That Lugubrious Mr. Slick
By Ben Corbett
Another rough week at the Lifewriters office.... The boredom was killing me. How disgusting, I thought, driving through the city, that I had to succumb to such a pitiful existence. How had I arrived here? What could my destiny really hold? Was Lifewriters the end of the line? Would I retire, deranged with brain fever in some dusty attic like Nietzche? I took another long and thoughtful slug of my coffee as I pondered these items.
Christ, and how long would that wench, Mrs. Longfellow, drag me into her boring life, giving me all the little details about her favorite TV shows, the bridge games.... I cornered the Lifewriters President, Hudson, about the issue.
"Hudson," I said, "why don't you assign that Longfellow woman to one of the new writers?"
"I've heard all this before," he explained. "Quit whining, or I'll give you her husband, too. How'd ya like that?"
"Look, Hudson," I said calmly. "I could get this woman's bio down in a paragraph. I need a little action, man. I'm dying here!"
"If you don't like it here at Lifewriters, go ahead and try your hand at that freelancing again. We found you in the gutter, asswipe. You should be grateful. These people have the money to pay for a biographer, and I can supply one, whether it's you, or some other third-rate Faulkner hack. Are we clear on this?"
That 'third-rate Faulkner' business is what set me over the edge. I quickly jabbed my fingers into Hudson's nostrils, dropping the fool's crotch to my right knee.
"Freelance that, Hudson," I said, leaving him groaning on the carpet. "And I'd better not catch your slimy ass in any of my hangouts or you're toast. I'm telling Longfellow you've been fucking his wife. You're finished, Hudson!" After grabbing his wallet from the floor and shoving it into my vest pocket, I walked out, later counting $400. It wouldn't last long.
So much for Lifewriters. But Hudson was right. After three weeks, I pulled the last $20 from the wallet, discarding the fake eel skin number in a bathroom garbage can, hoping the freelance stuff might take hold soon. I refused to take another job as a stockboy; that was the mess I left for Lifewriters. I'd be damned if I'd crawl back to those butchers. If anything, I could beg my job back from Hudson, after the desperation set in.
In a dire search for material, I hesitantly sought out the sleaziest singles club my feeble mind could dredge up. The Star Lounge, so it turned out, a prime grade meat-market. On my approach, I noticed the perpetual blur of drunken sirloins flying out the door, only to land in a cab, or smack into a nearby sedan, sliding off into some Guido pervert's arms. The brass turnstile never stopped spinning at this place. I squeezed into the grease besmeared quarter-inch glass carousel, immediately becoming swamped with lurching chunks of flesh drenched in multi-colored makeup. What had I gotten myself into? The traffic was so neurotic and rushed that the turnstile nearly ripped my hand off as I landed in the foyer. Christ, I thought, what have I done?
It was your average nightclub. Mirror balls infinitesimally zapping the walls with numbing light. Flashing bulbs, strobing empty heads like a lighthouse on a wharf of the lost. The all-too-familiar DJ with the little mustache, reeking of cheap cologne, spinning the discs of yesteryear -- The Bee Gees, a little motown -- surrounded by drooling 40 year-old divorcees. A floor jam-packed with a thousand bad dressers, colliding with the scents of Avon's best. Ah, the sweet smell of success. I felt slightly daring after a few drinks and slipped onto the floor for a little action.
We met out there in that cascade of bliss, her and I. And later, at the bar, we became acquainted.
"What do you do?" I asked with a wolfish grin.
"Well," she responded in all seriousness, "I'm a telephone solicitor with a downtown firm. I like sports, movies, concerts, the outdoors, puppies, and kids. I'm looking for someone to cuddle with, and possibly more later. Smokers need not apply. Oh, and I'm a writer, too."
At 'too' I slid the drink napkin up to her face, and in trying to remove an eyelash that had fallen onto her cheek, I accidentally wiped a bare spot in her makeup the size of a quarter.
"There... got it," I said pulling the napkin away. "A writer, huh?" I asked, attentive at this sign of potential intelligence.
"Well, I used to be anyway. I wrote two short stories and a half-dozen poems in my day. I was also a newsletter contributor for the city's Park Planning Department. I guess you could call me an environmental writer. Gee, that was in... '93. Wow, it's been sixt...."
She abruptly stopped herself mid-sentence, as if that would change matters.
But I'd heard enough. Feeling like I'd opened this Pandora's box of some therapist's deranged nightmare far enough, I shifted my haunches, thinking about more liquor. I knew I'd need plenty. As I began to drift, she hit me with the quick, "So what do you do?"
"Oh, nothing major," I answered straight-faced. "I'm the Third Assistant Vice President of Teledyne Global Communications Company Incorporated. I pull down a six-figure salary."
Diamond rings spun in her eyes as the violins began their orchestration, drowning out the tasteless noise on the floor. Hoping to bed this garrulous beast, I whipped out my debit card for another round, carefully covering the word 'Debit' with my thumb. I noticed a slight drop of saliva forming at the corner of her small mouth as she eyed the plastic. The Goldschlager slipped down our throats with the ease of a Rolex second hand. And we toasted again.
And again.
From this point on, my memory of that night is hazy if not forever lost, but I do recollect spots in the cab, and then dragging the slobbering lush to her room.
What the hell is that noise, I thought, rolling over the next morning. I jumped up, startled, after noticing several layers of chin only inches from my face. But where was the face? In disbelief, I clawed desperately at the flesh, finally uncovering a smug countenance. Was it true? Could it be? Yes, I was nude. Yes, my clothes were folded neatly on a nearby dresser. Was that my scrotum cradled in her paw?
Just then, two boys six-years of age broke into the room, darting around, smashing the place apart. One was chasing the other with a pint-sized hockey stick. Good God, I thought, this is holy terror. I looked over, trying to remember the woman's name. Beth? Rhonda? Did I give her MY name?
"Beth," I said, "Beth?"
The pile of flesh beside me rolled over with a groggy "Yeah?" Good, it WAS Beth.
"Beth, are these your kids?"
"Huh? Oh... Hey, you kids get the hell out of my room!"
"Up yours, Mom!"
These weren't children. What were they? Tyrannical beasts of a lower genetic order? I reeled out of the bed, nervously slipping into my clothes. A little later, I was almost out the door when, Whapp! A hockey puck hit me in the back. I turned around, insanely grabbing for the one nearest me.
"You can't leave until mom gets up. That's the rule," the kid said angrily.
"Why you little sonofa..." I stopped myself short. Took a breath.
"What do you mean, that's the rule?" I asked.
"Mom met you on the computer, didn't she?" the other youngster asked.
"No. In fact, we met at a club."
"Well it doesn't matter," retorted the brother. "You have to play with us till she gets up."
I couldn't believe I felt guilty for the little freaks. And what was this computer business? Another cyber-nympho?
"Come here and play with us," he demanded again.
Ah, why not? Perhaps there was a story here yet. I sat between the two and watched them engage in these palm-sized digital toys. Virtual Pets, it turned out. Who invented these goddamned things? The master could feed or water them by merely pushing the proper tiny buttons. I sat stunned, watching them feed their little pets.
"Bad, Bruno, bad!" one of the kids scolded the thing, quickly pushing one button, then another, as it beeped and jingled and beep, beep, beeped again.
"What was that?" I asked.
"I spanked him for pissing on my leg."
"What?"
"You can spank them when they're bad."
"Can I try?" I asked.
"No."
"Come on," I pleaded.
"No," the kid said, barely hearing me.
"Ya little shit, gimme the damn thing for a minute," I said, snatching the plastic pet from his hands. For some reason, the child responded in kind to my anger, and he proceeded in demonstrating the bugger's operation.
"You push this button to feed it, see? Watch! See, it's growing!" And it did grow. The small, one-dimensional LED creature expanded in size.
"What's the point of this toy?" I asked, genuinely puzzled.
"If you take care of it till it's full-grown, then it quits, and the company sends you another one free." Now that's something, I thought.
"But if it dies, then you have to start all over."
When the boy turned his back to watch his brother play with the other Virtual Pet, I began to push the spanking button rapidly, over and over, to see what would happen.
"Don't!!!" the kid screamed, spinning around angrily, "You'll kill it!" He grabbed the tiny machine from my hands, punching me in the leg.
It was then that I noticed the smell. At first, I thought it might be a ripe banana peel or something in the garbage. But on further inspection, I traced the stench to a small aquarium which held a starving hamster. I looked at the poor creature, the matted cedar bedding, the empty water tube, the empty food dish, as it peered up at me with beady little black eyes, begging for release. Over my shoulder, I gazed at the boys playing with their Virtual Pets.
Later that morning, after breakfast, I told Beth I had to be going. Serious business to take care of at the office, and I was already an hour late.
"Come on kids, lets walk Vidal (how clever of me) down to the grocery for his cab. Then we'll go to the park."
"No!" a kid barked back.
"Now come on and get ready."
"No!" came from the brother.
"Get yer asses in gear, Now!!!" the woman screamed.
"NO!!!" the kids screamed back in harmony.
I started toward the door as the woman grabbed both kids by the collar, each clawing and kicking while she dragged them into the hallway. On the way out, I noticed her reaching behind the door and taking down a double nylon kid-leash from the coat hook. What next? Did I really have to be seen on the street with this mad woman and her rotten kids?
She slipped the leash over the boys, who struggled in futile defiance against her girth. After snugging the buckles, she yanked them down the hallway toward the main entrance. Nudging me in the ribs, Beth gave me one of those adult-to-adult looks, saying in a half-whisper, "Sometimes I wish they made choker collars for kids." I chuckled nervously as the daylight hit us.
We wound down the street and I hailed a cab. Just before jumping in, I bent down to the boys and whispered, "Now you two treat your mother nicely." None of the three noticed, but as I whispered those words, I slid my pen knife around the boys' backs, putting a nice slice into the main leader of the leash. It cut with ease, and I nearly slipped through the entire width, leaving just a strand to hold the works together. I kissed Beth on the cheek, telling her I'd meet her at the club again next week. Then, slapping the boys hard on the back, knocking the wind from them, I piled into the cab.
"Downtown," I said, waving at the boys and Beth as we drove off.
I can't swear to this, but I'm almost certain that as the cab pulled away from the next signal, I heard the distinct sound of tires screeching, then a mind-bending scream and two quick thumps.
"Lifewriters Office," I told the driver, "3680 Penn Avenue."
Ben Corbett Copyright 1996