F*ckload of Shorts Page 3

  The fuck did he want a soul for anyhow?

  Fifty thousand sounded like a hell of a lot more on the front end of the job. It was like four year's pay in a week and a half. He'd taken it on gladly. He'd been waiting for the opportunity to show Mr. Kent he was reliable and a stand up guy. They flew him to Dallas and he stayed in a hotel for free.

  He didn't know anything about the kid or his family and that was for the best. Mr. Kent said that on this kind of thing, the more you knew, the more ways you could maybe fuck it up. Know nothing, you can't give anything away. That was another reason he got the job.

  The kid's parents or grandparents or whoever the target was came through with the money and Benji never saw the kid again. Except in his dreams. Except in the mirror. Except every time he closed his eyes for a million years.

  Fuck.

  He'd seen it on TV completely by accident. The kid's picture flashed on screen saying he'd been kidnapped two weeks ago and that his body had just been discovered in the tall grass near the river. He thought he was going to puke. When the second picture, his own, flashed he stopped just thinking about it. Before he became one, the only patsy he ever knew of sang those sad ass echoey numbers that made him think of dad and gave him diarrhea. Guess he knew now, how come he'd got the sweet gig.

  He hefted the money in a bag on his back and scrambled out the door. He jumped on a bus to anywhere and fucked the list in his mind. Dad, Kent, the money and himself in that order.

  He took the bag off his shoulder and put it on the seat beside him, but the weight remained. That money would never spend. It was a part of him now, filling the place where his soul used to be.

  He left Texas. Like that was hard. He cooled his heels in Bartlesville, Wichita and Jeff City before stopping in Dogtown. He found a basement apartment on the River Des Peres promenade and stayed inside it till the A.C. unit died for sure. He emerged pale and wasted and fat as a welfare check to watch the 4th of July parade, three weeks later. It was hot as fuck and sticky too. Your soul burns in hell, your body in the Midwest. It's not the heat, it's the humility.

  He found work too, got a real job at the Courtesy Diner smashing beef patties to transparency from two to ten a.m. It was within walking distance, air conditioned and had a jukebox. He figured if he dropped his standards another couple notches he might even get laid.

  Anonymous normalcy was the drug he craved more than any other. He came to an understanding that he was a world class shit, but found some facsimile of peace in it being a shit class world and told himself he didn't give a fuck. Still, he avoided reflective surfaces. And playgrounds. And malls.

  Chuck, the other grill man, ex-marine, full time user and part time queer showed him around, and hooked him up. "Think you're some kind of hard case?" he asked, first time he saw Benj.

  "Fuck's it to you?"

  "Just that I'm the resident badass here, you've gotta settle for Beta-male."

  "Whatever."

  "You stay candy we wont have a problem." and he punched Benji's shoulder, good naturedly or neutrally, at least.

  "You the faggot, dude."

  Chuck laughed. "Son, lemme clue you in, you're half a queer already and got some serious daddy issues to deal with. Could see that the moment you walked in. Give me a chance, I could be the mentor you so desperately need."

  And he was.

  First he taught him the double patty melt on white bread, then where to score. Benji lived on pharmaceutical adrenaline. It kept him up at work and most of the rest of the time too. It was important that he didn't dream or slow down. Muy importante.

  Easing in to some downers, stretched out on his couch, Chuck said "Who're you kidding with that mustache, man? Have you seen a mirror?"

  Benj stroked his fuzzy lip and smiled a natural smile for the first time in who the hell knows. "Fuck you, Grizzly Adams. Takes time to come correct."

  "Look, keep it if you want, but you'll only get ugly chicks." Chuck dropped his voice an octave to show he was serious. "Time comes when you decide to walk on thewild side," he pulled out his USMC Zippo and flipped it a couple times before torching the cigarette dangling between his lips and winking. "Shave that shit, take my word."

  It took Benji a moment to decide Chuck was fucking with him and then he laughed out loud. "Dude, will never happen. Poon hound. Snatch bandit. Hunnert percent."

  They were watching movies with the sound down, or more accurately with the stereo drowning them out. Chuck was old school rock and psychedelia. Benji had metal and prog leanings. They compromised on Floyd and Rush and Zeppelin. "Here it comes, dude, turn down the music."

  Chuck muted Warpigs and the chaos onscreen focused. He said, "See how big those guys are? No way. You ever seen pictures of real special ops guys? Normal to small size. All those muscles, that's pure Hollywood, bullshit."

  "You're saying some puny guy my size gonna kick Action Jackson's ass, for real?"

  "No, I'm saying Apollo Creed's never making rangers, is all. Let alone Terminator."

  "I don't care, dude. This part's the shit."

  "No doubt." Both stopped talking and watched the knife pin the Mexican or whatever to the post.

  "Stick arowwn." They said in unison and high fived.

  "The best!"

  "Definitely."

  Chuck was right. He had some serious daddy issues. Forget being good enough, he wasn't even there as far as his old man was concerned. His dad had drowned out the world with him in it from the time Benji was just five years old. Went to work, came home, fixed a drink and played records in his study with the door closed, till Benji's bedtime and there wasn't anything Benj could do to get his attention.

  Dad was a suicide. He came home one night when Benji was twelve, fixed himself a drink, put on the Patsy Cline - or was it Ann Murray? - and blew his brains all over the family portrait behind the easy chair five minutes after Benjamin had gone to bed.

  When Mr. Kent found him, he was living on the street, knocking over liquor stores and rolling queers to support himself and his growing narcotic dependency. Kent saw something he could use, in Benji and told him so. He promised Benji a place in the world and an education.

  In the end, he'd delivered.

  Benji's luck with father figures fucking sucked. Even Chuck betrayed him, eventually. Chuck said he couldn't be blamed for trying. Get past the patchy mustache, Benji was a good looking boy, and a brooder too. Chuck liked brooders.

  What was it, he wondered aloud, one night, making that angel face scowl all the time? "You think I aint got baggage, kid? Hell, I was in South America most of the eighties. I worked with black marketeers trafficking organs and orphans to get to the drug cartels. Try remembering that every day. Or be like me and try forgetting. Point is I know you're carrying around some heavy shit, and as someone who's seen his share, I'm a safe place to unload."

  So, he did. He came clean to Chuck about the kidnapping and the murder and changing his name. He told him about his nightmares and the drugs and how utterly alone he felt. He said he had no idea how the mustache looked. He hadn't seen a mirror in weeks because the kid was always there, waiting. Just sniffling and waiting. He told Chuck he had fifty thousand dollars in his apartment that he could never spend. Never because of what it had cost him. Every time he looked at it, he saw himself and everytime he saw himself, he saw the boy. Every time he saw the boy he thought he should kill himself.

  And someday he would.

  Chuck leaned in now, as Benj was in full blubber mode. He held his head to his chest and stroked his hair. He cradled him tight in his arms and shushed him like a baby. He stared into Benji's eyes with a look of solidarity. In that gaze he told him what he wanted to hear: That it was alright. He wasn't a monster. It wasn't too late. His soul could mend.

  Then he slowly tilted Benji's chin up toward his mouth. He hesitated another second and then kissed him. It lasted maybe three seconds.

  "What the fuck!" Benji snapped his head back and shoved him hard. "What the fuck, man?
"

  "Benji-"

  "No. What the fuck did you just do, you fucking homo?" Benji got to his feet and began to pace in tight circles. "What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck." He'd be hyperventilating soon.

  Chuck tried to calm him. "Kid- whoa, okay, bad move. Sorry." He reached out a steadying hand for him, but backpedaling Benji tripped.

  "What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck?" Benji pounded his fists on Chuck's apartment floor. He cried harder and thrashed about like a fish on land.

  When he'd stopped his convulsions, Chuck helped him to his feet. "Look, let me get you a drink." He headed for the kitchen, but Benji grabbed his shoulder. Chuck turned around into Benji's best right cross. Hit him in the nose. Didn't break, but shit, it hurt. And the kid kept coming, cursing him the whole time. Eventually Chuck had to stop him with a gut jab.

  But it was Chuck who sank to his knees while Benji collected himself enough to walk out.

  Clutching his stomach with one hand and wiping his nose with the other, he managed, "Go to hell." going through the door.

  Chuck nodded. "I'm sure we will."

  Slam, crackle, pop. Benji coped.

  He woke up hearing the kid in his head. "My dad is gonna kill me. Please please lemme go. You don't understand, he's gonna kill me. I wasn't supposed to be at the mall."

  No shit. Fuck.

  He woke up and cursed himself for sleeping. Crack is wack, no doubt. It felt like somebody had fastened him to the floor with rubber straps. There was one around each leg, one on his waist and one over his neck. He lay there slowly registering where he was. Home. Living room. Floor. He had no recollection of the night before.

  "If I don't take the dog out, my dad's gonna kill me. Please please please please please."

  "SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

  He wasn't sure if he'd actually yelled, but his head was clearing. "You can let me go. I wont be mad at you. I wont say a thing. I want to go home. Please please please."

  Suddenly he was overcome with a suicidal notion. It got his blood up, got his body responding, and got him to the kitchen. There was nothing usable. Then he remembered a razor in the bathroom. Get there.

  He did and was disappointed to see he still registered in the mirror. Vampires didn't have souls, and they didn't reflect either. What wouldn't he give to be one. The kid was there too, hovering over his left shoulder, just blubbering silently. Pitiful. "Shut the

  fuck up. I'm doing it already."

  He grabbed his razor, but something stopped him. Something was wrong. Something unusual. He saw himself in the mirror. It had been a while, but he was different somehow, other than being pale to the point of blue. He was...bleeding. He touched his upper lip. It was irritated and a little scabbed, and the mustache was gone. What the...

  Then the blood surged to his brain and his eyes focused on the medicine cabinet. It was unhinged and there was an empty cache behind where there should have been fifty thousand dollars.

  Suicide could wait.

  He went to The Lab, a gay club Chuck had taken him to, and loathe as he was to admit it, had a pretty good vibe. There were always heavy beats and flashing lights in the air and just like soldiers, those faggots knew their drugs. You couldn't not score, really.

  'Course to most of them, it was recreational.

  He sat at a table there with some of Chuck's friends. They hadn't seen old Chuck for a couple of days, but why doesn't Benji hang out? Chuck may come around. It was fucking disco inferno in there. He slapped hands and head bobbed all the way around the booth. He sat down and focused on the music. Pet Shop Boys gave way to that tune by the body builder with the pony tail, gonna make you sweat. Way ahead of you, thought Benji, his old prick tease instincts taking over. He took off his shirt. It was hot.

  One of them looked like another ex-soldier, about fifty with tattoos up and down his arms and crammed into some black leather pants, middle that used to be all muscle, spilling over the waist and draped in a purple silk shirt. He got really friendly and loose with his stash. He took Benj out back to do some lines and get some fresh air, whatever else happened.

  Except what happened was when Benji snapped his head up, feeling the burn in the back of his throat and closed his eyes, the fag planted a kiss on him. Without thinking about it, Benji bit off everything that got stuck in his mouth. The soldier made a gargling scream and clutched his mouth with both hands. Benji spit out bits of tongue and lips and cheek and inhaled briskly through his mouth. The hot, metallic taste of someone else's blood was even better than the cocaine burn.

  He fell upon the older man with his skinny arms and legs pounding, not doing much damage, but the guy was in shock, curled up on the ground. Benji straddled him and beat him till he couldn't lift his hands. The whole time he was yelling. "You tell Chuck, I want my money! I want my money! I want my money! It's my money! Where's my money?" The man stared over his head, unconscious and defeated.

  Benj went through his pockets. He found money and drugs. He took both.

  It was Chuck he wanted, but there were plenty of other queers around and he wasn't feeling too particular for a while. He went back to his old ways. He knew how to find them, and let them come to him. He let them get him isolated, just like the kid was. He was so skinny and young and vulnerable, and just asking for it, really. He let them get a touch and get in close. Then he fucked their shit up. It didn't get old. It only got better and sharper as he recited the list. Fuck dad, fuck Kent, fuck the money, fuck Chuck. Fuck

  me. In that order.

  One night he went back to The Lab. It was stupid to the point of suicidal, but nobody ever accused Benji Metcalf of being a brainiac.

  They were waiting for him. Six of them took him into the bathroom and one held the door shut while the others worked him over. He'd heard once that it didn't hurt so bad if you don't fight it. He fought anyway. Fought for everything he hadn't before. The kid hadn't. Just went right along. He had whimpered and cried some like a pussy, but never even tried to defend himself. This was a source of bottomless rage Benji tapped into. Fought for all he was worth, which wasn't much after all.

  Finished, they supported him between them and hauled him out the back door, not an uncommon sight at The Lab. They dumped him in an alley several blocks away and he would have gone into shock, but when he hit the ground, a bolt of sheer agony opened his eyes. They sprang like a popped lock. The pain made his body work, though he could barely walk. His right arm was definitely broken and he operated like a zombie.

  Made his way by instinct or blind luck into the nearest bar he knew and opened his mouth. He went down screaming, begging for someone to help him, but not to take him to a hospital because he had warrants.

  He woke up back home. Home and on his couch. Took a long time to focus. He was coming off heroin. What the fuck? He didn't remember taking any. It looked like the place has been tossed, but it was hard to tell. He couldn't move his arm. It was broken right, but also fixed. Sorta. He looked down and saw that it'd been fastened tightly to his torso in a make shift cast of tape. He'd never seen so much Scotch Tape in all his life. It circled his arm, which was bent sharply like a chicken wing, then it wrapped around his body countless times as if to keep him from flying away. He knew he didn't have any tape in the house either which meant that somebody had brought his ass home, shot him up, tossed his pad and stopped at the Wal-Greens for tape?

  Whatever.

  He retraced what he could from the night before. Faggots, broken arm, bar, oblivion. Fuck if you think he was going back to The Lab. He started at the bar, Carl's Bad Tavern, a rough neck spot in south city. It was a long and painful walk, but he felt alert when he arrived.

  The daytime crowd was sparse and the bartender watched him struggle on to the stool with his gimp arm, bound in tape, exposed because he'd been unable to get the t-shirt over it.

  "Benji Metcalf, what the fuck?"

  "Where's Herman?"

  "Got the night shift, you know that."

  "Could yo
u call him?"

  "Fuck no. He's sleeping now, or playing with his kid. I'm not gonna interrupt either of those for anything you've got to say."

  "Thanks."

  "But I'll spot you a round on account of I heard about the other night."

  "Yeah, what'd you hear?"

  "Heard your shit was fucked up. Heard you passed out, and somebody had to take you home. You can't be making a habit out of that, by the way."

  "Sorry."

  "It's not the first time, is all I'm saying."

  It's not? thought Benji.

  "Anyway, the drink is for your friend. I heard about Chuck." The bartender raised his own glass and clinked it with Benji's, resting on the bar.

  Gravity tugged just a little harder at Benj. He felt he might slip off the stool. "What did you hear?"

  "Died. Found him yesterday. Of an overdose."

  "What?" He felt sat upon. It hit him harder than he'd have guessed it could have. He hated Chuck, right? Fucking homo made a move on him and stole his money, right? Didn't matter. Chuck was all he had.

  "Accidental, I heard. Didn't you know? Sorry, dude. I got your next round too." Benji knew better than that. It wasn't an accident any way you sliced it. Those soldiers knew their drugs. Question begged then, suicide or other?

  "Know who took me home?"

  "Nope. You'll have to come back later. Talk to Herman."

  He opted to sit in a corner booth the rest of the afternoon, and thought about Chuck. Thinking never cleared issues in Benji's experience, only clouded them. He was miserably confused. Maybe, if he was dead, he could be removed from the fuck list. Benji'd never really wanted him on it in the first place. He chewed a couple of pills and the adrenaline lift said that Chuck wasn't worth stressing out over. Fuck it.

  Herman came in around eight and told him some that some guy who runs a few errands for him, took him home.

  "What's his name?"