Thank you.
Thank you so much for that introduction.
Where are you now?
Oh there you are.
And I'm going to drink some water, which Jenny
was strong enough not to do.
I know her.
It's not as weird as it looks.
So I think that I will read from the story,
also not yet published, also somewhat raw, that--
and are reproduced on this lovely broadside he made.
This is from a collection coming out early next year called,
I Knew You.
I think.
I think that's the name of it.
This particular story is quite rude, quite profane,
and so I tried to cut out the worst
bits in case there were children or other innocents present.
But it's still fairly rude, so cover your ears
if you're frightened.
And basically, it's just-- it's a story about this sort
of angry teenager who masturbates a lot,
likes old music from the-- well, I shouldn't say old.
He likes music from the 70s and 80s and he calls it vintage.
And his parents have recently gotten divorced,
his father left his mother for a far younger woman.
He also likes Latin.
He's quite good at Latin.
So I'll just sort of start in the middle of the story
after the masturbation to preserve your innocence.
He wandered toward the mamacita's lair.
On her vanity, there were cosmetics by the score.
Once, he'd seen a price tag on a pot of her face cream.
400 bucks.
That was so desperate.
The lotions and the powders hadn't helped.
When he was little, sometimes they'd
gone to parties without him.
Beforehand she'd let him watch her dress, nothing too perv.
She always had a lacy slip on by the time she let him in.
He used to watch her put up her hair like in the movies.
Rich kids watch their mothers get ready.
Good feeling.
Dinner parties in evening wear, she'd
been so deft with bobby pins it looked like sleight of hand.
Magic, he called it then.
He flashed to one time when her long hair
in the space of a few seconds was
transformed into a great, shiny round atop her head.
That should look elegant.
Audrey Hepburn.
Magic, mama.
She picked him up and twirled him.
He'd been so small.
Hard to believe.
He held one lipstick, then another.
He sat down in her chair.
If he were more cross-dressing, he'd
cover his face in all her makeup shit, but that wasn't his bag.
No, true, it'd be perfect maternal horror show.
He'd freak her out when she came home if he was done up
all clownish and faux femme.
That'd be a fast ride to prescribed counseling.
Although his mother would also say
like she'd said about that neighbor kid,
gender fluidity is perfectly natural.
Still, counseling would be called for, which he of course,
would never attend.
You don't want to hurt me, Jemmy.
I know you don't.
You know how much I love you.
You're all I'm living for.
There were also perfumes, bottles dusty.
The deadbeat.
I used to give her those.
He picked up a bottle, spritzed here and there.
You could watch the vapor descend.
If he were high, he'd spritz them until they were all empty.
She'd never know.
Didn't use them.
Just kept the bottles there, centuries.
The bottles were like rows of soldiers
keeping watch over her rest.
Shit yes, like clouds.
They settled on the vanities counter,
dulling the brown shine, darkening the denim
over his knees.
That was the smell.
One of the perfumes was the same the house-selling woman wore.
He masturbated in front of this realtor in the previous scene.
It made him remember, or no, it made him want to remember.
He couldn't reach it.
Back when he wasn't old enough to know himself,
that was when it was from.
Velut arbor, ita ramus, just like the tree,
so was the branch.
Never, never.
She showed her sadness like a split bone
poking out of her skin.
Compound fracture.
A form of nakedness that could never be attractive.
Well, not him.
I show no bones, he said aloud.
He had to do something.
Doing, never lately among preferred activities.
And yet, if the shoe fit.
But what could he even do?
She liked flowers.
Adored flowers, she once said.
Simple, easy.
Not asking so much, was it?
But she never got them.
Not anymore.
She was a baby bird on the sidewalk,
flapping with broken wings.
When he thought about her, he was
close to feeling that brittle snap himself.
His own wrist, or a leg cracking.
It wouldn't be the pain he minded, but the helplessness.
Bullshit.
He had a card.
That shit, now he could do.
Not one bunch.
Not even 10.
A house of flowers.
True, they were strapped for cash, ergo selling the house.
But she said they were in bankruptcy.
She said they were headed for Chapter 11, like volume at 11,
just like that vintage Spinal Tap hilarity.
Turn the volume up to 11?
He googled.
They forgave all debts in Chapter 11.
So that was the plan.
Nothing fancy.
Plain and simple house.
Full of flowers.
Not cut flowers, because they died too fast.
They'd die all at once.
Turn the house into a brown forest of death.
Too depressing.
No, flowers in pots.
That plant place she liked on Sunset, Silver Lake.
He'd bring them back in truckloads.
What do he have?
Three hours?
Or four if she worked late.
Maybe he'd have them delivered.
Money was no object.
When she walked in, 1,000 blooms.
No gray or brown there.
Orange, yellow, and red, transit umbra looks permanent.
Shadows pass, but the light remains.
A part of her, sure, would be quite amply pissed.
The rest of her would remember even
when he was gone, he moved out, too old to live at home,
for all the time after when she would have to be alone.
He went down to the garage, took the keys off the hook
and got into the work truck, the only solid thing Lord Vader
had left them.
Waited as the garage door cranked up, waited longer as
a nanny passed on the sidewalk with a stroller in front of her
and a little kid toddling behind.
The rich parents were the only even half-smart ones.
Outsourcing.
He'd never got what was in it for parents.
You saw them everywhere, fussing around their kids,
doing dumb, small shit.
Always bent over fastening things, unfastening them.
Wiping the offspring.
Pushing or pulling them.
Sitting them in small chairs.
Rolling them, swinging them, feeding them with small spoons.
Servants, for no money.
There was a word for that.
Weird how everyone wanted to act wild, then, in the next breath,
tame.
It happened overnight.
You partied, then you got married and turned
in your balls.
You lined up to turn them in.
Eagerly packaged them, tying a bow on top.
If you didn't have kids, there was still a chance maybe.
Because even married, as long as you didn't have kids,
you could keep doing drugs, go out a lot.
Nursery, it said on the sign, like the little plants had
their own rattles and cribs.
But inside, it was disappointing.
There weren't as many flowers as he'd expected.
There were mostly leaves, and stems.
Green parts.
Even the flowers were mostly lame.
Not like starbursts, not like glamor, they just sat there.
God damn, nothing was ever fucking splendid!
Never splendid.
God damn?
Was he supposed to go home with a bunch of ass bushes?
Pots of ass dirt?
Bullshit!
He kicked a pot.
It hurt his toe.
Looked closer.
The blooms on it were seedy and bluish.
Agapanthus.
Stevie's Wonder.
Son to part-sun.
Hybrid.
Seriously?
A plant named for Stevie Wonder?
Sick!
Jeremy?
No way!
Nuh-uh!
The new wife, Laura.
Pregnant as shit!
Uh, he said, grunting ape-like.
Jeremy, hey!
It's so great to see you!
You still haven't been by the house!
What are you doing at a garden store?
She reached out and hugged him, her bag sliding off
her shoulder and hitting him as the baby bump
nudged where it should never go.
The floor was slanted down, plus she
was just the wrong amount shorter than him.
So wrong.
Through a veil of skin and blubber,
his fetal half-sister was barely three inches
from his D. He looked past the new wife's shoulder
at a fat frog.
It was a planter thing made out of china or whatever,
and out of it stuck a bunch of those ugly flowers
you saw on cement doorsteps.
Wrinkled, a pylon color orange.
The frog's bulgy, heavy-lidded eyes made it look sly and evil,
like it would slurp out a tongue and gulp your head.
Nothing, he said, pulling back.
Dad here?
At work.
I wanted to surprise him with some new plantings.
I'm not actually putting them in.
I can't even touch my toes!
Just buying them for the gardener.
How about you?
Are you running an errand?
It was wrecked anyway.
Dumb idea.
He shook his head.
I should go.
Hey will you do me a favor first?
She asked, and winced like asking hurt a bit.
Can you come with me, pull that cart
and maybe load my plants into the car?
Five minutes.
That's it, I promise.
He'd come for the sake of his mother.
Now here he was serving public enemy number one.
Normally he didn't say much to the new wife.
Safer that way.
She acted nicey-nice, plus she actually seemed to mean it,
so it was hard to hate her guts when
she got all up in your grill.
Ergo, he kept his trap shut.
Vir sapit, qui pauca loquitur.
He is wise, who talks little.
But now she cornered him.
He grabbed the handle of the plant wagon,
walking behind her to the parking lot.
It reminded him of the old Radio Flyer
he used to pull around his stuffed animals in.
His favorite was a camel that smelled
bad from having its foot sucked.
Where had the camel gone?
Of course you got too old for toys
and didn't use them anymore.
All that was fine.
But where was the camel?
In a landfill somewhere.
He loaded the plants for her.
They were boring.
Just a sip.
In the background, the child bride
had chatted on about him coming to dinner,
how the dadster would be over the moon to see him.
Total bullshit.
His father hadn't been over the moon in his life.
Over a slut's ass cheeks, maybe.
His eyes were dead, like a shark's.
Flowers filling the house.
What a cheesy idea that had been.
Before, it had seemed kickass.
Now cheesy and stupid.
Clearly a Mary Jane moment.
Slamming down the SUV hatch, he saw a blur of movement
along some bushes near his feet.
A cat.
Small, gray with patchy fur.
Looked homeless.
Did it smell homeless?
Could a cat get BO?
Oh my God, is that a kitten?
She went scrambling after it, but she
couldn't bend over far enough.
Chick was basically a human water balloon, dangling,
wobbling on a stick.
Stand back, that thing could burst!
She made a wheezing noise, then staggered sideways
against her car door.
He'd ask if she was OK, but it wasn't in the bylaws.
Whenever it randomly occurred to him to act normal/human to her,
he thought of the dadster hitting that.
Made him wish he had the talent of spontaneous puking.
Slowly, she righted herself, mouth breathing.
That poor little guy is going to get run over, she said.
Don't you think?
All that traffic, like 20 feet from here?
Oh my God!
It's just a kitten!
It was small, sure, but looked ancient.
A cat Gandalf.
Merlin.
A wrinkled Graybeard.
If it was human, it'd be bent over
and carrying some kind of gnarled staff,
gumming and mumbling.
Luckily, it wasn't.
Say what you like about a decrepit cat,
it was still better than a decrepit human.
It faced away from them, tail waving, head under a bush,
and then turned around with something in its mouth.
Oh, said Laura.
Oh no, is that a little mouse?
Child bride thought fleabag feral cats were cute kittens.
She thought moldy hot dogs were itty-bitty mice.
She thought his father was a great guy.
[LAUGHTER]
He could see the package.
Greasy litter under the hedge.
It's like a Hebrew National, he said.
She looked relieved.
Hey, but won't you come over later, please?
Just come have dinner with us.
It'd be so great.
He shrugged.
She kept staring at him and smiling,
all hopeful like she was hanging on his answer.
Finally, he did a half nod, grudging.
That way, if she tried to hold him to it, he had a way out.
What did they call it in the CIA?
Deniability.
Yeah, plausible deniability.
On the way home, he saw a billboard with a puppy on it.
Maybe that was what he should have gotten.
A puppy.
His mother was allergic to cats, but not to dogs.
His father never let her have a dog when they were married,
but she was always drawn to other people's.
Scratch them behind the ears obsessively,
bought gourmet treats for them.
Once she'd driven a platter of beef stroganoff
leftovers to the pound to give to the homeless pit bulls
waiting to be put to sleep.
The pound didn't want it though.
Something about sour cream.
She had to throw out the whole platter.
After, she said to him, I mean, this
is exactly what's wrong with the world.
Maybe what she needed wasn't anything like flowers.
Maybe that was like a Band-Aid.
Some people let their babies cry for hours
just to teach them to shut the fuck up.
Probably worked, but then the babies
grew up and turned into psychos.
Still, maybe what she needed was tough love.
It was too late for her to turn psycho anyway.
Late-onset psycho wasn't a thing.
Her shrink didn't do shit, was what it sounded like to him
whenever she told him the stuff the shrink had said.
Her shrink just basically agreed with her.
He drove the truck into the garage again.
Her car was there.
She was home.
In the kitchen, she stood by the sink.
She had cooking stuff out, a pan and some noodles,
but she wasn't cooking yet.
The water was running and running, just
flowing right down the drain.
But all she did was stand, staring out the window,
her hand frozen on the tap.
You'd think something amazing was happening outside.
A naked marathon.
I'm going over there, he said abruptly.
He opened the fridge, peered around for sodas.
She always said they were bad for his skin
but he'd stashed a couple of cans.
Go?
She asked, her little girl voice distant.
To his house for dinner.
The tap was still running and she didn't turn around.
He caught a glimpse of the telltale red and white logo,
pushed aside a lead burrito in tinfoil.
Closed the fridge door, popped the tab.
The dadster was an asshole, fully certified,
but life went on.
Actually it could be funny to watch his dickhead personality
play out like comedy.
If you put yourself outside it, like you
were watching a movie, then shit,
it could really crack you up.
Step outside homes, then laugh like a hyena.
Plus, the child bride tried to be nice to him 24/7.
That baby mama worked hard.
She had fresh skin, a peaches and cream complexion.
Even fat with the fetal intruder she was a yummy mummy,
no one could deny it.
He could step outside himself and laugh,
but his mother could never.
She didn't know how.
He went up behind her, reached out with his left hand
and turned the water off.
She was still staring out the window.
Any second she'd start crying.
He knew the signs.
I went out to get you flowers, he said.
It made him nervous to say it now.
It was so hokey, but he forced himself.
But none of them were good enough, so I didn't get any.
Sorry.
Anyway, then that Laura girl showed up
and made me carry plants into her car,
and nagged at me for like 10 straight minutes
to come to their house tonight.
I had to say yes.
She basically tricked me.
It was a lie, but a white lie.
Still, enough tough love for now.
Just going over there was bad enough.
No, it's good honey, she whispered, nodding.
No, you should go.
It's healthy.
But he was supposed to be angry, wasn't he?
He did the angry.
She did the sad.
Division of labor.
It's good for you to spend time with your father, she said.
Turning away, she lifted the back of a hand to her face,
maybe wiping a tear, maybe not.
Couldn't see.
I will, but I don't want to, he said.
That, at least he could give her.
Wasn't a house full of flowers, but better than nothing.
You're sweet, but you don't have to hate him to be loyal to me.
Go have a nice meal.
And if you have to get stoned, wait till you get home.
I will, he promised.
The dadster typically smelled it on his breath
and went Republican, droned on about how stoners would never
bring home the big bucks, did he always
plan to be an underachiever?
How many spare brain cells did he
have to waste by killing them?
He would 100% wait.
He thought the words a solemn dignity, like a bolt
from the blue.
Inspiration.
He would be dignified from now on.
His earlier midday self, first jacking off then flaunting it,
was hereby dismissed.
That was the old him.
This was the new.
A solemn dignity.
A second cousin of hers with Down syndrome
had gotten baptized as an adult, if you
could call her that, when her mind was
eight years old till death.
Point was, she wanted to be a Catholic,
though her whole family was regular WASPs,
because she liked the saints, the stained glass windows,
and as his mother said, gruesome depictions of the crucifixion.
So she worked hard to learn the lines of whatever,
and the parents sent out fancy invitations
with gold letters stamped on them, and he had to go.
His mother made him wear a suit.
At the time, he'd been pissed before they went.
Because if the cousin hadn't had Down syndrome,
he could have stayed at home.
Nobody would have given a crap.
Baptism, teenage whim, they would have said.
You could bet on it.
But she did have Down syndrome so on
went the tie that felt like it was choking him,
and the gay shoes that pinched.
In the church, she was dressed in a snow white robe
and smiled without end.
She beamed.
His whole life, he could swear he'd
never seen anyone look that happy.
Do you renounce Satan, the author and prince of sin?
I do.
I renounce him, he muttered under his breath,
exiting the kitchen with this soda in his grip.
What sweetie?
Nothing.
And all his works?
I do.
Thanks.