The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death

WHAT BEING A DICK GETS YOU

– I love Anna Karenina.

I looked at Dot, still on my couch, still in Chevs Misfits T, but now appareled with low-rider jeans, several textbooks scattered around her.

– What the fuck are you doing here?

– Studying. Whats your favorite part? Mines when they tour Europe together.

I walked to Chevs bedroom door and looked inside, finding the usual piles of dirty clothes, overflowing ashtrays, Cramps and Black Flag and Hot Rod magazine posters, and liberally sex-stained sheets. But no Chev.

– What I meant by my question was, what the fuck are you doing here?

She reached under her shirt and scratched at the nipple Chev had pierced.

– Im taking summer term so I can graduate in three years and they cram like five months of work into like five weeks and I have to study for like three tests and my sister is having her sweet sixteen at the house and shes been watching those shows about those huge birthday parties girls throw and shes doing a theme thats supposed to be Studio 54 but it looks like its going to be more like Adult Film Stars of the Future and the place is infuckingsane because shes being an utter and total rag and I have to have quiet so I can pass fucking developmental psychology which is totally kicking my ass.

I put a hand to my forehead.

– But what the fuck are you doing here?

She picked up her notebook and tapped a pen with a fuzzy purple ball at the end against the lecture outline neatly printed on the open page.

– Chev said it was cool.

– Chevs not the only one who lives here.

She doodled a little kitty face.

– He said if you were a dick I should remind you that hes the only one paying rent right now.

I dropped the book at her feet.

– Fuck you. Have a book.

She picked it up with one hand, scratching her nipple again with the other.

– Cool! Thanks.

I walked to the kitchen, pointing at her chest.

– And dont do that, itll get infected and your nipple will fall off and the rich, shallow and handsome afterbirth youre destined to marry will reject you and youll end up a crack whore.

I opened the fridge and looked at the shelves stuffed with groceries; fresh, organic, very healthy groceries.

– What the fuck?

She settled into the couch, opening the Tolstoy in her lap.

– I took some of the money you left this morning and went shopping.

I closed the door and looked at her.

– Chev is going to shit when he sees food in here that didnt come from the Arbys or the In-N-Out.

She flipped pages.

– No hes not. He likes me a lot. He said so.

I took a package of tofu from the fridge.

– He say that before or after you bought this?

She flipped more pages.

– Doesnt matter. He likes me. I can tell.

– He likes to fuck you.

She looked up from the book.

– Well, duh! Im a great lay.

I put the tofu back in the fridge and looked for something I could actually eat.

– How would you know, you been fucking yourself lately?

– Hey!

I took my head out of the fridge and looked at her.

– What, did I say something to offend?

She shook her head.

– Fuck no. I just wondered, if I get the book, do I also get this?

She held the book up, showing me the sheaf of hundreds hidden in the pages.

I walked over and looked at the money, tucked into the scene where Levin discovers the joys of physical labor.

– My dad put it there.

– Why?

I picked up the cash.

– I dont know. To apologize for being a dick maybe.

She flipped the pages of the book.

– Well if thats how your family apologizes for being a dick, how much do Iget?

I folded the bills and put them in the breast pocket of my shirt.

– You get to stay here and study.

She closed the book, ran fingers over the cloth cover.

– Hey?

– Mmm.

She looked up at me.

– Im sorry about that thing.

I looked around, trying to find the thing she was talking about.

– What, the tofu?

She shook her head, pointed at the bookshelf.

– No. That thing. The yearbook. I recognized the name of the school, of course, but I didnt, like, know you were there or anything. But Chev told me. I didnt mean to, like, stir shit up.

She put her fingers on the back of my hand.

– That sucked. I remember when it happened and it totally sucked. I cried all night. So. Im sorry. You know.

I looked at her fingers on my hand.

– Stop touching me, you stupid plastic bitch.

She pulled her hand back.

I pointed at Chevs bedroom.

– Dont get too comfortable around here. Chev is just going to fuck you until he gets bored, and then stop calling you except for maybe once or twice over the next couple months when hes drunk and needs a booty call.

Her lips thinned, she started collecting her books.

I kept talking, walking to the door.

– And youll tell your friends thats cool, you can use the hookup, but when you call him to get the same action, he wont even bother to answer. Hell see your name on his phone and put it right back in his pocket and say something about how its some chick I was hooking up with and now shes strung out on the dick.

She shoved the books into a knapsack and stood.

I waved her down.

– No, no, you stay here, make yourself at home, Im sure Chev will be back soon for a pit stop.

I went out the door, the copy of Anna Karenina hitting it just as I slammed it behind me.

I stood there, thought about going back in and apologizing. Thought about going back in and telling her some lies about how Chev told me she liked to be pissed on. Thought about staying right where I was and never moving again in my life.

But whats the point? Apologies dont make things better. And you can only hurt someone so much before they stop caring what you do to them. And if I stayed where I was, sooner or later the weird cat lady from down the hall would come out and ask me to help her get that mean calico from behind the dryer in the laundry room and Ive been clawed enough by that rabid fucking feline.

So I went down the stairs and around the building and cut down the alley that ran east to Highland, taking the shortcut toward the shop, with a few choice words left in my vocabulary to be directed at my best friend.

In the alley, the homeless couple stood outside their tent, sorting recy-clables between the three barrels mounted on their cart.

– Cocksucker.

– Bitch.

– Fucking loser.

– Fucking whore.

Their matching Mohawks bobbing as they dipped in and out of the barrels, coming up with glass and plastic and aluminum.

The girl glanced at me.

– Hey hey, got any change today?

I put my head down and walked past, skirting the row of cars parked behind the apartments that shared the alley.

I heard her spit.

– Fuck you, asshole! We just live here! Were just alive! Just like you! You dont have to ignore us because were homeless!

I turned and walked backward away from them.

– Im not ignoring you because youre homeless. Im ignoring you because you scream at each other in the middle of the night when Im trying to sleep. And also because I hate that Santa hat you wear every Christmas because you think its gonna make people give you more money or something. Im ignoring you not because I dont like homeless people, but because I dont like you, personally.

I bumped into something, smacking my head hard into whatever it was.

The homeless couples eyes bugged.

I turned around and got shoved to the ground by a big motherfucker in a ski mask.

He kicked me in the ribs.

– Dont fuck with the guild, asshole.

I curled around the pain.

– What?

He got down on one knee and grabbed the front of my shirt and pulled my head from the ground and slapped my face back and forth.

– Dont! Fuck! With! The! Guild!

Snot and blood ran from my nose as I started to cry.

– OK! OK! OK! No guild fucking!

He took me by the throat and shook me.

– Im fucking serious!

I choked.

– I know! I know! I know! I can tell by the way youre strangling me!

Two more guys in ski masks appeared behind him.

– Come on, man, lets go, people are watching.

The big one took his hand from my neck and looked at the gaping homeless couple.

– Theyre just fucking crackheads.

I rubbed my throat.

– Hey just because theyre homeless doesnt mean theyre crackheads. They could be junkies, asshole.

He grabbed a wad of hair.

– Still so funny, still making me forget to laugh.

I coughed up some bloody phlegm.

– Dingbang?

He made a fist.

– Bang, motherfucker!

The fist came at me.

– Just Bang!

BANG!

I remember a sideways view of Bang and his two buddies getting into a van with bright yellow paint splotched over a smoothly primered front and side. I remember the van hauling ass down the alley. And I remember the homeless couple coming over and squatting next to me, the girl pouring some water from a bottle onto a rag and wiping at the blood on my face.

– See, thats what being a dick gets you.

And I remember thinking she just could be right.

Then I took a little nap.

– I can stitch it up.

– No fucking way.

– Dude, seriously, I can totally stitch it up.

I slapped Chevs gloved hand from my face, knocking the needle and thread from his fingers.

He shook his head.

– Gonna have to re-sterilize that before I stitch you up.

I covered the gash in my forehead, left when Bang bounced my noggin off the asphalt.

– You are not stitching me up. You arent even sewing buttons back on my shirt. You are coming nowhere near me or my skin with that needle, man.

He started stripping the black rubber gloves from his hands.

– Whatever. I dont know why youre being such a puss about it. I use needles on people all the time.

I threw my arms out.

– Asshole, you use them to punch holes in peoples genitalia! You wield needles for the purpose of inflicting voluntary bodily mutilations! You dont close holes, man, you make them!

He stuffed the gloves in the waste box on the wall.

– Look at it however you want, man. Way I see it, skin is my metier, flesh my milieu. Modifying the body is my art.

I looked out the open service window at the customers sitting in the waiting room listening to us fight. I looked at him. I closed the shutters over the window.

– Are you high?

He giggled.

– Really high, man.

I put my head in my hands.

– Youre high and you were going to stitch my wound?

He took an American Spirit from the pack on the desk and lit it. -Why not? I tattoo high all the time.

– Not the same, man. Not the same.

He blew smoke rings.

– Says you.

I lifted my head and stared at him. I opened my mouth, observed just how red his eyes were, and gave it up.

– Sure. Says me.

I stood up and made the room go sideways and Chev grabbed my arm and eased me back down.

– Whoa there, Hoss. Easy there.

– Im cool, Im cool.

I stood again, slower this time, and went over to the mirror on the wall and looked at my face.

– Crap.

There was a knock on the door. Chev opened it and his apprentice Dina stuck her pierced face in.

– Hey Im doing this.

She held out a stencil of a little pitchfork-wielding devil.

– What should I use?

Chev looked at it.

– Loose seven for the line work. Straight seven for the color. You need a machine?

She squinted, smiled a little.

– Can I?

He picked up a small plastic case from the desk, undid the clasps on the side and took out a chromed tattoo gun and handed it to her.

– Got to get your own gear, lady.

She took the machine from him.

– I know. Im saving. Thanks.

She started to close the door, saw me and stopped.

– Fuck, Web, what happened? Looks like you got beat up.

I pointed at my split swollen lip, bloody nose and the gash in my forehead.

– Is that what it looks like, Dina? Because Im afraid youre mistaken. Wounds like these, you only get them one place. Between your moms thighs when she crosses her legs too fast.

She flipped me off on her way out.

– Fuck you, you dick.

The door closed and Chev faced me, flicking ash on the floor.

– Feeling all better?

I ripped the paper wrapper off a gauze pad.

– Im getting there.

He stubbed his butt in a tin ashtray with a Hamms label enameled at the bottom.

– Good. Because seeing as the topic of your dickness has come up, I thought we might talk about you being such a huge fucking phallus to Dot.

I pressed the pad over the oozing gash.

– She call you or something?

He fingered another smoke from his pack.

– Yeah, man. She called me. She called to tell me the homeless couple was screaming in the alley for help and that you were all fucked up down there. She hadnt called me, youd still be there, asshole. And, by the way, she added that you flipped out on her and said some fucked up shit about me.

I used another pad to wipe dry bloody snot from my upper lip.

– Yeah, well, I may have been less inclined to say fucked up shit about you if you hadnt been talking to her about shit thats none of her business and that you should know better than to talk about with chicks youre nailing and that you know damn well youre gonna kick to the curb next week.

He was quiet for a moment, listening to the high buzz of Dina hitting his machine, tuning the power. He put his head out the door.

– Dina, baby, no higher than ten volts on that machine. Itll get squirrelly

He pulled his head back in and closed the door.

– Im not gonna be kicking Dot to the curb next week.

– Fine. Week after next.

He lit up and blew smoke.

– I like her. Im not kicking her anyplace. Shes cool and shes gonna be around for awhile. Adapt to the concept.

I looked for my Mobil shirt.

– Fine. You adapt to the concept that you shouldnt be talking about some things to chicks youve been fucking for twenty-four hours. No matter how much youre deluding yourself about the longevity of your affections for her.

He leaned his back on the door and folded his heavily decorated, gym-enhanced arms over his chest.

– Web, with all due respect and love, you are not the only one whos dealing with that shit.

I stopped looking for the shirt.

– What?

He raised a hand.

– Look, man, Im not saying its the same thing, but we live together. You know? And youre my best friend. And this shit aint easy. I mean, all this, this whole asshole of the year thing youre doing, it aint easy. Someone, someone I like, asks me why youre such a dick, thats a complicated answer. Because I want her to know that youre not a dick. Well, not just a dick. That youre cool. So I have to tell her some things. And seeing as how we are best friends and seeing as how we live together and seeing as how because of that, what happens to you has a tendency to rain shit all over me, I dont feel too fucking bad about telling Dot what the hell the deal is.

I touched my swollen lip. It hurt.

Chev moved away from the door.

– Cuz the thing is, man, its not just you. I mean, I may be about the only friend you got left willing to put up with your shit, and I got to tell you, man, it aint fucking easy. It is trying, man. It is hard work. And I appreciate you leaving some of Theas cash this morning. And I think its great youre doing some work for Po Sin. And if you cant be fucking civil to my friends, I can deal with it. But you have to cut me some slack on how I deal. Cuz like Im saying, this is not just your thing.

He put a hand on my shoulder.

– OK?

I nodded. I looked at him. I tapped the middle of my forehead.

– You got something here.

He put a hand to his own forehead.

– Here?

I nodded again.

– Yeah, you got a big weeping vagina thats whining meeeeeeee, ooooooh meeeeeeee.

He took his hand from his forehead.

– Not cool, man.

I brushed his hand from my shoulder.

– Wheres my fucking shirt?

He went to the deer antler coatrack in the corner and tossed me my shirt. I snagged it from the air and the hundreds Id stuffed in the pocket slipped out and fluttered to the floor.

He looked at the cash.

– Been slingin’ dope?

I fiddled with my shirt, picking at some dry blood on the collar.

– No.

He pointed at the money.

– Whered that come from? Thought your note said Thea sent an ascending sequence.

– She did.

– Thought your note said it ended in nine.

– It did.

– Thats like a grand there.

– Yeah.

– So wheres it come from?

I didnt look up.

– L.L. gave it to me.

He didnt say anything. I looked up. He stared at me, the muscles under the MOM and DAD tattoos centered on either biceps tensed.

I pointed at the money.

– I didnt ask for it or anything, man. He just, he gave me a book and the money was in there. I. I just went to see him. I needed to. Chev, I havent seen him in two years. I wanted to see if he was alive for fuck sake. I just. Shit, man.

– Get the fuck out of my shop. Pick up that money and get out.

I squatted and started collecting the money.

– I need to use the phone. I have to call Po Sin.

He crossed to the door.

– Theres a payphone on the corner.

I stood, the money in my fist.

– I wasnt gonna spend it, Chev. I was gonna give it away. I didnt even know I had it. He put it in a book.

– Web.

– Yeah.

– I love you, man.

– I know.

He opened the door.

– But if you dont shut up and get out of here right now, Im gonna love you a lot less, you son of a bitch.

I could have said something else. I could have said something so unbelievably dicky it would have made him laugh. I could have torn the money into little pieces and went and flushed them down the can. I could have done a lot of things. But it was kind of a delicate situation. And I dont have a good track record with doing the right thing in delicate situations.

So I just got the fuck out.

Cuz down to one friend in the world, you tend to get anxious about how long you can hang onto him before you fuck up and do that one last thing that cant be forgiven and you get left all alone for the rest of your life until you die on the toilet in a stinking SRO apartment and no one finds your corpse till it swells up and tumbles from the can and bursts open and even the maggots have had enough of you and move on.

Besides, he had a right to be pissed.

After all, my dad did kill his parents.

It was an accident.

Does that go without saying?

Does it matter?

Does it matter that he didnt actually take a gun from his pocket and shoot them in the face? Does it matter that they were all close friends? Does it matter that they had a standing Friday night date at the Palm in the Beverly Hills Hotel from years back, from well before my mom took off, from before Chev and me were even born? Does it matter that three of them drove drunk back up the Canyon every week, year after year, always in L.L.s latest Mercedes, always, even in the rain, with the top down? Does it matter that, despite L.L.s blood alcohol level, the inquest showed that the true blame for the head-on collision lay with the driver whod been coming down Laurel Canyon, screaming around corners on the wrong side of the road? Does it matter that L.L. was acquitted of vehicular manslaughter? Does it matter that L.L. did his utmost to adopt Chev, and that, when he couldnt fight the obvious objections, he lent every bit of financial support he could to Chev and his foster family?

No, it fucking doesnt.

Especially if youre Chev.

It might have mattered. It might all have made a big difference.

If L.L. could have kept his mouth shut and never gotten shitfaced one night and, in a classic bit of L.L. theater, decided it was time we knew the true face of God, and revealed to us that he should never have been driving that night. After years of lies.

Still, it might not have mattered, at nearly twenty years of age by then, Chev might have had enough perspective to see why L.L. had lied, and he might have had a big huggy moment with his crazy father figure.

Might have happened.

If L.L. hadnt also revealed that he was having an affair with Chevs mom and that, at the moment of the accident, Chevs dad had been passed out in the jumpseat, and her mouth had been in L.L.s lap.

See, as was often the case with L.L., it wasnt so much the fucked up shit he did, as the fact that he had to talk about the fucked up shit he did.

So I understand Chev getting pissed at me for having L.L.s money in my pocket. Cuz were not supposed to take his money. Ever. For anything. It was an oath we swore. Nineteen, Chev dropped out of college because he didnt want anything to do with the trust L.L. had set up for him; didnt want his money, and didnt want the education L.L. had told him his mom and dad would want him to have. Didnt want anything to do with anything L.L. touched, said, or thought. And I joined him. Skipped out on UCLA and enrolled at LACC. Having kind of figured out by then that if push came to shove, Id be better off with Chev in my corner than with L.L. My rare moment of wisdom, recognizing that blood is not in fact thicker than water.

That oath may have kind of been broken by not stuffing L.L.s money down the garbage disposal the minute Dot showed it to me. But I was too busy being a dick to her to be bothered with that.

Crap.

So I thought about that kind of stuff, the kind of stuff where your dad is kind of responsible for the deaths of your best friends parents, while I stood next to the payphone at the gas station on the corner of La Brea and Melrose waiting for Po Sin to come and pick me up.

Again, crap.