Eric wants to know about teaching English. He has a lot of questions about his new career and can sense that am a minefield of answers. He is correct, but he is also a white boy with a ponytail and I don’t feel like educating another one of those right now.
We’re sitting on the floor of the Malaga airport, right in the way of everyone crossing Arrivals. He squats flat-footed and I’m sat atop my rucksack, chatting because I can, because my bus is a ways out, and because I must keep my mind active or risk prompt collapse from jetlag.
“This airport is evil. See the benches?” I gesture so Eric can see. “They put the bars on there to prevent sleepers. You gotta sleep underneath on the granite. I like it though, you can put your luggage there as a sort of guard wall. Block the masturbators.”
Eric is astounded that I have said “masturbators” aloud. He is from the East Coast of the United States and he moves pianos for a living. His ears are gauged, like mine. I assumed he would understand these things for some reason, a rookie mistake. “Masturbators? In the airport?”
“Oh, they’re everywhere, airports included,” I nod with affliction. “But that time I was out in the open, on the ground behind a cement column. The masturbator was facing me, sat on the bench. I woke up to him there watching me sleep. There was an airport worker down the way, saw the whole thing. Didn’t do shit though.”
“Wow,” says Aaron. “I don’t think I know any girls that’s happened to.”
“You do, dude. I promise.”
It’s possible Bators are more common in Europe where freedom is an actual thing you can feel and live, not like in the states where it’s a mythical idea like World Peace or Equal Rights. The Bator is an unfortunate by-product of the knowledge that one may do as one pleases without threat or fear of punitive consequence, paired with the painful dilemma of being a horny old fuck.
To be fair, now, there is certainly something about a good vista that just makes a person want to ejaculate. I’ve definitely rubbed a couple out on the tops of mountains before. That shit gets me hard. I’d bet money a lot of these dudes are just extreme nature enthusiasts (don’t worry, I don’t have any money.) I don’t need to hurl myself on a bench and crank it while watching a stranger sleep, but maybe it just depends on the particular stranger or whether or not I’ve taken my meds that day.
I tell Piano Guy about my full working list of Bators — the Guy On The Cliff, Shirtless Park Guy, the Guy On The Lookout Bench, the Guy Downhill Looking Up, the Lurker In The Meadow, Sleeping Bag Guy and the assorted collection of Brazen Beach Fellows. Piano Guy, having gotten exactly 0% of the information he had been hoping to extract from me, has heard enough. “Wow,” he says, “that’s terrible. I’ll keep an eye out so I can do a quick getaway if it ever happens to me.”
“Yeah, it won’t.” I get to my feet and heave my pack back on. Fucking white guys with ponytails don’t know shit about life.
Mom always said Daddy was a good man. They got married in the forest, built themselves a home and decided to have a baby. Daddy did a lot of building. He had very strong hands. She said they were beautiful hands, with one big vein that stood out on the back of each one. They were hairy, though. She said Daddy had a lot of hair.
When he died I guess she didn’t know what to do. She loved him a lot, anybody could tell even if just from the way she remembered his details. Her memories painted my portrait of him more than any photograph ever did.
Claud was a different sort of man. The skin was thick on his neck and face, and he shaved it all twice a day to keep the prickles back. He had some white spots on his arms that he always said were from the sun, but I found them one day on the internet and learned they were a type of fungus: a mold, sort of, burrowed under the skin.
His arms were thick, usually crossed. His fingers were rough from dryness and daily use of a keyboard. His mind was sharp, he was good with numbers. An accountant. Loved golfing. I don’t think he ever loved Mom as much as he loved golfing. Then again, I don’t think he ever loved Mom much at all.
He loved me, though.
He told me so often, as he cupped his big hand over my entire shoulder, pressing his fingerpads into my arm. That hand would later cup an entire breast, and the first two fingers would reach all the way up inside me so I could feel them hit my pelvic bone. Then his cock did the same, from behind. It happened in my bedroom every night for years and years. It’s how I knew that sleep would be coming soon along.
Mom forgot a lot of things very often. This was no different. Sometimes I would tell her the truth and she’d be shocked, infuriated. Sometimes she’d try to throw Claud out of the house and he would lock her in the hall closet with a key. I would sit on the carpet by the door and cry when she was in there for a long time. I never tried to ask for the key.
But there were many other days when Mom didn’t remember any of it. She would keep saying, Honey, I don’t understand. Honey, what are you saying? On those days she would tell me that none of it was true. Sometimes when Claud was away she would make a bed for me on the couch and put a hot towel on my forehead. She would sit by my feet and we’d watch Jeapordy or Wheel of Fortune. She never wanted to talk about Claud. I think for her it was easier to just pretend he wasn’t there.
Then one day a man named Alan arrived at our home. Alan was a lawyer, and he said he had come to take me away. He said one of my teachers at school had contacted him on my behalf. He had a kind face. Mom was on her knees and crying and squeezing me tight in the entryway, her hands wrapped around and under my backpack. It held four of my school books and a change of clothes. Alan said they would have the rest of the clothes sent to me. It was best if Mom stayed away for a while, he said, so that I could orient myself.
Alan brought me to a hospital where the doctor’s name was Dr. Lambert. He had glasses and a prickly white beard. His hands were warm. He pressed on my belly, listened to my breathing and shined a light into my eyes and ears. Then he put a mask over my nose and told me I would be very sleepy for a minute. A fog came and left me as I blinked up at the ceiling lights, cold and white. In the hospital almost everything was white.
My room was white, too. With a white bed and a white blanket. There was a little white table and chair and a window very high that let white light in. The door was white as well, and made of metal. It locked from the outside.
Alan the lawyer asked me many questions. He visited me once a day, except for Sundays. On Sundays there was a church service in the brunch room of the hospital, then we would go out to play in the gardens. They were simple gardens with bright green grass and shrubs that were pruned to have a curve. Sometimes there were yellow daffodils.
On the other days we would have school, classes in math and reading, sometimes science. The teachers often changed, as did the students. Some would come and some would go. It was normal. Sometimes we helped the cooks make lunch, at least those of us who were able. Some of the residents were unable to help much, so they stayed mostly in the break room. It had a large window, a record player and some books and toys for children. There were a few round tables, all white. The chairs were white, too.
Mostly Alan came to ask me questions about Claud. Alan was kind, but he didn’t listen well. Many times he asked me what Claud looked like, so I had to repeat his description over and over again. It was not difficult for me to talk about what Claud did at night, or that Mom would often forget all about it. But it made me very sad to talk about Mom. I sometimes asked to see Mom, but Alan said it wasn’t a good idea. He would just nod and write, nod and write and ask more questions.
Dr. Lambert said the same thing when I asked him about my mother later on. I began to see Dr. Lambert more and more after my first two years in the hospital. Like Alan, he asked me questions about Claud – but he was more forceful, his voice was louder, his look was more direct. He would fix my gaze and say, Honey, is that what you remember? I always said yes, because it was the truth. I had no reason to lie.
I was seeing Dr. Lambert twice a week when he told me he wanted me to start taking a small pill every morning. He explained that it was to help me experience my surroundings better. I didn’t understand, as I felt that I experienced my surroundings perfectly well. But still I took it, every morning when the nurse brought it to my door with a paper cup of water. She made sure I took the pill, then she smiled and took back the paper cup. She told me not to worry, that lots of people take pills in the morning. “It’s normal,” she said.
At first the pills had no effect on me. I felt the same as I always had, neither happy nor sad. I went to my classes and daily activities. I contributed. I spoke with Dr. Lambert. Alan almost never came to visit me anymore.
Then I began to notice things, details I hadn’t seen before. The paint was chipped in many places on the hospital walls, and often it was scratched or scuffed. The tables in the break room were sometimes dirty, before the nurse cleaned them with a cloth and some Windex. I always volunteered to help her, because I liked the smell of Windex and the blue splatters on the white tables and scrubbing the dirt away.
I hadn’t seen Alan in three or four months, so one day I asked Dr. Lambert if he was too busy with his cases to come see me anymore. Dr. Lambert said I could
talk to Alan any time I wanted, and to just ask him myself. “Ask away,” he said. He folded his hands and leaned forward, smiling. I suddenly felt very ill, so I asked to go to my room. “Of course,” said Dr. Lambert. “I’ll see you tomorrow, honey.”
I had been in the hospital for two years or more. I had not seen Mom since I arrived, though Claud had visited a time or two. I shuddered to think of them alone together but I knew Claud wouldn’t hurt her like he hurt me. He had told me many times he only wanted me that way, not her. He said it was different with me. Sometimes he put his fingers in my mouth and I tasted myself on them. Sometimes he left the lights on during. Sometimes he turned them off.
Dr. Lambert’s questions came to be more direct. He began saying things like, “I want you to be more specific. I want you to be certain. Tell me more. Describe that again. Tell me more.” He began to repeat himself. He was displeased with my answers. He’d lean in and gaze into my eyes. “You know the truth,” he’d say. “You know.”
One day he told me: “Claud does not exist. Claud never existed. You invented him. I’m sorry if this comes as a shock but deep down I believe you must know this.” Dr. Lambert’s eyes were clear. My stomach ached. “You know this, honey. You do.”
I asked for my mother. He said she couldn’t come. “Claud is real,” I told him. Dr. Lambert disagreed.
In his office I sat in a special chair. A soft plastic clip was placed on each of my pointer fingers, which tightened and vibrated when Dr. Lambert pressed a small control button. He pressed the button every time I said it: “Claud is real.” Buzz. “He exists.” Buzz. It was uncomfortable, but it didn’t hurt. I read the nameplate on the desk: Dr. Alan Lambert. He asked me again and again and again: Who is Claud? Is he real?
“Yes,” I would say. “Claud is my stepfather. He is real.” Buzz. Buzz.
As the months wore on my memories were crumbling, falling from my mind in chips and blocks. I remembered the taste of Claud’s thick fingers in my mouth, pressing down on my tongue, as I remembered biting my own thumb so hard it drew thick bubbles of blood. I remembered being crouched by the closet with Mom locked inside and I remembered being inside the closet without her. I sometimes remembered her screaming and banging, but I wasn’t sure from which side of the door.
Dr. Lambert’s tone had changed. “This memory is falsified,” he would say. “This memory is untrue. This is a projection. This did not happen in physical life.”
All the white was still there on the walls, but now the scratches stood out to me. I knew the patients were disabled, mentally. I knew that I was one of them. I didn’t know what I remembered and what I didn’t, and I was always very tired. I missed my mother very much.
Who is Claud? Is he real?
“Claud is my stepfather.” Buzz. “I… made him up.” A pause.
“Good,” Dr. Lambert said. “Very good, honey. Very good. You’re progressing.”
Claud does not exist. Claud never existed. Claud’s not real. I made Claud up.
That’s good, honey. Great, honey. Good, good, good.
The day finally came when Dr. Adam leaned to me and said the words: “Looks like you have a visitor.” I turned around and there she was, like a ghost or a dream, in a dress and a robelike shawl, hands to her mouth, nervous. She looked at me through downturned eyes, wet with tears.
“Honey,” she breathed, and she opened her arms.
Mom brought me back home in her red station wagon. It had been several years but my bedroom still looked exactly the same. For days we didn’t speak to each other; there was too much and too little to be said. We settled into the house in silence.
It lasted weeks, perhaps, but time had lost meaning anyway.
The little house Daddy had built was chipped with wear and tear, but Mom had kept up good care of it on her own over the years. We spent entire seasons cleaning up the surrounding land and putting up fencing for goats, soft white lady goats for shearing and making wool yarn. Mom taught me to knit hats, then socks the next year, then gloves after that. We planted a vegetable garden and collected mushrooms in the refuse under the dry pine needles of the forest bed, saving them to cook later on.
In the kitchen one night the unspoken monster ripped itself out of me, sudden and ugly. “Was he real, Mom? Did Claud exist?” I felt weak, body heavy and collapsing, mouth wrenched and set in a silent sob from someplace deep down in my gut. She rushed over, embraced me, sat us down together backed up against the kitchen cabinets, humming to me as I cried into her lap, tears pooling on the linolelum. In low tones she told me, “Honey, whatever you remember is real. It’s all real, honey.” She held me that way for a long while, silently, pushing locks of hair back from my face.
Then, as if in a breath, she was gone. She was 47 and it was a Tuesday morning. She refused to wake up for much longer than usual. At first I was awed by her; she had achieved this brilliant, perfect stillness like what the soul longs for in life. I sat on her bed with my hand on her forehead until shadows stole over the room in late evening, as night darkened and bluish light filtered down through the open blinds.
While holding her there in the dark a desperate force suddenly tore through me, like a seizing orgasm of loss and rage, and I clutched tighter the limp head in my arms. How was I supposed to do this? The thought of relocating my mother’s body terrified and overwhelmed me. A wild panic set in, my skin burned hot and I intensely feared my own being. Then suddenly, with a heavy presence, a thick- limbed, light white man occupied the bed beside me. With a large hand he reached out and cupped my kneecap, pressing his fingerpads lightly into my thigh. The other large hand tipped up my chin between thumb and forefinger and Claud murmured into my mouth, “Don’t you worry, honey. I’ll take care of everything now.”
Erizo was what you might call sencillo if you were a Spaniard. He had a somewhat tormented spirit layered like sponge cake under a thick slice of calm. The calm was as real as the torment and either all of it or nothing showed in his eyes, given away in splinters of olive green or sandy yellow. The colors changed frequently, perhaps depending on his mood, perhaps on my perception. I wasn’t sure and it didn’t matter.
I loved him very easily. There was little to think about. He slipped his arm around me and it had always been there. I was safe and would have human projects to tinker with over the summer — break this wall down, extend this conviction, sharpen that ability. Train him to eat perfect pussy. Help him figure out what he wanted from life and rile him up to get it — then release him out to sea like a bottle with something inside it. Not a message (frankly a terrible method of communication) but something better. Something helpful. Something good.
Though of course the good came with the package. The good WAS the package and man, he was a package. He was a local boy. a pueblo boy. Small-town country upbringing just like mine. Everyone knew everyone, he once got to fuck the neighbor girl — just like me, the neighbor girl. He wore unpretending clothes, brandless shirts and glasses that didn’t flatter him. Went bald at 25 and had greys in his beard. His hands were not beautiful, but his arms were thick and wrought like iron and felt like the island around my shoulders (everyone knows paradise is just a good warm set of arms.)
He told me many things that made me laugh. He had a disdain and a bitterness for the destruction of his homeland and though I was little but a product of that destruction he did sometimes look at me as if I was a precious creature, like he had stumbled upon me in some grove and couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The times that he looked at me like this were not those involving nudity or sex; they were times I was dancing or giggling to myself, times I was playing with children. Perhaps he didn’t think I was beautiful, but to him i don’t believe that it mattered. That said a lot about him.
Yet something in there was unwell, something shriveled and very small. He once told me laughing that once as a child he raped a sow pinned in a crate with a pole in the ass and I cried but he said he didn’t feel anything then or now. He said there had been blood.
He said there were girls he had loved but he had lost them all, said he had regrets and a heart leathered up from repeated beatings and breaks. Said he more than once dated people who didn’t love him, stayed with them for years. Said he wasn’t attractive and meant what he said. I listened to everything because the sound of his voice made me wet and weak in the knees. I wanted him to feel better but I also just wanted his cum in my mouth. Sometimes my emotions don’t run cut and dry.
Maybe he was an event more than a person, a season walking on human legs and a nonexistent male ass. I looked at him as I looked at my surroundings because he WAS my surroundings, just like the sea and the buttery flowers and the palm bushes and the pines. I looked at him and I said to myself, “Do it right this time.” In the end I think I did. I left him and I told him that I loved him as I did so, kissed him as I shook my head and smiled. Love enough and lose enough and it becomes a skill. Do not love without ability to accept loss. Test frequently. Be prepared.
I knew the moment I saw the pillow that it would be an ace buy. just the look of the thing: the way it sat fatly atop a pile of its brothers, that stretchy-silk elastofabric bulging in the form of a heart, the faint shape of the beans inside pressing at it like little limbless fetuses captured in a space net. it was a relic of the fluorescent future, the most sickly shade of sugar-sweet lab-developed pink I’d seen for at least days (it was February.) the thing was surely one of the stupidest objects ere produced by living humans, marketed en masse to the European world. I saw it, hated it, carried it blushing to the counter and purchased it immediately. six bucks, stitched by wee little hands someplace in Thailand, without a doubt worth every cent.
it is supposedly a travel pillow.
I still have the one I had as a kid, back in storage at my mom’s place. sounds like an odd thing to keep just for the purpose of sentimentality, doesn’t it? here, let me make it more perplexing — that thing was terribly ugly, I mean just a downright displeasing thing to behold in every sense of the word. I do not mean that it became ugly over time — though it did contract a stain or two over the years — but that it began ugly, was designed ugly, born ugly. it had that same silky elasticane fabric stretched over a mountain of tiny styrofoam balls (just occurred to me how bad those things must be for the planet — also, real question: are they just old broken-down styrofoam that we couldn’t get rid of in its smallest possible form?) the pillow had this ugly, nondescript shape like a poorly executed image stretch, a useless thing to even try and describe. it was light brown, to make things worse, with pastel-pink polkadots, and a black elastic strap on the back for affixing it to a headrest in a car or on an airplane, intended for one of those living dildo-knackers who actually purchase styrofoam-stuffed luxury squish travel pillows and USE THEM IN PUBLIC.
I know what you’re thinking, and you are correct: I have two.
but let me just tell you this much: mine are never used in public.
(update: this is still unfinished so check back)
“fuck your God, your Lord, your Christ. he did this: took all you had and left you this way.” in the spirit of rapture and progressive rock, one lonesome teenaged boy burned this song onto a disc and upon it scribed a name in pink-red sharpie. the boy’s room was messy and saturated with a stale adolescent odor, the same one his teachers and classmates noticed on the rare occasions when he showed up at school. his absence was as palpable as his presence: the boy was a bear in camouflage, tall and broad, covered in scars from old facial piercings — one jagged through his eyebrow where a ring had been ripped clean out (the hairs still struggled to touch over the rift.) he also had scars carved in with a razorblade — a pentagram on the forearm, then a change of heart and a “John 3:16” carved above it. he was brawny and dark, with eyes a sort of jaded grey that too freely gave away his sentiments. he was “that kid.” you know that kid. everyone does.
it’s one am and the cd is playing. the boy leaves his window open a crack and the blinds up just a hair. he is “cleaning,” moving dirty clothes from one pile to another, waiting for glowing eyes to peer in from outside, for clammy shaking fingers to slip through the crack of his window and hook themselves to the frame for leverage. he never has to wait long.
the creature, not an adept climber, struggles through the window and fails to catch itself on the inside of the room. it tumbles awkwardly to the ground and curls up on the threadbare mattress, still shivering from the frigid night. the mattress is full of tiny prickled holes where the boy has lit it on fire to watch it burn. there is no sheet and the bedding is musty, heavy from being unwashed. the creature doesn’t seem to mind.
this is the routine: bare feet on wet grass, bloodied knees smeared with mud, the sordid night freezing the creature’s soft lungs from inside out, guts full of purple crystals. scale a small wall and tumble to relative safety: a few stolen hours after midnight clinging to each other on this filthy mattress, the burned cd playing “fuck your god”, everything stained an electric blue from the broken television propped on the dresser. the night is safer for their union as the world outside does not approve. the boy is too big, too scarred, too dangerous. the creature is small and dark and delicate, requires proper care that the boy cannot provide. this is what the world thinks: but love does not listen to the logic of the world.