“Bonding” is quite unlike anything else Kellerman has written. It is not particularly violent, but rather an extraordinary mix of noir and sheer hopelessness, featuring a teenage heroine who is far outside the sphere of normal morality. On the surface, the girl seems to be a murderous monster with no redeeming features, yet Kellerman portrays her with such profound insight and humanity, and even humor, that the reader cannot help but understand her point of view. Nevertheless, both story and heroine are so hard-boiled they could break your teeth.
J. A.
Bonding
(1989)
I became a prostitute because I was bored. Let me tell you about it. My mother is a greedy, self-centered egotist and a pill-popper. I don’t think we exchange more than a sentence worth of words a week. Our house is very big — one of these fake-o hacienda types on an acre of flat land in prime Gucciland Beverly Hills — so it’s real easy to avoid each other. She doesn’t know what I do and wouldn’t care if she did know. My father doesn’t hassle me ’cause he’s never around. I mean, never around. He rarely sleeps at home anymore, and I don’t know why my parents stay married. Just laziness, I guess. So when my friend came around one day and suggested we hustle for kicks, I said sure, why not.
Our first night was on a Saturday. I dressed up in a black mini with fishnet stockings, the garter lower than the hem of my dress. I painted my lips bright red, slapped on layers of makeup, and took a couple of downers. I looked the way I felt — like something brought up from the dead. We boogied on down to the Strip, my friend supplying the skins, and made a bet: who could earn the most in three hours. I won easily; I didn’t even bother to screw any of the johns — just went down on them in a back alley or right in their cars. I hustled seven washed-out old guys at sixty bucks a pop. Can’t say it was a bundle of yucks, but it was different. Jesus, anything’s better than the boredom.
The following day, after school, me and my friend got buzzed and went shopping at the mall. I took my hustle money and bought this real neat blouse accented with white and blue rhinestones and sequins. I also saw this fabulous belt made of silver and turquoise, but it was over a hundred and fifty dollars and I didn’t want to spend that much money on just a belt. So I lifted it. Even with the new electronic gizmos and the security guards, stealing isn’t very hard, not much of a challenge.
Let me tell you a little about myself. I was born fifteen years ago, the “love child” of a biker and his teenage babe. I think my real mother was like twelve or thirteen at the time. I once asked my bitch of a mother about her, and she got reaaallly agitated. Her face got red and she began to talk in that hysterical way of hers. The whole thing was like too threatening for her to deal with. Anyway, I was adopted as an infant. And I never remember being happy. I remember crying at my sixth birthday party ’cause Billy Freed poked his fingers in my Cookie Monster cake. Mom went bonkers — we hadn’t photographed the cake yet — and started screaming at Billy. Then he started crying. God, I was mad at Billy, but after Mom lit into him, I almost felt sorry for the kid. I mean, it was only a cake, you know.
Once, when I was around the same age, my mom picked me up and we looked in the mirror together. She put her cheek against mine as we stared at our reflections. I remember the feel of her skin — soft and warm, the sweet smell of her perfume. I didn’t know what I’d done to deserve such attention, and that frustrated me. Whatever I did, I wanted to do it again so Mom would hold me like this. But of course, I didn’t do anything. Mom just stared at us, then clucked her tongue and lowered me back onto my feet with an announcement: I’d never make it on my looks.
Well, what the hell did she expect? Beggars shouldn’t be choosers. It’s not like someone forced her to adopt me. The bitch. Always blaming me for things out of my control.
Did I tell you Mom is beautiful? Must have slipped my mind. We forget what we want to, right? Mom is a natural blonde with large blue eyes and perfect cheekbones. I’ve got ordinary brown hair — thin, at that — and dull green eyes. It’s been a real bitch growing up as her daughter. Mom turned forty last year, and she treated herself to a face-lift — smoothing out imaginary wrinkles. Now her face is so goddamn tight, it looks wrapped in Saran. Her body is wonderful — long and sleek. I’m the original blimpo — the kind of woman that those old artists liked to paint. I’m not fat but just really developed. Big boobs, big round ass. My mother used to put me on all these diets, and none of them ever worked. I finally told her to fuck herself and gorged on Oreo cookies. Ate the whole package right in front of her, and boy, did that burn her ass.
She gave me this little smirk and said: “You’re only hurting yourself, Kristie.”
“I’m not hurting myself,” I said. “In fact, I’m enjoying myself!”
Then she walked away with the same smirk on her face.
She once went to bed with this guy I was sleeping with. Can you believe that? Happened last summer at our beach house. I caught the two of them together. Mom got all red-faced, the guy was embarrassed, too, but I just laughed. Inside, though, I felt lousy. I felt lousy ’cause I knew that the guy really wanted to fuck her all along and was just using me as a stepping-stone.
You might ask where the hell was my dad when all this went down? I told you. He’s never around.
My friend and co-hooker came down with strep throat today and asked if I could service her regular johns. I said sure. So I go to the room she rents. It’s a typical sleazebucket of a place — broken-down bed, filthy floor, and a cracked mirror. Who should I see in it but my father? I turn my face away before he sees me. To tell you the truth, I barely recognize his face. Then I realize that he must have gotten a lift like Mom, ’cause his skin is also like stretched to the max.
I’m shaking — half with fear, half with disgust. That dirty son of a bitch. Doing it with teenage hookers. Then I remember a few years ago. How he eyed my friends when we sat around the pool. How he strutted out of the cabana wearing red bikini briefs and shot a half-gainer off the diving board. My friends were impressed. He popped through the water’s surface, a strange expression on his face.
It was lust.
I sneak another glance in the mirror.
He holds the same look in his eyes now.
What the hell do I do?
I think about running away, but I know my friend will be real pissed. Jesus.
My dad.
I can’t screw my dad!
Then I think to myself, My mom screwed my guy...
But this is something different. He’s my dad.
’Course, he’s isn’t my dad by blood...
And it’s been a long time since I’ve seen him...
The thought starts to excite me. Yeah, I know it’s real perverse, but my whole family is perverse.
And at least it isn’t boring.
I take a quick hit of some snow from the vial I wear around my neck. Man, I need to be buzzed to pull this one off.
I’m real excited by now.
I drop my voice an octave — I can do that cause I have a great range and tell him to can the lights. He starts bitching and moaning that he likes to do it with the lights on, and where the fuck is my friend. I tell him my friend has strep and it’s hard to give head with your throat all red and raw, and if he doesn’t want me, fine, he just won’t get laid tonight.
He cans the lights. The only illumination in the room comes from a neon sign outside that highlights his semi. It’s a good-looking one, and it turns me on even further. But I stay well hidden in the shadows of the room.