Shorts
“Can I go change?” she said.
“huh? oh. Yeah, sure.” he said and she got up. Then, “umm. What are you going to change into?” he asked.
She looked down the hallway from the living room. “A hooker, I think.”
“Oh.”
She was looking for her bag.
He got up and walked into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator door and looked inside, leaning over.
She forgot where her bag was, so she kept looking for it.
He stood up, looking confused. He closed the door. “What’s so interesting about being a hooker?”
Her bag was behind the loveseat. She bent over it and snatched it up. “A hooker gets paid for being raped.”
He tilted his head. “Who’s raping you?”
She paused by the kitchen. “Not you”, and turned down the hallway.
“Is that a supposed to be a compliment?” he called out and reopened the refrigerator door, rummaging through the fruit compartment at the bottom.
He stood up. He closed the door, stood in front of it. He looked out the window into the garden. He then looked at the kitchen table. The only fruit in the house was in the fruit basket on the table and they were plastic. He walked over to the table and picked at the basket. An apple. A banana. A pear. A string of grapes. He stuffed them all back into the basket but kept the apple and sat down.
She came out of the bathroom. She had unbuttoned several buttons at the end of her blouse and tied the ends just above her belly button. She had taken off her leggings and had put on short-short jean shorts that ended at the top of her thighs but the shorts were not tight-tight. Strolling into the kitchen, tossing her bag onto the floor, she held out her arms. “How do I look?”
“Here.” he tossed her apple. “Might as well if you’re tempting me.”
She smiled. “How much should I charge?”
“Depends.” he started picking through the basket again.
“On?”
“Wholesale or retail.”
She crossed her arms and crossed her legs, looked up at the ceiling. “What’s the difference?”
He started picking the fake grapes off the fake stem. “Retail, you work for a pimp. Wholesale, you work for yourself.”
“What are you doing?” she asked.
He smiled, picking a grape. “She loves me.” He picked another. “She loves me not.”
She sat at the table and leaned forward. “Would you like to be my pimp?”
He stopped. “I’d rather be a john.”
“You wouldn’t be able to afford me.”
“Consider it a donation.”
She stretched her legs, wiggling her toes. “I still wouldn’t be able to write it off as an exemption.” she said, looking at him through her bangs.
“You wouldn’t have to file taxes anyway.” he said. Then he shook his head.
She slowly lifted her legs just above the edge of the table and laid them on his knees. “Look.”
He did. “Hmmm”, he said, nodding, “what am I looking at?”
She jerked her foot near his face. “Take a good look.”
He looked at her ankle. There was a anklet. He had given it to her a long time ago. “hmmm”
“Remember?”, she asked.
“Not really.” he held her foot and took a grape from the tabletop. He tried to fit it between two of her toes.
She kicked him lightly. “Jerk.” she said and wiggled her toes on his lap.
She stopped. He leaned on the table, resting his head on his palms.
“What?” she asked.
He turned to her. “I love you.”
She rolled her eyes. “You say that all the time. How am I supposed to believe you? You won’t even be my pimp.”
He shrugged. “Conflict of interest.”
“You’re not a politician.”
“If I was, I could be your pimp”
She looked at him. She smiled. “I love you.”
“And you want to be a hooker.”
She took her legs off his knees and stood. She walked behind him, brushing his shoulders with her fingertips, leaned forward, and draped her arms around his neck.
“..hey mister, looking for a good time?” she whispered into his ear, hands on his chest.
“What can I get for a dollar?”
She stepped back in front of him, sliding onto his lap. “You’re in luck.” she cooed.
He traced his finger along her legs, fingering the anklet, “..oh?”, he said.
She grinned. “I’m on sale.”
Rather
“What are we doing tonight?” she asked.
He looked up from the typewriter. “huh?”
She lowered the paper. “Are we doing anything tonight?”
“oh.” he said. He looked at her. “No.”
“I want to do something.”
He kept typing. “hmm.”
She put the paper down.
He stopped, reread whatever was on the page. He leaned on one of his palms. He started typing again, eyes going up and down from the keys and the page.
taptaptap tump taptap tump taptaptaptaptap.
She watched him.
He stopped, looked at the page, started again. She got up.
He kept typing.
She stood right next to him.
He stopped. Read what was on the page. He started again. taptaptaptaptaptap tump taptaptap.
She hit him with the newspaper.
“Hey!” he rubbed his head.
She put her hands on her hips.
He looked at her. He looked at the typewriter. He looked at her. “I’m writing about you.”
“You’re ignoring me.” she said.
“Only because I’m trying to get you down pat.”
“I’d like to be pat down, actually.” she turned away and walked in to the kitchen.
“I tried that before.” he said. “You wanted to check the classifieds.” He looked at the page.
She poured herself a glass of lemonade. “It was the personals, actually.”
He slowly faced the kitchen.
She came back out and sat on the sofa.
He stared at her.
She smiled. “Worried?”
“Worried?” he raised an eyebrow.
“Worried.” she nodded her head.
He folded his arms and leaned back, seemingly pensive. He then replied, “Not really.”
“And why not?” she now raised an eyebrow “I’m a hot commodity.”
“Really…?”
“Of course.” she said, putting down her glass on the coffee table. She started to count off. “I’m sweet-”
He nodded his head, eyes wide. “yeah..?”
“-understanding-”
“Oh really..?”
She stared at him. “Yes.”
“That’s rather frightening that you think that.”
“You should be rather frightened by what I’m going to do to you.”
“I’d think it would turn me on, actually.” he turned back to the typewriter.
“You would think that you sicko.” she picked up her glass and took a sip. She glanced at him over the rim of her glass and caught him glancing at her.
He smiled.
She smiled.
End of story.
Honeymoon
“I’m hungry.”
She turned to him in the bed.”For?”
He was staring at the ceiling. “A honeymoon.”
“Get the ring first.”
He rolled his eyes. “Why does it have to be so complicated?”
She shrugged, smiling. “Not my fault.”
He turned to her. “So let’s just do it.”
“Nope.” she smiled. “Make it legit.”
“Says who?” he asked.
She turned over, away from him. “My parents, your parents, their parents….I want a big wedding anyway.”
“But we don’t always agree with them.”
She buried herself deeper into her pillow. “I’m not getting into this.”
He leaned over to her. “You did just a couple of hours ago, when I took off your clothes.”
“I was forced.” she said over her shoulder.
He rested again on his back. “That’s the way you wanted it.”
“How long are we going to keep this going?”
“Until you’re sick of me and can’t stand the sight of my toes and you leave me for a rich art dealer’s son.”
She said over her shoulder. “Art dealers don’t have sons, they’re all gay.”
He put his arms behind his head.”oh yeah, I forgot.”
He stared at the ceiling. He wondered where the remote was. He looked at the bed. Left. Right. He stared at the ceiling.
She turned back over to him. She looked confused. “Were you serious?”
He looked at her. He looked back at the ceiling. “Honestly?”
She didn’t say anything.
“At one time I was very serious, but it was just a phase. Happened before I met you. Couldn’t be anyone but Serious. People got me confused with Deep.” He looked at her. “They said we looked a lot alike.”
She kicked him underneath the sheets.
“ow.” he rubbed his shin. “Of course not.”
She leaned up on one elbow. “So, you don’t want a honeymoon.”
He opened his mouth, then stopped. He looked at her. She was staring at him. He looked back up at the ceiling. He shook his head. “I’m not going to say anything. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t mean anything.”
She stared at him. He stared at the ceiling.
She huffed and quickly turned away from him, pulling the sheets over her head.
He looked at her outline beside him. He looked back up at the ceiling. He sighed. He looked at the clock. He frowned.
“What are we doing in bed at ten o’clock?”
From beneath the sheets: “You were horny at seven.”
He turned to her and propped himself on one elbow, resting his head in his palm. “And I suppose you weren’t.”
Through the sheets: “No. I wasn’t.”
“Oh.” he nodded his head. “Must’ve been my imagination.”
“No, it was just your time of the week.”
“I’m surprised.” he touched her shoulder. She jerked it away burying her self deeper under the sheets. “Your time of the month isn’t due until next week.”
From the underneath the sheets: “And you’ll be sorry mister.”
“I need the rest anyway.”
She pulled the sheet off and turned to him, surprised. “Am I that good?”
“You don’t hang out here when you’re having your period. It’s much more peaceful.”
She turned back over. “Keep this up and it’ll last a lifetime.”
“I’d like that.” he said.
She turned over to him. “You really mean that?”
“Yeah,” he looked at her, “I’d like for us to last a lifetime.”
She looked at him.
He looked at her.
She smiled.
He smiled.
She gave him a kiss on his forehead.
“So make it legit.” she said and turned back over.
He sighed.
Tap Dancing
taptaptaptaptaptumptaptaptaptaptap
She opened her eyes.
tumptaptaptumptaptaptaptaptaptaptumptap
She rolled to the other side of the bed.
He was typing.
taptumptaptaptaptaptaptump
She grumbled. “What are you writing?”
He didn’t turn around. “You’re table dancing for me on the coffee table.”
taptaptaptaptaptumptaptaptaptumptap
“oh really…?” she rubbed her eyes.
He stopped. He looked over his shoulder. “To keep it from being fiction, you’re having a hard time turning me on.”
She threw a pillow at him.
He ducked.
He blew her a kiss, started typing again.
taptaptaptaptaptaptaptumptaptaptaptump
She stretched, both arms to the ceiling.
“I find it really hard to believe.” she said.
taptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptump
“mm-hmmm.”
“This is all kind of strange.” she got out from under the sheets, stretching her neck from side to side.
“mmm.”
taptumptaptaptaptaptumptumptaptaptaptaptaptap
She picked her robe from off the floor, noticed that he hadn’t broken stride. She stood behind him. “Do think I should tell my parents about my pregnancy?”
taptap–
“WHAT!?” he spun around.
She dropped into his lap. “You wish, jerk.”
He smiled. “Only with you.”
“And how many times have we’ve said that?”
“To you or the other concubines?”
“In total.”
He looked up at the ceiling. “Not counting the hooker that was here last night…”
She smiled. “You know what I mean.”
He shook his head. “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you this.”
“And that is?”
He looked at her. “I only tell you all this sappy shit because you’re the only one that buys it.”
“Hey,I love shopping.”
“And I love you. See the problem?” he tried to push her off.
She threw her arms around him.
“Sorry, you’re stuck with me mister.”
“And what am I stuck with?” he asked.
She titled her head, “A sweet and very eligible young lady with a twisted sense of humor who’s honest.”
“Who’s honestly a mess.”
“Ever since I hooked up with you.”
“Hooking up with me was one the smartest things you’ve done.”
“The jury is still out on that one.” she said and laughed, making faces at him.
“Clown.” he said and tried to kiss her.
She drew back. “No no.”
“Morning breath?” he asked.
“Yours.” she said and laughed again.
He pushed her off and she jumped up.
She was still making faces.
He turned back to the typewriter.
“Hey, come on.” she pouted.
He turned back around. “What?”
She smiled. “What are we doing today?”
“Shoplift baby food probably.”
“No, come on, what are we doing for real?”
“Most of this..” he pointed to the typewriter. “Has been my imagination.”
“That’s besides the point.” she turned around and started walking to the bathroom. “I want to go to the beach.”
“Have fun.” he said.
“We. Are going.”
She turned on the faucets in the bathroom.
He looked down the hallway, towards the bathroom. “Only if you wear a two piece.”
She stuck her head out the doorway. “Only if you soap up my back.”
He jumped up. “I hear the waves crashing already.”

cramp
in index finger
and thumb
thumb digging into meat of index
while writing feverishly
and scrabble
pinky being chaffed by edge of
pages
holding pen.
ache in grip
and possibly
not ink.
look.
bleeding.
enough.

I.

I kill, not murder. There’s a difference between the two. A murder is guilt after the act, it’s eventually being caught, to seek some sort of justice in its aftermath. A kill is pure, paid for, no hard feelings and turned away from, to cash the check.

“You’re a cop, right?” she asks me. Her name’s Shelly, like shelter, like what I’m looking for.

“No,” I reply and study how she pulls on her cigarette, lips puckered, her black eyes locked onto my stare. Her dress is tight around the right places but I don’t give her the satisfaction of mentioning the fact. I order her another drink and the barmaid still won’t take my money.

Shelly rolls her eyes, cynical, “Don’t bullshit me. I knew once you walked in. Your eyes on every face and taking the last stool”, she puckers and takes a drag, then squints, “Detective? Plainclothes? Anti-crime?”

I grin ‘cuz I’m nervous, it’s a good way of hiding it, “You into cops? One of those cop freaks?”

“My ex was a cop who played more with his gun than with me, so I know about the Job.”

“And what if I was?” I ask and notice who comes and goes. You have to be aware at all times who’s paying attention and who’s not. I’m thinking of Shelly’s buttons to press, her hook, to get her to leave with me.

Shelly gets smug, “I’d tell you to fuck off.”

“What?”, I lean in closer, “…Suck off? You’d want me to suck you off?”

She laughs and it’s a pleasant sound, “Maybe handsome, maybe…”

And it goes on like this in the bar. It’s Coffee Shop, on l6th and 5th, right side of Union Square, coming down the ave. I buy her drinks, we talk, and my drinks are getting more and more watered down, just like I had told the barmaid, while Shelly’s are getting stronger. The place gets darker, moodier, trendier, as the late summer sun dips under the skyline. By her sixth drink Shelly wants to suck me off, so I stuff a hundred down the barmaid’s shirt, just so she’ll take it and she says silently ‘Call me later’, and I’m out the door with Shelly.

 

II.

Few really know what I do. Those who do usually have a death certificate or have one ready for their loved ones, their kids, their mistresses, their parents, their bosses, their employees, whoever. I don’t take Visa and the cash has to be wrinkly and non-sequential. One kill per customer, that’s it. Think about who you want dead carefully ‘cuz you only get one shot. After that, I’ll deny we’ve ever met and I’ll shoot you in the back for coming back to me again. This is all explained the first time I meet a customer and only once. Simple and everyone is happy. This is my life, don’t fuck with it.

Nobody finds Shelly and I’m left satisfied. It’s a job, I’m not sick or anything, some damn weirdo out for headlines. I do what I do and make the body blink out, disappear. The little boy’s blond and his fingers are grey with cement. Daddy’s patting him on the head, in front of their Massapeaqua home. Both of them smoothing out the cement on their new sidewalk. It’s the second layer. The first I cracked and redid about two days ago, while the family was away, six hours worth of work. Shelly will like it here. Wiping her face with a napkin, she had looked up from my thigh and said, “I want a house in the suburbs and have kids. What do you say?”

Sorry Shelly, I drive away and it’s been a week since the night I killed her, business before pleasure.

 

III.

There are only two other guys in this city as good as me. One’s Shade and he takes care of the blacks, almost exclusively gets all his jobs from them. People tend to stick with their own. Most of his kills look like o.d.’s, so nobody asks any questions. Once in a while, somebody does, and by the time word gets out, that somebody is dead and cardioarrested. The other guy is Killshot and even I’m scared of him. He’s known throughout organized crime, high and low, works for any and all sides. What scares me about him is that none of the bosses mind that, nobody dares. I’ve heard that he’ll kill anyone as long as that contract is dirty in some way. No innocent bystanders in his firing zone. I’ve never met Shade but I met Killshot.

He bumped into me at a bar in Soho, tracking the same contract. The bar, Lucky Strike, was humping and bumping. I don’t know how he knew, but as I’m studying this contract, Lorenzo Something, Killshot puts a gun to my thigh and brings me here. We’re shooting pool at the Golden Q, on Queens Boulevard, about 5 a.m. It’s dark, smokey, big with soft murmurs and balls dropping and spinning. There’s a crack of dawn over the front window and Killshot breaks.

“..who?”, he asks, meaning, who hired me, and a low ball drops. He’s six feet even, thin but wide shouldered, dark boxy sunglasses with long, spiked up wild black hair. No jacket, black t-shirt, face like a model’s and worn out jeans, not baggy, and I wonder where he keeps his gun.

I smile, “You know you shouldn’t ask.” and I cue my stick, waiting for my turn.

Killshot pauses before taking a shot, bent over the table, looking over the rims of his sunglasses and I keep smiling. He says, “..I’m curious, not patient.”

He misses and I know it’s on purpose. The cue ball slides behind the fifteen and it’s a clear side shot. I know he’s watching as I position and I answer, “Waterhouse. Some chick from Astoria.”

I shoot, the fifteen goes in and pops back out of the hole, too hard, and ends up on the rag, back on my side. I lied and Killshot doesn’t move, he’s staring at me through those dark sunglasses. It’s another one of his rules, his being more worked up than mine. Don’t lie to him, he’ll know, and I smile, cuing my stick, “Your shot.”

Just a second longer of staring and then, he lights a cigarette, moving around the table, positioning. He’s one ahead having dropped the four and then knocks in the seven, two, one, six, three, and five. There’s just one left, the eight ball. I’m by one corner, by the black ball and Killshot’s at the opposite end, behind the cue ball.

“..corner pocket.” he calls and puts out the cigarette. Bending over, aiming, he says, “..take the contract..”, he slams the eight ball in and I never got a ball off the table. “..stop killing innocents…I’m keeping an eye on you.”

Another one of his rules.

He throws a twenty on the table, to pay for the time spent playing, even though he’s won. He then lays his pool stick on top.

“Or?” I try not to smile.

Killshot looks at me and grins. He shrugs and turns away, “..then well, then..”

I wait until he leaves, go to the bathroom and pop a Valium.

 

IV.

That was the day after Shelly and that was last week. Lorenzo Something I chopped and burned up with acid. Vice officer Chris Pappas is in luggage, flying over Tokyo. Susan Juenebelle is in a refrigerator somewhere underneath the Verrazano; one was a dealer, the other crooked and another a whore.

The barmaid from Coffee Shoppe, blonde hair on my chest, smooth legs, tan and tight, against my own, says, “Your father came looking for you.”

I turn on the lamp in her bedroom, “What?”

“Old guy, cute, had your picture”, she touches the scar on the side of my forehead, “..you, but with thick silver hair…”

I stare out the high rise window, looking at the lights of the Tri-Boro, seeing the night. “What’d he want?”

She slides up me and I’m thinking of shelter, she says, “your mother is in Sloan-Kettering Hospital, the cancer place…”

 

V.

All I hear is beeps and slippered quiet steps. All I smell is plastic and forced oxygen. The Recovery and Chemo rooms are blush pink, but the institutional green can’t be helped here, in Intensive Care. Through her door window, I see my father at her side. This woman is not my mother.

My mother is taller than me, olive skinned and has long brown hair. My mother’s alive and her round face smiles easily. This woman is dying. She’s old, hair more gray than brown, sagging, and from here, in a hallway behind a two inch door and her by the window on the far side, I can tell she’s in pain. Maybe it’s the way my father has to help her sit up,
or the way he holds her and pets her and says comforting things that, from what her doctor told me, mean nothing at this point, the pain will not end. I’m not a part of this and I find it hard to open the door, but I walk in.

My father stands but he still looks bent. “You…” forced, gruff, “How are you?”

“Fine.” I don’t look at him, my eyes on the crumpled sack that was my mother. “Please leave.”

He doesn’t know what I do, but he knows what I am, or he’s pretty sure and that’s enough to have him pause at the door. Eventually, he walks out.

“…yearss…” she whispers, I barely hear it, she has no voice, there’s a tube that comes out of her neck and is taking it away with each breath. And I’m amazed at how her arm doesn’t get tangled in all the tubes that go in and out of her as it rises and her blue veined hand touches the scar. Just like the barmaid did and I shutter for shelter.

I smile, “Not that long.”

“…yyearss…” she repeats, straining and blinks and even to do that seems to be too much. I remember how she fought off a mugger when I was five. A tall man strolled along and snatched her chains and she managed to get a hold of the loose ends. She screamed and he smacked her and she tugged. One hand was on my arm, the other on her chains, so she kicked him in the groin. He fell, she kept on kicking. In broad daylight, on the street, the mugger crawled for help as my mother dug a heel into his ear.

But it is now night. She looks at me then the machines and back. She tightens her grip on my jaw and again me, the machines and back to me. I see something in her eyes that I’ve seen in mine early mornings, what none of my contracts ever had. That longing.

“…I…ah..” she struggles and trembles, her neck quivering, the tube out of her neck quivering, “…kuh…can..NOT..”

She does not cry, she never did. I am a killer and I reach over to the machine that pumps breath into her. I am not a part of this as I dig into my pocket, finding a handful of Valium, placing them into her waiting mouth and after she swallows, nodding, I turn off the pump.

I smile ‘cuz it’s a good way of hiding.

She smiles and her eyes droop then close. I stand there, shallow breaths, a thousand of them, then the beep-beep machine screams…

 

VI.

It’s strange leaving, not being caught by my mother’s doctor or my father or by security. I wonder where they were, I wonder why car horns work the way they do as I cross First Avenue, against the light. There’s a playground opposite the hospital and within that darkness, comes the sound of a creaking swing, rusty. It’s dark, I can’t see who that is and I cry. I can’t breathe and I’m blind and I stumble to the swings… Everything is so far away but it’s clear…I’m crying and I fall, my stomach shrinks with my lungs and I see the spiked hair…(‘I’m curious’)…the glint of sunglasses hovering… (‘not patient’)…above the seat of the swing…(‘Who’)… I cry uncontrollably and fall to my knees… (blond little boy) ..I’m not a part of this…(‘Stop’)…this spinning out of control…

Killshot gets off the swing and it still sing-song creaks. He puts a silver gun to my forehead and I’m sweating as Shelly laughs …(‘Maybe’)…and I still wonder where he keeps it.

I don’t smile, I sob.

Killshot nods, knowing, and pulls the trigger.

-CLICK-

At first, I don’t recognize it, it’s an absurd sound.

My heart stops and I’m frightened.

The gun’s not loaded.

Killshot kneels, sunglasses level with my wide open eyes. He whispers,

“..soon, live with this first-”

“But-”

“ssshhh”, he puts the barrel to my lips and I…I…

“…then”, Killshot says, calmly as he puts the gun, beautiful and silver, behind his back. He lights a cigarette, “…only then.”

I feel something shiver and I’m exhausted and terrified and denied. My grave stands, looming above me. Killshot leaves and it’s not his promise that haunts me, but the time between now and its fulfillment.

suppressing
the immensity
within narrow skin,
riddling
and drying the pale
palette
that my mouth is
made
up
of. spit
and tightening
moments of wrenching
thoughts such as,
as,
of,
and, for,
with vividness against
the back of my throat
what once was, (soothing)
and to now,
(terribly) having
lungs of things to say
and to not have said
this,
before and again
placing firmly,
the thought that
and, to have thought
that
brings the lips to an edge
of the teeth
sereingly, having had
(however blunt)
torn,
but grasping that gasp
to have seen, significantly
the recognition of that
inwhich, hands trace
but
tongue denies
the weight, of all
a back can bare.

sensuality
had me
inside her
wanting again
the recoil
of having
gone too far
and to go
entering
again.
only after
a few minutes.
no matter
the tormented
the warm flesh
to touch
and mingle
with my mouth
and teeth
gently nibbling
that which
my body swallows
never feeding
only. Always
hunger

the mind
within a locked room
makes itself
inescapable
labyrinths.

beyond
that corner
right there
of three
obtuse angles
in space.
(of where she once was)
passing
pulling
through out
the other side
having to pull itself along
at itself
between
lines
of the point
besides the point
the point being
the end.
a vanishing
point
pointed out
in her
thorough
pressure.
that empty grip
of her going
leaving nothing but being
quite tense.
enough to follow her
point by point
at this point
the sharpest
to be cut
by it
through it
out of it
onto the sidewalk
where she fell
in cracks.

a sense of privacy..
there’s a child playing with garters
bedsheets over a slain lamb
roundrobin to a guilty place
and a man arches his back.
the raised brow of a wall
belonging and longing
a sigh of rattles and cribs empty.
the priest walks into a bar
and with a tremor orders
“A Virgin-sorry-a bloody Mary”.
melting glass on skin
there’s wax underneath her nails
a candle gripping slipping
slinking down her curves.
blown out smoke choking carousel,
there’s a door playing house
king Queen and Jack’s tumble
spinning out stitches of wick
and a stained chandelier thrusts
denying and spying.
the whore smiles to a waitress
“give me an orgasm on the rocks.”
and the crowds the nervous child,
mommy pours out daddy.
a routine of the unexpected
headline to boiling water,
screaming laughter.
a sense of this
a sense.