The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death

  —What the fuck are you doing here?

  —Studying. What's your favorite part? Mine's when they tour Europe together.

  I walked to Chev's 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.

  —I'm 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 she's been watching those shows about those huge birthday parties girls throw and she's doing a theme that's supposed to be Studio 54 but it looks like it's going to be more like Adult Film Stars of the Future and the place is infuckingsane because she's 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.

  —Chev's 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 he's 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 don't do that, it'll get infected and your nipple will fall off and the rich, shallow and handsome afterbirth you're destined to marry will reject you and you'll 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 didn't come from the Arby's or the In-N-Out.

  She flipped pages.

  —No he's 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.

  —Doesn't matter. He likes me. I can tell.

  —He likes to fuck you.

  She looked up from the book.

  —Well, duh! I'm 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 don't know. To apologize for being a dick maybe.

  She flipped the pages of the book.

  —Well if that's how your family apologizes for being a dick, how much do I get?

  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.

  —I'm 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 didn't, like, know you were there or anything. But Chev told me. I didn't 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. I'm 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 Chev's bedroom.

  —Don't 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 he's drunk and needs a booty call.

  Her lips thinned, she started collecting her books.

  I kept talking, walking to the door.

  —And you'll tell your friends that's cool, you can use the hookup, but when you call him to get the same action, he won't even bother to answer. He'll see your name on his phone and put it right back in his pocket and say something about how it's some chick I was hooking up with and now she's 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, I'm 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 what's the point? Apologies don't 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 I've 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 recyclables 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! We're just alive! Just like you! You don't have to ignore us because we're homeless!

  I turned and walked backward away from them.

  —I'm not ignoring you because you're homeless. I'm ignoring you because you scream at each other in the middle of the night when I'm trying to sleep. And also because I hate that Santa hat you wear every Christmas because you think it's gonna make people give you more money or something. I'm ignoring you not because I don't like homeless people, but because I don't like you, personally.

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

  The homeless couple's 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.

  —Don't fuck with the guild, asshole. r />
  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.

  —Don't! 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.

  —I'm fucking serious!

  I choked.

  —I know! I know! I know! I can tell by the way you're strangling me!

  Two more guys in ski masks appeared behind him.

  —Come on, man, let's go, people are watching.

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

  —They're just fucking crackheads.

  I rubbed my throat.

  —Hey just because they're homeless doesn't mean they're 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, that's 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 Chev's 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 aren't 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 don't know why you're 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 people's genitalia! You wield needles for the purpose of inflicting voluntary bodily mutilations! You don't 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 métier, 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.

  —You're 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.

  —I'm cool, I'm 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 I'm 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. I'm 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 I'm afraid you're mistaken. Wounds like these, you only get them one place. Between your mom's 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.

  —I'm 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 hadn't called me, you'd 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 hadn't been talking to her about shit that's none of her business and that you should know better than to talk about with chicks you're nailing and that you know damn well you're 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. It'll get squirrelly.

  He pulled his head back in and closed the door.

  —I'm not gonna be kicking Dot to the curb next week.

  —Fine. Week after next.

  He lit up and blew smoke.

  —I like her. I'm not kicking her anyplace. She's cool and she's gonna be around for awhile. Adapt to the concept.

  I looked for my Mobil shirt.

  —Fine. You adapt to the concept that you shouldn't be talking about some things to chicks you've been fucking for twenty-four hours. No matter how much you're 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 who's dealing with that shit.

  I stopped looking for the shirt.

  —What?

  He raised a hand.

  —Look, man, I'm not saying it's the same thing, but we live together. You know? And you're my best friend. And this shit ain't easy. I mean, all this, this whole asshole of the year thing you're doing, it ain't easy. Someone, someone I like, asks me why you're such a dick, that's a complicated answer. Because I want her to know that you're not a dick. Well, not just a dick. That you're 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 t
hat, what happens to you has a tendency to rain shit all over me, I don't 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, it's 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 ain't fucking easy. It is trying, man. It is hard work. And I appreciate you leaving some of Thea's cash this morning. And I think it's great you're doing some work for Po Sin. And if you can't 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 I'm 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 that's whining meeeeeeee, ooooooh meeeeeeee.

  He took his hand from his forehead.

  —Not cool, man.

  I brushed his hand from my shoulder.

  —Where's 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 I'd 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.

  —Where'd that come from? Thought your note said Thea sent an ascending sequence.

  —She did.

  —Thought your note said it ended in nine.

  —It did.

  —That's like a grand there.

  —Yeah.

  —So where's it come from?

  I didn't look up.

  —L.L. gave it to me.

  He didn't 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 didn't 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 haven't 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.