn’t fully grasp my situation. He didn’t know my wife had left me. He wouldn’t remember that my house had been taken away. He had no real idea I was homeless and destitute. He never would.

  “Have your girl type it up,” I told him.

  “That’s not her job.” He glanced through the pages. He made faces. He looked at me from time to time. “This isn’t how we do things.”

  “No, it’s not,” I agreed. “I’m trying some-thing new.”

  He started to argue more. Then he looked at the rucksack at my feet and his eyes opened wide and he pushed away from his desk.

  “Is that a gun?” he asked.

  The righteous answer would be to say, No, I’m just happy to see you. Instead I just said, “Yes.”

  “What are you doing with a gun?”

  That was the fucking question, wasn’t it? Did I tell him I wasn’t sure, that I had no idea? Or did I go a little deeper with this man who had promised to do his best professionally to protect my work and make me enough money so that I could at least keep a roof over my wife’s head? Had he failed me or had I failed him?

  I wasn’t completely mad dog yet. I wasn’t going to pull the trigger on everyone who’d ever crossed me or pissed me off or written a bad review of my work. I wasn’t going to put one in my own ear just so my sales might spike a little the way they did for all dead authors. Besides, who would get the royalties? I wasn’t even sure. I was divorced, I was alone. I had no will or executor. I supposed the rights would go to my brother. He would look down at the paperwork, squinting, and not want to be bothered. Everything would go out of print practically overnight and in twenty years some kid with some taste might be crawling around a second hand shop or thrift store and find one of my titles in the corner of a dark shelf. He’d draw it out and turn to the first page and find the paper had been chewed on by rats and was speckled with spider eggs and fly shit.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “I think . . . I think maybe you should . . .”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not here to punch your ticket. I’ve been on the road for a couple of weeks and needed protection.”

  “Protection from what?” he asked.

  It was a list that had no beginning or end. “Let’s not get off point. I think you’ll like the new book. I think it will move fast for us. I think it will be a big seller.”

  I wasn’t sure how straight I was playing it. Maybe I came off as absurd as I sounded, or maybe I had more faith in those words, whatever they were, than I realized.

  He decided to patronize me. He stuck a hand out as if to touch my shoulder but he never made contact. “Okay, that’s good. That’s a good thing. I’m glad you feel that way. If you feel that way, then it must be true. I’m sure something will break for us soon. I’ll have my girl get right on it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And I’ll keep pushing the others.”

  “You’re the man.”

  “Something will break. Keep the faith.”

  “Do my best.”

  “We’ll get you a nice fat cheque soon.”

  “Terrific.”

  “Hollywood is always after new material.”

  “That’s inspiring.”

  “This new book, I’ve got a good feeling about it.”

  “Right.”

  “Everything is going to turn around. We’ll get you back on top.”

  I’d never been on top but I smiled pleasantly at him. When I picked up the rucksack he backed up to the far wall and cringed against the window. The blue sky burned around his silhouette. I wondered if I was angry enough to kick him in the shin. I wondered if I was angry enough to shoot him in the head.

  The phone rang and he turned his back on me. I couldn’t hold it against him. It was his training, it was instinct by now. I wasn’t there anymore. Perhaps I never had been.

  After a moment he started chuckling, then tittering. “Yes, yes! Right, oh right right!”

  I thought of pulling the piece and putting one in his thigh. The underworld heroes of my stories often shot each other in the thick meat of their thighs. It was a way of saying that they were bad but not too bad. That they could handle violence with ease but still kept life in some kind of high regard. I put my hand in the rucksack and got my fist around the revolver. I started to sweat. His laughter made me sick to my stomach. I glanced at the bookcase and wondered which of the names on the spines of the books he was in love with at this moment.

  Toppling the bookcase across his office might make a bolder statement than shooting him in the leg, but the case was bolted to the wall.

  I walked out past his girl and said goodbye. She wasn’t doing anything. She wasn’t reading or typing or texting or checking voice mail. She was just sitting there, lost inside herself. She didn’t look up. I almost kissed her. />
  I took the B train up to the Bronx to visit a friend. He’d written a handful of novels to great acclaim, few sales, and little cash, which didn’t faze him much. He had a day job as a counsellor for the Bronx Psychiatric centre. He handled drug addicts, paranoids, firebugs, chronic masturbators, bi-polars, claustrophobes, the disassociatives, the sociopaths, and the depressives.

  He’d even interviewed a serial killer once, some handsome murderer who’d managed to carve up thirty-one co-eds because he had a nice smile. Their discussions went for six hours or longer at a clip, face to face in a tiny room. The killer wasn’t chained or cuffed to his chair. My bud had started off taking notes, trying to learn something about the psycho, to see what happened to the guy as a kid, what made him derail, why it had gone so far. At the end of the sessions two weeks later my friend found himself doodling in his notebook, drawing little stick figures without heads.

  I started in on a new legal pad and wrote the entire forty-minute ride uptown. I tried to focus on the words and actually read them before I flipped the page, but I was scrawling too fast. I could only catch a few bits and pieces.

  When we got into the Bronx I felt a different kind of looming weight above the subway, as if the earth had more iron or bone meal in it. We finally reached the station, and when I came up out of the underground the sun hit me like a diamond cutter’s lamp.

  I hated the Bronx. It always felt like Saturday night in Beirut. I turned a corner and the brick strongholds, stone towers, and wrought-iron bars made me feel like I was a prisoner of war being dragged into the court of an enemy castle.

  Block after block I passed crumbling apartment buildings and steel-gated liquor stores, gun shops, bodegas, and drug rehab clinics that looked like they were pouring out tin kettles full of methadone.

  His house was a fortress with a red steel door. There wasn’t half an inch of green anywhere for a square mile. No trees, lawns, not a blade of grass. Not even any house plants out on the stoops. Even the bodegas weren’t selling anything green.