(no subject)
Let me just start off by saying none of this is a lie. I know you'd be hard pressed to believe it, but it's true. You could close this, and walk away now and all I'd really want to get across is that I'm telling the truth. This is just the sort of story that has to be written. This isn't one of those, "I knew her." rants, it's different. I knew by the end of everything that had happened that somehow, somewhere, a book would be written about it.
A bit of time has past and things are still as vivid as they ever were; or, could ever be for me, anyways. I mean, no one has ever accused me of being some kind of a brain trust. No one from Mensa is knocking on my door, no.
Anyways, I figured one day I would sit down and find myself reading a story about all of this. So. I decided to write it myself. Who else knows what happened better? I mean, someone had to write this. But I already said that, didn't I?
So let's jump to a few weeks ago when Claire was stomping around her studio apartment, the way Clare always stomps around. Like she's angry at the world; like she's on the verge of some kind of violent outburst that the tiniest thing could set off. Today, though, she's actually in a pretty decent mood. Her therapist finally gave her a diagnosis. He claims that Claire has a borderline personality. Like she needed a therapist to tell her that. I could have told her that. And all I would have wanted in payment would be a pack of cigarrettes or something. Anyways, Claire's just happy because she likes it when something's wrong with her. Her world is never right, unless something is wrong.
"So, it turns out you're nuts," I say.
"Fuck off Carver," she says, rubbing her left eye. Everyone calls me Carver because no one likes my first name, Ernie. Not that I can blame them. So they call me by my surname, Carver. So now Claire looks like some demented clown, with the makeup from her left eye smudged around her face in a grim, grayish halo. The other side is model perfect and the left, a blurry mess. I smile at her and decide not to say anything about it.
"So, your acting lessons payed off," I say.
"Fuck off Carver," she says back, sneering. We could go on like this for days.
I pick a few pieces of dreggy looking stuffing out of a burn hole in the arm of her second-hand couch and proceed to mould it into a dingy looking snowman. I hold it up to show her.
"Interesting." She says, in a flat voice, as if it were really the most uninteresting thing she'd ever seen. I stuff the snowman between the cushions to dwell amongst the crumbs, flakes of dead skin and spare change that we haven't already pilfered in desperation.
"So, what are we doing tonight?" I ask, and Claire looks at me, a thing smile creeping across her face. Claire would be pretty, I think, if she actually ate once and awhile. What she looks like right now is a bone-thin , anorexic super model gone wrong; especially with that one eye and all.
I sit, patiently, waiting for her nefarious evening plans to formulate. I'm in no hurry, whatever her twisted mind contrives usually makes for an interesting night.
A few minutes pass by and Claire's smile grows with each marked tick of the clock. She's sitting there grinning like the Cheshire Cat. Beaming. And I do my best not to notice her. She leans forward, into my line of vision and bounces a little in her seat. She looks about ready to wet herself with the anticipation of my asking her. I'd love to make her wait, seeing Claire like this pleases me. She'd never give in, and just come out with it. Claire likes to be coaxed. Coddled. Brought along. Shaking my head and rolling my eyes I finally go ahead and indulge her, "Well?" I say, "What's the big plan?"
"First we need to call Gimpy," she says. Gimpy, is actually Jimmy; one of Claire's many minions. Just another pleb that flocks to her like she's some sort of messiah. Queen Claire.
We call Jimmy Gimpy on account of the limp he has. He was born prematurely and had a club foot. They fixed it but consequently he has one foot smaller than the other, a limp, and I have to add, isn't always that swift on the uptake. He says it had something to do wth the lack of oxygen to his brain when he was born, but I've got to tell you, I've met his parents; not exactly the deepest gene pool, if you know what I mean. More like a gene puddle.
It's funny, sometimes Jimmy drives really slowly, on account of his short foot being the one he acclerates and breaks with. We all tease him and tell him move his seat up, or that it's time for a prosthetic foot. He gets all pissed off and lashes out at us. Well, those of us that aren't Claire.
So, what's a person like Claire doing hanging around Jimmy? That's easy. Transportation. Jimmy was one of the few people that we hung around that actually had a car. What made it easy was that Jimmy was always maleable to any plans that Claire cooked up. No matter how off the wall, no matter how insane.
About an hour later we're breezing down the highway with the windows open and Claire's once tightly pinned hair blowing around her. Tendrils flowing toward the force of the window. I'm sitting in the back, and I'm angry. Gimpy is playing some cheesy music from the '80's and my face is contorted in such a way as to convey the level of torture his music is for me.
"Stop at a gas station," Claire says, "I need cigarettes." She waves her hand at a sign as we fly by and Gimpy pulls off, like a good little peon.
"You're going to have to spot me for them, Jimmy," Claire says, her voice as fake and sweet as saccharine. Midlessly, Jimmy follows her into the store and I lean forward between the seats and pull his tape out, dropping it out the window. From my pocket I produce a Clash tape, and slip it in, turning the volume up.
Next we swing over to Daliah's and she slips into the back seat of the Toyota Corolla, which we so lovingly have nicknamed, "Yoda". She doesn't sit by the other window, but moves over by me and does her seat belt up, pinning me between the door and her odiferous wall of hairspray and perfume. Daliah's presence is a cloying one, in more ways than one. I nestle my face into the neck of my hooded sweatshirt and breathe in my own warm, moist air. My non-Daliah air.
"Hey, guys!" Daliah says, in her usual, overly exuberant fashion.
"Mmm," I muffle at her through the thick of my sweater.
Daliah liked me. Still. Always. There was no hiding it. She leaned over, ruffling my hair and purring in my ear. I shrugged her off and settled into the corner, closer to the window.
"Aw, c'mon, Carver. You know you want me," She says, one of her eyebrows arched menacingly.
"Sure," I say, "whatever."
We pull back onto the highway and Claire turns my music up more. Jimmy couldn't complain too much; what with the way Claire was singing at the top of her lungs, huffing out acrid smoke and dancing dementedly in her seat.
"Always tease tease tease," Claire bellows out.
"Siempre - coqetiando y enganyando," Daliah calls back the Spanish parts.
"You're happy when I'm on my knees," Claire continues.
"Me arrodilla y estas feliz," Dahlia sings.
"One day is fine, next is black," Claire punctuates by swinging her head back and forth.
"Un dias bien el otro negro," Daliah replies, copying Claire's movements.
"So if you want me off your back," Claire croons to Jimmy who's now chuckling at the girls act.
"Al rededar en tu espalda," Daliah sings to me as I curl my lip at her and look out the window.
"Well come on and let me know," Claire sings, tossing one of her arms out the window and doing waving motions in the breeze.
"Me tienes que desir," Daliah sings, still looking at me.
"Should I Stay or should I go?" Claire belts out.
"Me debo ir o que darme," Daliah sings as the girls bust into the chorus and continue to sing the rest of the song in this fashion. Silently, I ruminate that perhaps I put the wrong tape in.
"Pull off here," Claire finally says, with a cursory wave of her hand. A few minutes later found us sitting in a hospital parking lot watching a tall, thin Claire in her shiny black, plastic raincoat disappear into the building.
Gimpy busied himself with biting his cuticles and fingernails with a ferocity that both shocked and amazed me. Daliah set her sites back on me, snaking a hand across the seat of the car and coming to rest on my inner thigh. I stared out the window into the black of night, and the yellow rectangle outline of a door where Claire had disappeared.
She left us with implicit instructions not to follow her. I shifted in my seat, but Dahlia was relentless. Her hand slid upward and I could feel her ready to make the dangerous move to the regions that I didn't want touched--not by Dahlia, anyway. I pulled the doorhandle and lurched out.
"What?" Daliah said, a little bit more innocently than I liked.
"Yeah, I'll be back," I said, and headed towards the door that Claire had gone into.
Over my shoulder I could hear Gimpy saying that if Daliah wanted to come into the front seat and try and touch his balls, he wouldn't stop her. I could imagine what Daliah's bitter face must have looked like as Jimmy cackled at his own joke.
Once inside the hospital, I really didn't know where I was going. It seemed that everyone in hospitale spoke in more hushed tones than in the real world. Hospitals. Librarys. Churches. Places where people either went to see, read about or speak to the dead.
I saw Claire down a corridor and she was leaning casually against a wall. She had her arms crossed and she was obviously waiting for something. Someone.
I ducked around a coke machine and was able to stand wedged between stale hospital flavoured snacks and soda, watching her. If she knew I was there, I'd be inviting the Wrath Of Hell. The Wrath Of Hell and the Wrath Of Claire are pretty much synonomous; except Claire never went to any lenghts to hide the fact that she was the devil.
A moment later a smarmy looking man who in, I'd say, his early to mid 40's showed up beside Claire, smiling and talking, then draping a sleazy army around her. They walked a little ways down the hall and were just exiting the corridor by way of some door that was obscured by the cords in the gap at the back of the machine. Claire looked back down the hall and I could hace sworn she looked right at me; then smiled. I leaned in against the humming machines and wondered why, at this time of night, would someone be seeing her at the hospital. Moreover, did she see me?
"She could be doing anything in there," my mind said to me.
"I know," I told myself, gritting my teeth.
I ran back to the car anbd climbed into the front seat beside Jimmy. I turned the music up and smoked a cigarette. Obviously my face said it all, because neither Jimmy or Daliah were about to say anything.
Thirty minutes or more; half a pack of cigarettes, whichever indicates time better, Claire came back out of the hospital. She seemed to have a bit of Daliah's giddy flounce in her step. She got into the back sead and I was kind of irritated that it wasn't begrudgingly. I sort of wanted her to make a scene of it.
"Alright, Jimmy, head to the Rocket Lounge. You kids are in for a treat," she said with a wink. She grinned, and I stewed about the fact that she was in such a good mood.
The next morning I lay in bed, just waking up. My eyes refused to open. I thought about the night before and realized that big spaces of time seemed to be missing. I remembered the pounding bass of the Rocket Lounge. Sneering at various clubbers with my usual disgusted attitude towards humanity. The swarm of people that enveloped Claire upon our arrival. We went to the back lounge where only exclusive people were accepted inside. Claire was our ticket, our key, our pass to any place like that. She could get inside anywhere you might want to be, and sometimes even places you didn't want to be.
I wasn't surprised when she produced several vials from her pocket, accompanied by syringes and needles. I hate needles.
My memory after that came in glimpses and snatches. Dancing. Faces veering in and out around me. Seeing the world as if through a fish-eye lens. Echos of laughter. Disembodied voices. Hands on me.
I sighed heavily and realized what I needed was a cigarette, I wouldn't do too badly by coffee, either. I reached over for my pack of cigarettes, opening my eyes, and I found, with a mix of delight and horror, a box of condoms. Again, I searched the recesses of my mind for for hints of what happened and came up empty. I know I was with Claire, Jimmy and Daliah. I also know that when Claire pushed down on the plunger of that syringe in my arm, I was higher than I'd ever been in my life.
I reached down under the covers and scratched my bits, bringing my fingers to my face for a curious wiff. There was definitely a familiar exclaimation of woman on me. Who the hell have I been fucking? Well, I definitely slept with someone. The bed beside me, I realized with a feeling of thankfulness, was empty, but then a moment later I heard the familiar flush and gargle of my toilet.
Daliah walked into the room wearing nothing but a smile.
"Get her out of here now," my mind said.
"I know," I replied.
"This is dangerous," my mind told me.
"You don't think I know?" I told myself.
My face was screwed into a grimace.
"Um, didn't I dump you, like, ages ago?" I asked Daliah with a sideways glance that warned her that she'd be better off not climbing back into my bed.
Daliah blinked for a moment, her face registering a look of hurt, then her face slowly slid to one that could best be described as a look of derision. Daliah was pretty, but her neediness got to me. She liked to cling, and that wasn't what I was about.
Mansion, I thought, and searched for any viable reason as to why this particular word popped into my mind.
"She gave you too much last night, you know." Daliah said, "You went first. You got too much. I spent the night babysitting you." Daliah slid back into my bed and settled herself into the pillows. I was hardly paying attention, my mind was in motion.
School boy, I thought, and again searched for reason behind it.
"Do you remember anything about last night?" Daliah said in a curious tone.
Retrobution, my mind said; I was now irritated that I couldn't bring the pieces together.
"Where did you and Claire go last night? You disappeared between 2 and 3 o'clock, we had no idea where you two got to," Daliah said.
Kidnapping, I thought.
Waking up with Daliah was the last of my problems, yet, I had no idea. To me, sleeping with her was one giant step backwards. I panicked. I needed to get rid of her; so essentially, I lay in bed insulting her any way that I could think of until she could endure no more. She reached over and turned on a light, with that the lamp collapsed in on itself, the shade falling into the base and the bulb hanging sideways by it's cord.
"Way to go," I said, sneering at her, "Do you break everything you touch, Dal? Touch of poison? Should I get to the clinic, lest I start to fall apart?" That was apparently enough for her. She slid out of bed and began gathering up her things as quickly as possible, then headed toward the door. She looked back, shooting me one last icy glance, "You, are an asshole," she said. "I aim to please," I said with a smirk, as the door slammed after her. I'd knocked that lamp off the table some weeks ago, and had been meaning to get it fixed. Turned out to be a good thing that I hadn't, after all.
------
I wandered into Claire's apartment sipping a mocha latte from the coffee shop, The Java Dive, that was under her apartment. I tried not to stop in there often because the people that worked there were a bunch of cling-on vultures that would do anything to get into our little circle of friends. Join the clique. Why, I had no idea. I knew what social misfits the lot of us were, but, as it were, Claire had her charms and people simply gravitated towards her.
Gimpy was sprawled out on Claire's couch laughing his head off at some rediculous cartoon that featured a bunch of handicapped characters. I guess he could relate.
I shoved a pile of magazines off of Claire's big, shabby lazy boy chair and bits of cuttings from the magazine scattered on the floor like confetti. I pushed what I could under the chair and seated myself, slung low in the chair with one leg hooked over the arm of it. That's when I noticed the first odd thing. Claire was in the kitchen cooking.
"Are you okay, Claire?" I said, sounding somewhat sarcastic in tone. She turned and looked at me, her brow furrowed. "Yeah, why wouldn't it be?" She said. "Well, you're cooking." I said, and before she could respond, I continued, "First off, you don't eat, and secondly, your cooking sucks." I grinned at her. "Fuck off, Carver." She said, turning back to the stove. I had to admit, if only to myself, it didn't smell half bad.
I looked at the TV and watched as a quadrepalegic careened down a flight of stairs. Gimpy busted out laughing again. I sighed, loudly, and looked around the apartment for something to distract myself with. I sat up, stretching my back and thought to ask Claire if I could use her computer, but she wouldn't mind. I went to stand up and walk over to her desk that she'd set up in an old large closet, a work-place nook of sorts, when I caught my first sight of a young boy that had been sitting there, quietly, all along, reading on the computer.
I fell back into the chair, for a moment, feeling as if someone had kicked me in the chest, and not quite knowing why. The boy was familiar, but it wasn't a good sort of familiar. I eyed Gimpy, who was still too absorbed in his television to notice that I was somewhat out of sorts. I turned and observed the young boy that sat in the far corner of Claire's apartment. He was small, maybe 9 or 10 years old, and appeared bookish with his wire framed glasses, polo shirt and well groomed, sandy hair.
I got up and slid into Claire's economy sized kitchen behind her. "Umm, Claire?" I said, my voice coming out more unsure than I'd counted on. "Mmm?" She said, not turning to look at me. I moved further into her narrow kitchen,jumping up on the counter and taking a carrot stick to chew on. "Claire?" I said again, with my brows furrowed. I was nervous, and couldn't explain why. "What is it Carver?" She said turning to the fridge and pulling out some lettuce. "Who is that, um, out there. You know, on your computer?" I said, munching on the carrot stick and giving Claire what I thought was my most thoughtful look. "Here," Claire said, handing me a bowl and the head of lettuce, "rip that up for me." Apparently there was either something Claire didn't want to tell me, or I was seeing things. "Claire, c'mo-" I said, cut off by choking on bits of chewed up of carrot that I'd breathed in. I coughed and Claire whapped me in the middle of my back until bits of carrot flew from my windpipe and sprayed all over her kitchen wall. "Oh, how art deco," Claire said, arching one eyebrow at me. This was her way of asking me if I was okay. "I'll live," I said, wiping the bits of spit from my chin. "Pity," she said, and stuck her tongue out at me. "C'mon Claire," I said, whining a bit more than I intened; for expressing too much curiosity would make Claire hold out even longer. She was like a cat with a mouse and she'd play with it until it was dead 10 times over. "Do you want garlic bread with the spaghetti, or do you think salad is enough?" Claire said, gesticulating with her wooden spoon as she asked, a bit of sauce spattering on the wall. "I think," I said, "that if we make any more food than we have, you're going to have to redo your whole kitchen."
The young boy appeared in the doorway, I had no idea how long he'd been there, or how much he might have heard, but it didn't matter, we weren't really talking about anything anyways. Claire's lips seemed to be sealed on the matter. "I'm hungry," he said, smiling a friendly smile at Claire and I. I couldn't help but be immediately taken in by the boy--there seemed to be something rather genuine about him. When he looked at me, I had the oddest feeling that he already knew me. It was a bit unnerving, but it also gave me the impression that it was alright. "Food'll be ready in about 10 minutes, Angus," Claire said. Angus, Angus, I know that name from somewhere, I've heard it before. How do I know this kid? I thought. "Oh, and the garlic bread?" Angus said, "I say go for it." Then he turned and walked back to the computer and began reading again. I looked at Claire, but she turned back to the stove and busied herself with avoiding my eye contact. "If you want to make yourself useful, run down to the grocers and pick me up a stick of bread." Claire said, disappearing into the refigerator, rummaging around.
I picked up my coat, and glowered at Gimpy as I passed him, sprawled out, hooting at the TV, with a can of coke balanced on his belly. I noticed my Black Flag pin was missing off the lapel of my jacket. I walked back to Gimpy and edged him with my toe. "Give it up, dude," I said, shaking my head ever so slightly and rolling my eyes. "I dunno what you're talking about, man," Gimpy said, giving me an innocuous look. "Gimpy, for fuck sakes, give my my pin back you clepto. I know you took it, moron, now cough it," I said, getting angry. "Dude, chill. I didn't even touch your coat, I haven't even moved since you got here," Gimpy said, sounding somewhat irritated himself. Clare scowled at me from the kitchen and it was enough to get me moving out the door without another word. Man, she was in a bitchy mood.
I walked out into the hallway, thinking to myself that I'd just steal the pin back first chance I got. I had my hands in my pockets and my head slung low so I almost walked into someone entering the building as I exited. It was Daliah, resplendent in thigh high sex boots and a blue wig. I actually loved it when she dressed like this; she looked, to me, like an anime character. Though I would never admit this to her. "Carver. Should have known you'd be here." She said, smirking at me. Donning her new outfit, she'd obviously donned a new attitude. Recovering from the dose of hurt I'd given to her in the morning, she was back to prove that she couldn't be brought down. Of course, that meant I had to bring her down. "Looks like I won't need to pick up dessert," I said, obviously looking her up and down, "I see that Claire's already invited a tart." Daliah's nostrils flaired. It was one of the few things about Daliah that showed her emotions. When she was sad, or about to cry, her nostrils narrowed, and when she was angry, her flared her nostrils to ultimate proportions. Her nares spread, and so did my grin. "You have issues, Carver." Daliah said. "Yep. Don't we all. See you at the Dysfunctional Family Tea," I said, turning and walking a few steps. "Carver," Daliah called out to me, when I turned she tossed something at me--I instinctively caught it, and I felt a sharp stab of pain. "I found that on the floor of the Java Dive," she called over her shoulder as she entered Claire's building. My pin. I pulled it out of my palm and pocketed it.
By late afternoon we were all seated around Claire's apartment, stuffed to the gills and warding Claire's offers of second and third helpings. I was pleasantly surprised to find that the meal was, well, more than just palatable, it was quite good.
I continued to try to make eye contact with Claire, but she was avoiding me. Did she know about Daliah and me? I looked at Daliah and she grinned and winked at me. Of course Claire knew. Daliah couldn't keep her mouth shut anymore than she could keep her legs shut.
Angus got up from the computer chair and came and sat on the floor by Claire as she lit a cigarette and exhailed hard into the ceiling. "I got you a cake," She said, looking down at Angus, "it's in the fridge, if you want to get it." She nodded her head in the direction of her kitchen. Angus looked up at her, "Angel food?" He asked, sounding hopeful. "Of course," Claire said, grinning. I wanted to scream at her, "Who is this person!" Was I the only one that cared, or worse, was I the only one that didn't know? I sat seething internally and Gimpy continued to watch TV and Daliah tried her best to make eyes at me from across the room.
"You don't think I'd forget my little brother's birthday, do you?" Claire said, as Angus returned to the room with the cake.
A bit of time has past and things are still as vivid as they ever were; or, could ever be for me, anyways. I mean, no one has ever accused me of being some kind of a brain trust. No one from Mensa is knocking on my door, no.
Anyways, I figured one day I would sit down and find myself reading a story about all of this. So. I decided to write it myself. Who else knows what happened better? I mean, someone had to write this. But I already said that, didn't I?
So let's jump to a few weeks ago when Claire was stomping around her studio apartment, the way Clare always stomps around. Like she's angry at the world; like she's on the verge of some kind of violent outburst that the tiniest thing could set off. Today, though, she's actually in a pretty decent mood. Her therapist finally gave her a diagnosis. He claims that Claire has a borderline personality. Like she needed a therapist to tell her that. I could have told her that. And all I would have wanted in payment would be a pack of cigarrettes or something. Anyways, Claire's just happy because she likes it when something's wrong with her. Her world is never right, unless something is wrong.
"So, it turns out you're nuts," I say.
"Fuck off Carver," she says, rubbing her left eye. Everyone calls me Carver because no one likes my first name, Ernie. Not that I can blame them. So they call me by my surname, Carver. So now Claire looks like some demented clown, with the makeup from her left eye smudged around her face in a grim, grayish halo. The other side is model perfect and the left, a blurry mess. I smile at her and decide not to say anything about it.
"So, your acting lessons payed off," I say.
"Fuck off Carver," she says back, sneering. We could go on like this for days.
I pick a few pieces of dreggy looking stuffing out of a burn hole in the arm of her second-hand couch and proceed to mould it into a dingy looking snowman. I hold it up to show her.
"Interesting." She says, in a flat voice, as if it were really the most uninteresting thing she'd ever seen. I stuff the snowman between the cushions to dwell amongst the crumbs, flakes of dead skin and spare change that we haven't already pilfered in desperation.
"So, what are we doing tonight?" I ask, and Claire looks at me, a thing smile creeping across her face. Claire would be pretty, I think, if she actually ate once and awhile. What she looks like right now is a bone-thin , anorexic super model gone wrong; especially with that one eye and all.
I sit, patiently, waiting for her nefarious evening plans to formulate. I'm in no hurry, whatever her twisted mind contrives usually makes for an interesting night.
A few minutes pass by and Claire's smile grows with each marked tick of the clock. She's sitting there grinning like the Cheshire Cat. Beaming. And I do my best not to notice her. She leans forward, into my line of vision and bounces a little in her seat. She looks about ready to wet herself with the anticipation of my asking her. I'd love to make her wait, seeing Claire like this pleases me. She'd never give in, and just come out with it. Claire likes to be coaxed. Coddled. Brought along. Shaking my head and rolling my eyes I finally go ahead and indulge her, "Well?" I say, "What's the big plan?"
"First we need to call Gimpy," she says. Gimpy, is actually Jimmy; one of Claire's many minions. Just another pleb that flocks to her like she's some sort of messiah. Queen Claire.
We call Jimmy Gimpy on account of the limp he has. He was born prematurely and had a club foot. They fixed it but consequently he has one foot smaller than the other, a limp, and I have to add, isn't always that swift on the uptake. He says it had something to do wth the lack of oxygen to his brain when he was born, but I've got to tell you, I've met his parents; not exactly the deepest gene pool, if you know what I mean. More like a gene puddle.
It's funny, sometimes Jimmy drives really slowly, on account of his short foot being the one he acclerates and breaks with. We all tease him and tell him move his seat up, or that it's time for a prosthetic foot. He gets all pissed off and lashes out at us. Well, those of us that aren't Claire.
So, what's a person like Claire doing hanging around Jimmy? That's easy. Transportation. Jimmy was one of the few people that we hung around that actually had a car. What made it easy was that Jimmy was always maleable to any plans that Claire cooked up. No matter how off the wall, no matter how insane.
About an hour later we're breezing down the highway with the windows open and Claire's once tightly pinned hair blowing around her. Tendrils flowing toward the force of the window. I'm sitting in the back, and I'm angry. Gimpy is playing some cheesy music from the '80's and my face is contorted in such a way as to convey the level of torture his music is for me.
"Stop at a gas station," Claire says, "I need cigarettes." She waves her hand at a sign as we fly by and Gimpy pulls off, like a good little peon.
"You're going to have to spot me for them, Jimmy," Claire says, her voice as fake and sweet as saccharine. Midlessly, Jimmy follows her into the store and I lean forward between the seats and pull his tape out, dropping it out the window. From my pocket I produce a Clash tape, and slip it in, turning the volume up.
Next we swing over to Daliah's and she slips into the back seat of the Toyota Corolla, which we so lovingly have nicknamed, "Yoda". She doesn't sit by the other window, but moves over by me and does her seat belt up, pinning me between the door and her odiferous wall of hairspray and perfume. Daliah's presence is a cloying one, in more ways than one. I nestle my face into the neck of my hooded sweatshirt and breathe in my own warm, moist air. My non-Daliah air.
"Hey, guys!" Daliah says, in her usual, overly exuberant fashion.
"Mmm," I muffle at her through the thick of my sweater.
Daliah liked me. Still. Always. There was no hiding it. She leaned over, ruffling my hair and purring in my ear. I shrugged her off and settled into the corner, closer to the window.
"Aw, c'mon, Carver. You know you want me," She says, one of her eyebrows arched menacingly.
"Sure," I say, "whatever."
We pull back onto the highway and Claire turns my music up more. Jimmy couldn't complain too much; what with the way Claire was singing at the top of her lungs, huffing out acrid smoke and dancing dementedly in her seat.
"Always tease tease tease," Claire bellows out.
"Siempre - coqetiando y enganyando," Daliah calls back the Spanish parts.
"You're happy when I'm on my knees," Claire continues.
"Me arrodilla y estas feliz," Dahlia sings.
"One day is fine, next is black," Claire punctuates by swinging her head back and forth.
"Un dias bien el otro negro," Daliah replies, copying Claire's movements.
"So if you want me off your back," Claire croons to Jimmy who's now chuckling at the girls act.
"Al rededar en tu espalda," Daliah sings to me as I curl my lip at her and look out the window.
"Well come on and let me know," Claire sings, tossing one of her arms out the window and doing waving motions in the breeze.
"Me tienes que desir," Daliah sings, still looking at me.
"Should I Stay or should I go?" Claire belts out.
"Me debo ir o que darme," Daliah sings as the girls bust into the chorus and continue to sing the rest of the song in this fashion. Silently, I ruminate that perhaps I put the wrong tape in.
"Pull off here," Claire finally says, with a cursory wave of her hand. A few minutes later found us sitting in a hospital parking lot watching a tall, thin Claire in her shiny black, plastic raincoat disappear into the building.
Gimpy busied himself with biting his cuticles and fingernails with a ferocity that both shocked and amazed me. Daliah set her sites back on me, snaking a hand across the seat of the car and coming to rest on my inner thigh. I stared out the window into the black of night, and the yellow rectangle outline of a door where Claire had disappeared.
She left us with implicit instructions not to follow her. I shifted in my seat, but Dahlia was relentless. Her hand slid upward and I could feel her ready to make the dangerous move to the regions that I didn't want touched--not by Dahlia, anyway. I pulled the doorhandle and lurched out.
"What?" Daliah said, a little bit more innocently than I liked.
"Yeah, I'll be back," I said, and headed towards the door that Claire had gone into.
Over my shoulder I could hear Gimpy saying that if Daliah wanted to come into the front seat and try and touch his balls, he wouldn't stop her. I could imagine what Daliah's bitter face must have looked like as Jimmy cackled at his own joke.
Once inside the hospital, I really didn't know where I was going. It seemed that everyone in hospitale spoke in more hushed tones than in the real world. Hospitals. Librarys. Churches. Places where people either went to see, read about or speak to the dead.
I saw Claire down a corridor and she was leaning casually against a wall. She had her arms crossed and she was obviously waiting for something. Someone.
I ducked around a coke machine and was able to stand wedged between stale hospital flavoured snacks and soda, watching her. If she knew I was there, I'd be inviting the Wrath Of Hell. The Wrath Of Hell and the Wrath Of Claire are pretty much synonomous; except Claire never went to any lenghts to hide the fact that she was the devil.
A moment later a smarmy looking man who in, I'd say, his early to mid 40's showed up beside Claire, smiling and talking, then draping a sleazy army around her. They walked a little ways down the hall and were just exiting the corridor by way of some door that was obscured by the cords in the gap at the back of the machine. Claire looked back down the hall and I could hace sworn she looked right at me; then smiled. I leaned in against the humming machines and wondered why, at this time of night, would someone be seeing her at the hospital. Moreover, did she see me?
"She could be doing anything in there," my mind said to me.
"I know," I told myself, gritting my teeth.
I ran back to the car anbd climbed into the front seat beside Jimmy. I turned the music up and smoked a cigarette. Obviously my face said it all, because neither Jimmy or Daliah were about to say anything.
Thirty minutes or more; half a pack of cigarettes, whichever indicates time better, Claire came back out of the hospital. She seemed to have a bit of Daliah's giddy flounce in her step. She got into the back sead and I was kind of irritated that it wasn't begrudgingly. I sort of wanted her to make a scene of it.
"Alright, Jimmy, head to the Rocket Lounge. You kids are in for a treat," she said with a wink. She grinned, and I stewed about the fact that she was in such a good mood.
The next morning I lay in bed, just waking up. My eyes refused to open. I thought about the night before and realized that big spaces of time seemed to be missing. I remembered the pounding bass of the Rocket Lounge. Sneering at various clubbers with my usual disgusted attitude towards humanity. The swarm of people that enveloped Claire upon our arrival. We went to the back lounge where only exclusive people were accepted inside. Claire was our ticket, our key, our pass to any place like that. She could get inside anywhere you might want to be, and sometimes even places you didn't want to be.
I wasn't surprised when she produced several vials from her pocket, accompanied by syringes and needles. I hate needles.
My memory after that came in glimpses and snatches. Dancing. Faces veering in and out around me. Seeing the world as if through a fish-eye lens. Echos of laughter. Disembodied voices. Hands on me.
I sighed heavily and realized what I needed was a cigarette, I wouldn't do too badly by coffee, either. I reached over for my pack of cigarettes, opening my eyes, and I found, with a mix of delight and horror, a box of condoms. Again, I searched the recesses of my mind for for hints of what happened and came up empty. I know I was with Claire, Jimmy and Daliah. I also know that when Claire pushed down on the plunger of that syringe in my arm, I was higher than I'd ever been in my life.
I reached down under the covers and scratched my bits, bringing my fingers to my face for a curious wiff. There was definitely a familiar exclaimation of woman on me. Who the hell have I been fucking? Well, I definitely slept with someone. The bed beside me, I realized with a feeling of thankfulness, was empty, but then a moment later I heard the familiar flush and gargle of my toilet.
Daliah walked into the room wearing nothing but a smile.
"Get her out of here now," my mind said.
"I know," I replied.
"This is dangerous," my mind told me.
"You don't think I know?" I told myself.
My face was screwed into a grimace.
"Um, didn't I dump you, like, ages ago?" I asked Daliah with a sideways glance that warned her that she'd be better off not climbing back into my bed.
Daliah blinked for a moment, her face registering a look of hurt, then her face slowly slid to one that could best be described as a look of derision. Daliah was pretty, but her neediness got to me. She liked to cling, and that wasn't what I was about.
Mansion, I thought, and searched for any viable reason as to why this particular word popped into my mind.
"She gave you too much last night, you know." Daliah said, "You went first. You got too much. I spent the night babysitting you." Daliah slid back into my bed and settled herself into the pillows. I was hardly paying attention, my mind was in motion.
School boy, I thought, and again searched for reason behind it.
"Do you remember anything about last night?" Daliah said in a curious tone.
Retrobution, my mind said; I was now irritated that I couldn't bring the pieces together.
"Where did you and Claire go last night? You disappeared between 2 and 3 o'clock, we had no idea where you two got to," Daliah said.
Kidnapping, I thought.
Waking up with Daliah was the last of my problems, yet, I had no idea. To me, sleeping with her was one giant step backwards. I panicked. I needed to get rid of her; so essentially, I lay in bed insulting her any way that I could think of until she could endure no more. She reached over and turned on a light, with that the lamp collapsed in on itself, the shade falling into the base and the bulb hanging sideways by it's cord.
"Way to go," I said, sneering at her, "Do you break everything you touch, Dal? Touch of poison? Should I get to the clinic, lest I start to fall apart?" That was apparently enough for her. She slid out of bed and began gathering up her things as quickly as possible, then headed toward the door. She looked back, shooting me one last icy glance, "You, are an asshole," she said. "I aim to please," I said with a smirk, as the door slammed after her. I'd knocked that lamp off the table some weeks ago, and had been meaning to get it fixed. Turned out to be a good thing that I hadn't, after all.
------
I wandered into Claire's apartment sipping a mocha latte from the coffee shop, The Java Dive, that was under her apartment. I tried not to stop in there often because the people that worked there were a bunch of cling-on vultures that would do anything to get into our little circle of friends. Join the clique. Why, I had no idea. I knew what social misfits the lot of us were, but, as it were, Claire had her charms and people simply gravitated towards her.
Gimpy was sprawled out on Claire's couch laughing his head off at some rediculous cartoon that featured a bunch of handicapped characters. I guess he could relate.
I shoved a pile of magazines off of Claire's big, shabby lazy boy chair and bits of cuttings from the magazine scattered on the floor like confetti. I pushed what I could under the chair and seated myself, slung low in the chair with one leg hooked over the arm of it. That's when I noticed the first odd thing. Claire was in the kitchen cooking.
"Are you okay, Claire?" I said, sounding somewhat sarcastic in tone. She turned and looked at me, her brow furrowed. "Yeah, why wouldn't it be?" She said. "Well, you're cooking." I said, and before she could respond, I continued, "First off, you don't eat, and secondly, your cooking sucks." I grinned at her. "Fuck off, Carver." She said, turning back to the stove. I had to admit, if only to myself, it didn't smell half bad.
I looked at the TV and watched as a quadrepalegic careened down a flight of stairs. Gimpy busted out laughing again. I sighed, loudly, and looked around the apartment for something to distract myself with. I sat up, stretching my back and thought to ask Claire if I could use her computer, but she wouldn't mind. I went to stand up and walk over to her desk that she'd set up in an old large closet, a work-place nook of sorts, when I caught my first sight of a young boy that had been sitting there, quietly, all along, reading on the computer.
I fell back into the chair, for a moment, feeling as if someone had kicked me in the chest, and not quite knowing why. The boy was familiar, but it wasn't a good sort of familiar. I eyed Gimpy, who was still too absorbed in his television to notice that I was somewhat out of sorts. I turned and observed the young boy that sat in the far corner of Claire's apartment. He was small, maybe 9 or 10 years old, and appeared bookish with his wire framed glasses, polo shirt and well groomed, sandy hair.
I got up and slid into Claire's economy sized kitchen behind her. "Umm, Claire?" I said, my voice coming out more unsure than I'd counted on. "Mmm?" She said, not turning to look at me. I moved further into her narrow kitchen,jumping up on the counter and taking a carrot stick to chew on. "Claire?" I said again, with my brows furrowed. I was nervous, and couldn't explain why. "What is it Carver?" She said turning to the fridge and pulling out some lettuce. "Who is that, um, out there. You know, on your computer?" I said, munching on the carrot stick and giving Claire what I thought was my most thoughtful look. "Here," Claire said, handing me a bowl and the head of lettuce, "rip that up for me." Apparently there was either something Claire didn't want to tell me, or I was seeing things. "Claire, c'mo-" I said, cut off by choking on bits of chewed up of carrot that I'd breathed in. I coughed and Claire whapped me in the middle of my back until bits of carrot flew from my windpipe and sprayed all over her kitchen wall. "Oh, how art deco," Claire said, arching one eyebrow at me. This was her way of asking me if I was okay. "I'll live," I said, wiping the bits of spit from my chin. "Pity," she said, and stuck her tongue out at me. "C'mon Claire," I said, whining a bit more than I intened; for expressing too much curiosity would make Claire hold out even longer. She was like a cat with a mouse and she'd play with it until it was dead 10 times over. "Do you want garlic bread with the spaghetti, or do you think salad is enough?" Claire said, gesticulating with her wooden spoon as she asked, a bit of sauce spattering on the wall. "I think," I said, "that if we make any more food than we have, you're going to have to redo your whole kitchen."
The young boy appeared in the doorway, I had no idea how long he'd been there, or how much he might have heard, but it didn't matter, we weren't really talking about anything anyways. Claire's lips seemed to be sealed on the matter. "I'm hungry," he said, smiling a friendly smile at Claire and I. I couldn't help but be immediately taken in by the boy--there seemed to be something rather genuine about him. When he looked at me, I had the oddest feeling that he already knew me. It was a bit unnerving, but it also gave me the impression that it was alright. "Food'll be ready in about 10 minutes, Angus," Claire said. Angus, Angus, I know that name from somewhere, I've heard it before. How do I know this kid? I thought. "Oh, and the garlic bread?" Angus said, "I say go for it." Then he turned and walked back to the computer and began reading again. I looked at Claire, but she turned back to the stove and busied herself with avoiding my eye contact. "If you want to make yourself useful, run down to the grocers and pick me up a stick of bread." Claire said, disappearing into the refigerator, rummaging around.
I picked up my coat, and glowered at Gimpy as I passed him, sprawled out, hooting at the TV, with a can of coke balanced on his belly. I noticed my Black Flag pin was missing off the lapel of my jacket. I walked back to Gimpy and edged him with my toe. "Give it up, dude," I said, shaking my head ever so slightly and rolling my eyes. "I dunno what you're talking about, man," Gimpy said, giving me an innocuous look. "Gimpy, for fuck sakes, give my my pin back you clepto. I know you took it, moron, now cough it," I said, getting angry. "Dude, chill. I didn't even touch your coat, I haven't even moved since you got here," Gimpy said, sounding somewhat irritated himself. Clare scowled at me from the kitchen and it was enough to get me moving out the door without another word. Man, she was in a bitchy mood.
I walked out into the hallway, thinking to myself that I'd just steal the pin back first chance I got. I had my hands in my pockets and my head slung low so I almost walked into someone entering the building as I exited. It was Daliah, resplendent in thigh high sex boots and a blue wig. I actually loved it when she dressed like this; she looked, to me, like an anime character. Though I would never admit this to her. "Carver. Should have known you'd be here." She said, smirking at me. Donning her new outfit, she'd obviously donned a new attitude. Recovering from the dose of hurt I'd given to her in the morning, she was back to prove that she couldn't be brought down. Of course, that meant I had to bring her down. "Looks like I won't need to pick up dessert," I said, obviously looking her up and down, "I see that Claire's already invited a tart." Daliah's nostrils flaired. It was one of the few things about Daliah that showed her emotions. When she was sad, or about to cry, her nostrils narrowed, and when she was angry, her flared her nostrils to ultimate proportions. Her nares spread, and so did my grin. "You have issues, Carver." Daliah said. "Yep. Don't we all. See you at the Dysfunctional Family Tea," I said, turning and walking a few steps. "Carver," Daliah called out to me, when I turned she tossed something at me--I instinctively caught it, and I felt a sharp stab of pain. "I found that on the floor of the Java Dive," she called over her shoulder as she entered Claire's building. My pin. I pulled it out of my palm and pocketed it.
By late afternoon we were all seated around Claire's apartment, stuffed to the gills and warding Claire's offers of second and third helpings. I was pleasantly surprised to find that the meal was, well, more than just palatable, it was quite good.
I continued to try to make eye contact with Claire, but she was avoiding me. Did she know about Daliah and me? I looked at Daliah and she grinned and winked at me. Of course Claire knew. Daliah couldn't keep her mouth shut anymore than she could keep her legs shut.
Angus got up from the computer chair and came and sat on the floor by Claire as she lit a cigarette and exhailed hard into the ceiling. "I got you a cake," She said, looking down at Angus, "it's in the fridge, if you want to get it." She nodded her head in the direction of her kitchen. Angus looked up at her, "Angel food?" He asked, sounding hopeful. "Of course," Claire said, grinning. I wanted to scream at her, "Who is this person!" Was I the only one that cared, or worse, was I the only one that didn't know? I sat seething internally and Gimpy continued to watch TV and Daliah tried her best to make eyes at me from across the room.
"You don't think I'd forget my little brother's birthday, do you?" Claire said, as Angus returned to the room with the cake.