Grant coughs up in the air, like an animal, a seal tossing a ring, a lion throwing its mane.
“And you’re gonna get all that by living for me.”
Greg can’t look straight ahead. He focuses on a silver bullet on a key-chain that lies on the desk.
“Now I’m gonna say something that offends most people. I’m gonna say this for two reasons. One, to see whether you are like most people — an unfortunate shape to find yourself in. And two, if you are like most people, I can at least have the pleasure of watching you puff up before I spin you outta here. Ready?”
Greg lowers his head slightly, scooping his jaw out in small acceptance. He pushes a scale of dried semen off his knee with the back of his thumb.
“OK. If you work out here it’s gonna be because you let two things happen. You’ll let me own you; and you’re gonna fall head over fuckin’ heels in love with me.”
Grant jabs a finger off his chin at Greg. The other hand gives a disgusted shake in the darkness above the lamp. I’m not a pussy. The world is full of pussies. I dismiss them.
“I’m gonna tell you something now. Later, if you do a few things for me, I’ll show you what I’m talking about, OK?”
Greg feels a little roll of exhilaration. Grant detects it.
“OK. This is it. You know the world you live in? You know the one. Little things going on, urgent things, terrible true tales of human struggle, reasons to go on, reasons not to go on, blah, blah. The world you live in. Well, it’s only one of, say, about fifteen or so. And each one has a serious claim on you, a vested interest in your stupidity. In fact, your world is maintained in a very deliberate way by the fourteen that you’ll never encounter.”
Greg notices that his Higher Power is standing in the corner of the room. He looks frightened.
“You watch the news, right? OK, picture this now. There’s me on the screen saying, oh, I don’t know, ‘a home invasion last night’ — blah, blah. But I’m not saying something, too. I haven’t said: ‘A prostitute was found in a dumpster with her arms severed.’ And I haven’t pointed out that this woman is the twenty-third this year! I’m not going to say that the murders are committed by a serial killer. Why am I not saying this? Can you guess? Because they weren’t. They were killed by an organization. Organized. And if it comes out, a connection is made, maybe somebody says three murders or seven in a row or whatever, then, through me, a very sophisticated solution comes along and dissolves the cell walls of this story. You may read it somewhere, but it won’t live. And it gives rise to a home invasion story — which is just a tiny version of how the other story died. Hmmm. I’m gonna take you to where things are infinitely amusing.”
Greg’s Higher Power looks over, impressed. Grant spreads his hands flat across the desk under the lamp.
“Now we’re going to go downstairs, into the basement. I want you to stand guard for me for a while. We’re going to do something criminal, uh? A little bit. Enough to make the tiny world gag. Ready?”
Greg looks over to his Higher Power, who shrugs and places his hand over his heart.
Greg sits in a chair in the basement leaning back against the wall. His Higher Power is distressed, pacing in front of the door that Grant has disappeared through. The Higher Power puts his ear to the door.
“What do you think he’s doing in there?”
Greg shrugs.
“What a show he puts on. Very dramatic individual. What do you think he was talking about?”
Greg looks up at the tall figure.
“I don’t know, why don’t you open the door and ask him?”
The Higher Power puts his hands under his chin and mouths “No.” Greg shrugs again, this time a little contemptuously. The Higher Power lays a hand on the door behind him and drums lightly with his fingers.
“OK, OK. Let’s find out what we’re getting ourselves into.”
He clicks open the door and as it falls ajar he steps clear. Greg can see Grant’s legs. He’s leaning against a file cabinet. The blond head of a teenage boy is working back and forth between the dangling ends of his undone belt. The long legs of a woman step in front, blocking the view. Her hands gather the back of her skirt, raising it across the bare cheeks of her ass. The Higher Power reaches in and pulls the door closed.
“Oh Christ, that’s all you need.”
Greg is obviously affected by this. His face is flushed, and his breath quickens. The Higher Power, knowing full well what does and doesn’t lie within the bounds of his control, gestures defeatedly to Greg’s hands — which are now descending purposefully into the top of his jeans. Greg leans, bent over in concentration, a gangster clutching his fatal wound. And when he expires, he looks up, his face soaked with sweat. Unable to make eye contact with his Higher Power, he asks, “Nobody came by, did they?”
The Higher Power, looking a little older now, smiles wearily and again mouths a silent “No” while absentmindedly waving a hand up and down the hall.
“I gotta say though Greg, there are people who’d disapprove of this. People you respect.”
The door pops open behind the Higher Power and Grant emerges, his cheeks pink and his eyes glazed. No sign of the other two. He looks up and down the hall, causing the Higher Power to look away quickly, embarrassed, even though he’s invisible. Grant walks towards Greg and leans over, placing his mouth beside his ear.
“There are two other volunteers, like you, that are working down here this morning. They just sucked my dick. Thought you should know. Thanks for making it possible. Now go in there and see if they need any help with the filing.”
13
No More, Not Me
The church is a three-cornered hat made of newspaper. The hat is lowered by hand into a pool of oily water on the street. The water is refreshed from below by a catch basin. A strongman in red-striped tights with fists against his hips shakes his face, just beneath the surface, just beneath the paper boat. Cold water rattles between his closed eyes and the newsprint hull.
This is the strange little vessel that God made especially for people who have overcome addiction with the help of baby Jesus. They are sitting in the basement of the hat, crowded around card tables and spooky candles. They are trying to isolate a kind of breathing that starts in the left lung and moves up the abdomen like a light hand, teasing in pinches and rolling nipples between knuckles. A flame enters the room and steps around the seated people. Without making eye contact the flame mounts the wick, splashing hot wax on thighs drawn around the candle. Finally, the flame crosses its legs, lights a cigarette, and blows illuminating smoke in a man’s face. The man looks up at the candle and speaks with lips that are made gold by the light.
“My name is Donny, and God knows I’m still an addict.”
A woman to his left frowns for him, and a little bald man to his right looks down thoughtfully at the tight T-shirt he’s wearing. It has risen above where his swollen belly hangs out its starkly public flesh. He pulls at the shirt with his thumb but fails to hide his belly. He folds his hands in front of it and looks up bravely across the table. A thousand hairs weave and wiggle on his bared stomach. He has to concentrate to listen. The room of people becomes silent to dignify his struggle. The man is visibly grateful. He focuses thoughtlessly on Donny. Donny begins explaining something that is constructed like a list. He has bulleted his lists with a light karate-chopping hand on the table edge.
“And if I do these things to the best of my ability, maybe I can live a life free of the fear that I’ve lived with ever since I was a kid. Fear. I’ve always been afraid that I was a geek. And I was willing to trade in anything not to be myself. To become a wiseguy, someone who intimidated you. But now I’m trying to find out who that geek is. Who he was trying to become. I hear the word geek and I realize it’s a word that I use, that I still use, to intimidate myself. Not you. You don’t give a shit. I know that now. I have only ever scared myself. I don’t have to do that today. Keep an open mind.”