American Skin

Sherry was born as Mary Ellen Dubcheck in the type of mining town made famous by The Deer Hunter. When she finally saw the movie, she was convinced, first, they’d made it in her hometown, and second, she thought Christopher Walken was the hottest guy on the planet.

The term dysfunctional is too mild for the family she had — seriously fucked is closer. Her father was a shadowy figure who beat her, then just upped and disappeared. Laying the seeds of abandonment rage in the young girl, for the rest of her life she’d be acutely aware of men attempting to leave her. Her mother was the trailer trash of Gretchen Wilson songs, the proverbial redneck woman.

What Sherry remembered of her town was the thick pallor of grit, dust, black smoke that hung over the landscape like the worst omen. It got in your eyes, hair, clothes, and no amount of scrubbing would erase it. When the steelworks were closed, a blacker depression settled on the place. The men, drank, fought and hunted. The atmosphere was rife with hurt, hatred, resentment, and all of it laid its curse on the girl.

One brother, Lee, a year older, interfered with her when she was twelve, and when she told her mother, she got the beating of a lifetime with the words,

“It’s what men do, stop whining or there’s more whipping...”

Lee was found dead from a gunshot wound to the back of the head in the woods. Hunting accident they said. Sherry’s mother thought otherwise but said nothing. Their dog, a collie named Rusty, was also the victim of a hunting accident. Rusty had hated the young girl with the unerring instinct that canines have for the very essence of malevolence. Her mother packed Sherry off to New Orleans when the girl was fourteen. To a friend who ran a whorehouse. Sherry learned all she needed to know for survival, sex equals power equals violence. A combination of that trinity would run her life from then on. Having been schooled in the very essentials of survival and manipulation, Sherry lit out for New York when she was seventeen. Arriving at Port Authority, like the thousands of runaways and prey who arrive daily, she was hit on by one of the waiting friendly predators. He sure dialled the wrong number. His usual gig being to get the girl to a house, then turn her out to a line of men. In a New Orleans drawl, Sherry asked if he’d like a little suck before they left the station?

They found him in the urinal, his pants around his ankles and his dick in his mouth, a cathouse variation on the blow job, his wallet missing.

Sherry got a job as a dancer in the East Village and pulled down the bucks with a wild routine that involved an imaginary dog she called Rusty and sometimes, for private customers, she called the dog Lee.

How she hooked up with Juan, she spotted his thick wedge of green from the stage and within a week, he’d set her up in a cosy studio. His use of heroin meant the sex was sporadic but he kept her around as she was so sharp. Called her his private dancer. Sherry loved the big city, she got her own supply of drugs set up and had plenty of green. She sent her mother a fat package with half a Ben Franklin and the words,

“I left the other half in the woods, like men do.”

Juan had offered her some crank but she was too slick to go that road, she had a nice buzz on a daily basis from the dope she’d been reared on in New Orleans — Percodan — she dearly loved her percs. Mix in a little crystal for variation and a girl was as happy as a pig in a basket. She worked on her accent, learning to vary it with down home licks and the harsh vowels of the Lower East Side.

Scams...

Nothing she liked better than a good one. House of Games was her favourite movie, with the line, “one born every minute and two to take ’em.” She stumbled into a rich seam almost by accident.

Forty-second Street, cleaned up and tourist attraction though it still had enough sleaze to make her feel comfortable. And if you hung out close to Port Authority, she saw most of them go down. It was a master class in the con. Became her custom to take her latte, grande, with vanilla lick, in the Starbucks on the corner opposite. Plus, one of the geeks, calling himself a barista, had the hots for her and threw in a Danish free. Turned out the nerd had a little habit going and so she established another minor connection for her medication, never could have enough sources. Juan, though not stingy with his dope, sometimes threatened to cut her off, keep her in line, the usual macho bullshit.

She was ripping him off daily but a little at a time. Never knew when the time might come, she’d have to leg it and best be prepared. A cold Monday, the windchill howling down Sixth Avenue, she made her way to the coffee stop, got her smile and latte, took her usual seat near the restrooms. The cold ensured the place was jammed and a business type asked if he might share her table. In his forties, he had the hairline of the harassed executive. He put his briefcase on the table, then supped loudly on his cardboard cup. Sherry got her best smile in place, the one she’d rehearsed a hundred times, a hint of timidity, a dribble of heat and a whole lot of promise. Never failed. She flashed it, said,

“Lemme guess, mocha with a dash of peppermint.”

She’d heard him order the damn thing. He was amazed and lured by the smile, went,

“Well, good Lord, that is astonishing.”

Yeah, right.

He was wearing a red string on his wrist, beneath a Rolex.

He caught her look, used his fingers to touch the band, said,

“The Kabbalah, it protects from the evil eye.”

She nearly laughed, thinking, you’re going to need more than a piece of string to protect you now buddy. She put on her most oh please educate me kind sir expression, asked,

“What’s that about?”

He explained that he suffered from recurring anxiety/depression woes then heard about Philip Berg, the founder of The Kabbalah Centre, and his life had been changed. He named Madonna and Britney Spears as two devotees. If he thought this would convince Sherry, he couldn’t have chosen worse names. Sherry thought these dames were seriously whacko. Her only heroine was Roseanne Barr, badass and rich.

She near simpered,

“And have you met Madonna, Guy... and oh, their divine little girl, Lourdes?”

He wasn’t pleased as it distracted him from the main topic, himself. She quickly got that rectified by asking,

“How do I get one of those... bands?”

She was careful not to call it string. He patiently outlined that she could attend The Kabbalah Centre, purchase the item for twenty-six dollars and the book of learning was only three hundred or so. He offered to take her. Within a few hours, she’d taken him for his wallet, the Rolex, and on a whim, took the red band, too. Left him on a bed in the Milford Plaza. As she headed towards Penn Station, a homeless guy asked her for help, she gave him the string, and he whined,

“The fuck is that?”

She gave her sweetest smile, said,

“The answer to your recurring anxiety slash...

She emphasised the slash, leaning on it, getting some heat in there, then,

“... depression, problems lie in that little piece of magic.”

She had Juan buy her a laptop, well, he acquired one, paying for things wasn’t his territory and she looked up cults, got her a list of religious groups, including, the Brethren, Sai Ba, Jews For Jesus, Raelians, Beta Domination. Over the next few months she met and rolled representatives of most of these.

Her database also turned up Aryan Nations, Satanic Church, and web addresses such as www.godhatesfags. com. The tone of these folk reflected her own personality too much for her to fuck with them; she knew they weren’t the ones to go after as they’d come right back and with ferocity. Like everything else, she grew bored with the whole deal, she couldn’t face one more earnest-faced, veggie, non-caffeinated, positive do-gooder.

Sherry liked to walk. New York was full of wonders, every trip out was an adventure. A brisk march day, Juan had took off to conduct some bidness in Chicago, Sherry was walking along Christopher Street, she’d heard one of the crew mention that from Sheridan Square down to the Hudson was the territory of the maricón, the gay enclave. On West Street she watched in wonder as openly gay couples walked hand-in-hand. She walked on to Grove Street, saw a cafe called Marie’s Crisis Café, and went in. Ordered a large latte with vanilla, slice of Danish. She wouldn’t be eating it but liked the possibility.

Sherry only ever admired one human being, Roseanne Barr, had never missed her show.

Roseanne was true grit, had balls like no else on the planet, stuck it to everyone and now had the fuck-you money that Sherry wanted. A woman sat at her table, asked,

“Join you, hon?”

She was in her fifties but cosmetic surgery had worked its limited miracle. Her neck was old but her face was that of a twenty-year-old. Sherry said,

“You’re sitting so I’d say you’ve already joined me.”

The woman laughed, then launched into a very explicit account of her female lovers, followed by a long tirade about the failings of men. Sherry waited till she ran down then used one of Roseanne’s lines,

“Why’re you complaining, you don’t have to fuck them?”

Got her attention real fast.

She invited Sherry back to her place for a drink, some relaxation. Sherry said she’d love that.

The apartment was small but tastefully decorated, she produced a bottle of Grey Goose vodka, asked,

“This to your liking, hon?”

Sherry smiled, asked to see the bottle, the woman going,

“It’s a good one.”

And handed over the bottle. Sherry hefted it in one hand then swung it fast, splitting the woman’s forehead like an egg, swung twice more before the woman was out. Sherry took the cap off the bottle, swigged and said,

“It is good.”

She kicked the woman in the back of the head, going,

“Goddamn dyke.”

The apartment yielded an ounce of grass, nearly three hundred bucks, a soft leather jacket that fit perfectly, and some decent-quality earrings.

Later, she was having a drink in The Monster, on Sheridan Square itself, she asked the bartender about the pedestrian walkway that links Battery Park to the top of the Village.

The bartender said that it was fine during the day, packed with bladers, bikers, joggers, but at night, the predators came out. Sherry adjusting the collar of her new soft leather, said,

“You mean it’s dangerous?”

Giving her wide eyed look.

The bartender shook his head, said,

“Bitty thing like you, they’d eat you up.”

The first thing people were aware of when meeting Sherry was the raw sexuality, it oozed from her. A palpable heat that seemed to shimmer in her aura. She knew and worked it every way she could. Not till afterwards, when you’d gotten away from her, did another sense hit.

An icy cold.

James Hillman, a Jungian psychotherapist, named icy coldness as one of the prime features of evil.

Sherry was able to hide that when you first met her, such was her sensuality that it cloaked the ice. It was literally only when you were away from the fire did the cold set in. Her mother had said,

“You walk into a room, you feel the cold, you know she has been here.”

Sherry was never referred to by name by her mother, who said,

“I’m scared to say that demon’s name.”

Juan, who spent more time with Sherry than anyone, was not immune to the sensation, but being on heroin, he put it down to the smack.

The lesbian who’d picked her up in the coffee bar, recuperating in the hospital, would only ever say afterwards,

“I’m so cold, why can’t I get warm.”

The old people in Ireland, you ever ask them about Satan, about the fires of hell, they’d utter, as they made the sign of the cross,

“ ’Tis not the heat you need to concern yourself about, ’tis the cold.”

Ask them to elaborate and they’d go,

“Pray to God you never find out.”

Juan was getting dangerously out of control, the junk he was shooting was making him meaner than he was by nature and she saw an example of how quickly he could turn. One of his most trusted crew, a stoner named Max, had been with Juan for years. Max had a thing for Sherry, as did most of the crew. He made the mistake of letting it show. A Saturday night, they’d been to a club in Tribeca, Juan liked to think the upper echelons accepted him, they accepted his dope. Max had a few brewskis going, asked Sherry to dance, she looked at Juan who smiled, said,

“Sure, hermano.”

Max, downing a triple martini, got her in a clinch on the floor, let his hands fondle her ass. Over his shoulder, she could see Juan, his face like a corpse. It got her hot. She whispered in Max’s ear,

“Bet you make all the girls want more.”

Max, the poor schmuck, had enough brew in him to call her puta, making it like a term of reckless endearment. There is never enough booze in your guts to call a woman like Sherry a whore, in any language, and the endearment hasn’t been coined to sugarcoat it. To her, it would always be a lash in the face and required blood — yours. Max was about to add,

“The mamacitas, they like to eat the meat, they get some Max, ain’t no other hombre gonna do.”

He never got to utter this sweet nothing as his face was stinging and his head felt like he’d been walloped. He had. Sherry had stepped back, her Jimmy Choos near slipping from her feet, and she swung with her right fist, knocking, if not sense, at least a whole new focus into him. Then she was stomping back to the table, she saw a tiny smile reach Juan’s mouth. She had scored on two fronts, made Juan happy and got to fuck with Max.

Any other bitch, Max would have cut her right then, reached for the knife in his boot, but he caught himself, she was the woman of his patron. He slouched, like the beast towards Bethlehem, to his boss’s table, expecting Armageddon. Juan was laughing, asked,

“Mi amigo, you upset my mariposa, qué?”

Qué... the question posed in Spanish, the echoes of Khe San were what reverberated in the tone. Max launched into a litany of profuse apologies, calling on the Madonna, Her Son, and any other saint that came to mind. Juan waved it off, went,

“No biggie, mi amigo, we drink, we fool around, no problema, is true?”

Max hoped to fuck it was. Sherry gave him a wicked smile and he got his hopes up all over again that maybe he might be putting the meat to her. More drinks came and an air of festivity resumed, Juan paid particular attention to Max, recalling all their past glories. Then, Juan said they’d move on, he needed to collect some merchandise from his warehouse.

It was a basement off Bleeker Street. Apart from Max, Sherry, Juan, they were accompanied by Ramon, the designated driver, and two new guys from Rosario, lowlifes who crossed the border and were recent additions to the Juan posse, they were supposedly distant relations of his mother’s. In the limo, Juan had Max in the back and shared some lines of coke with him, all the time cheering him as his main hombre. Sherry, on the other side of Juan, felt her blood sing as she knew there was going to be something medieval. When Juan was this elated, it always ended in gore.

Laughing, and high-fiving, the crew piled into the basement. It was packed with designer gear from the five boroughs. Juan was an equal opportunity thief, taking from every direction. Centre piece was a long, wooden table, old and gnarled. Cases of booze lined the floor. Juan said,

“Yo bro, mix up a batch of margaritas, we gonna get down.”

Max was looking for the tequila when Juan blindsided him with a baseball bat. He regained consciousness, his head on fire, and found himself tied to a chair, his hands extended on the table, fastened tight. A loud blast of salsa was roaring in his ears. Seated across from him was Sherry, sipping a margarita. She winked. Juan was flexing a mean-looking cleaver, saying,

“Piece of Taiwan shit, ees no sharp.”

He’d lapsed into Mex-speak, a sure sign he had lost it in more ways than in speech pattern. He sunk the cleaver into the table, close to Max’s arm, asked,

“What you think, mi compadre, ees gonna do the trabajo?”

Max tried to speak but sheer terror seemed to have frozen his throat. Juan pulled the cleaver out, asked,

“You like to use your manos to pat my mariposa’s butt? That what you like, you call her puta... eh, maricón?”

Max stared at Sherry, his eyes, wild in his head, imploring her for intercession, she smiled demurely, raised her glass. Juan moved in close, asked,

“Which mano you want to lose, which one you use to wipe your asshole, you choose, left or right?”

Then brought the cleaver down, half severing the right arm, shouted,

“Ah, caramba.”

The guys from Rosario took a few swings and though it took a good twenty minutes, they finally removed both arms. Juan, sweat rolling down his face, took the limbs, tossed them on the table, said,

“You a hands-on kind of guy, eh, muchacho?”

The hands they threw in a Dumpster, get a rise out of the sanitation guys, and Max, Max went into the East River. Ramon, who’d been silent all evening, finally asked,

“How he going to swim, no arms.”

That cracked them all up.

Sherry kept that blunt cleaver at the forefront of her mind. The same evening, Juan actually went to bed with her, not that it took long, tops three minutes and she’d learnt all she needed in New Orleans about groaning and urging... go, you stallion. It never ceased to amaze her the crap that men believed, you made orgasmic noises and they truly accepted they were the hottest lover this side of the Rockies. Juan, well into the junk, barely got thirty seconds of effort into the act, she faked the other two minutes, thirty seconds. Sure, she timed him, she’d little else to do while he grunted like a hog in stew.

One of her fantasies was to hold a mirror up to a guy as he heaved and blew, let him see what she had to see, it might put them off the fierce bullshit they peddled.

Juan had fallen back, exhausted, she lit a Camel, unfiltered, ’cos he was so macho, put it in his mean mouth, cooed,

“You make me so wet.”

She knew he was already thinking of his next hit of horse, then he looked at her, asked,

“You ever think, you like to do it with some other hombre?”

She made all the right noises, he was the best, the mega, satisfied her like no other could, and other dreary garbage. She kept a blade on her side of the mattress, for the day he turned, as turn he surely would. Then she’d gut him like the reptile he was.

Meantime, she fantasized about some dream lover who’d take her the hell away from all this shit.

On a junket to Vegas, she’d persuaded Juan to bring her along, he wasn’t hot on the idea, had his crew and obviously had planned on a guys’ tour of Vegas. She loaded him up on ludes, got those margaritas into him, and dragged his sorry ass to the Little White Chapel, got hitched.

Juan wasn’t real happy about it the next day but shrugged, he had a method of divorce that was indeed final if push came to shove, so he thought, Let it ride... for now.