Lex Wick

Her fingers find their way to his throat, the sleeping lummox out under the weight of alcohol, her nails biting into the flesh of his sweat-slippery neck. He swallows air, choking on his tongue and her fingers jump a little, moved my Adam’s great mistake, the weight of sin lodged in the trachea. Still, there’s nothing biblical about the itching blanket, the thick sticking click of a dry drunken throat or the neon glow for moonlight snaking through flimsy caravan curtains made from table cloth. nothing sacrilegious about her fingers pushing on that apple, choking him with his own feature, hard nailed fingers making sure that damn neck is closed. he takes a quick half-breath, breathes heavily from that thick nose and remains passed out, his body waiting for a final moment as well. There’s silence, a car racing past ion the highway, a television or radio buzz, moths slapping against the window, slow limbs shifting on a mattress and her sweet breathing. She feels the apple jump, shift a little under her nails. He’s swallowing, something in there trying to live, some involuntary reaction that only seems like intelligence. She glances over to the clock, 2:46am.

* * *

Mixing the sweet yolk in with burnt tomatoes to soak it up with the soft toast. There’s fresh coffee in the pot, a cold mouthful left in his cup. Every shift on the stool ruffles the letter in his pocket, a fresh cup of coffee, he says, then he’ll read it.

That empty hotel room, sheets laid open on one side and her sweet perfume fading into stale cigarette smoke. He lit a cigarette anyway, exhaling and cursing himself, then the letter still under the fake bouquet.

The waitress hobbles over, gesturing with the pot, he nods, reaching back for the thing in his back pocket. She lets the coffee slip slowly from the pot, steam fragrance filling the space. He nods her a thank you but she’s already gone. It’s the disgusting yellow paper of motel stationery, nothing special at all. He unfolds it and looks at the blur of handwriting, taking a long draught of the bitter brew and waiting for something else to happen. Instead its silence, the thin coffee sliding don his throat with a human gulp. He shoves the last fork of food into his mouth, moves the plate aside and lifting the letter reads;

Dear Harry,

You know I’ve gone now. It’s the end of this for me.

You know I’ve hated you for a long time. You don’t want me to be happy. You don’t even know what happiness is. Anyway, there’s enough her to get back home.

You don’t care anyway … at least I know that.

You’re a bastard.

He swallows his food, washes it down with another mouthful of black coffee, leaves.

* * *

She’s got her clothes and photographs in a bag ready to burst at her feet. People rush past, thoughts of her mother, sitting on her bed, maybe holding the soft teddy she bought for her four year old daughter, the empty cupboard door still open. She’s got her ticket tucked under her thigh, still nothing but a piece of paper. still no call for the bus out of here. She makes outfits in her mind, assessing her possessions, flashes of the smiling faces in those memory photographs, trying to forget them quickly so she has something to savor again. her watch confirms 11:30, tired eyes on the wide open doors full of people pouring in, all purposeful, somewhere to go, places to be. She looks back at her feet, white socks into tight black shoes, too old for that now, nothing else to change into. She unzips her bag to find the bus schedule, check it, stuff it back in and zip the bag again. new people around her, another old person next to her, breathing heavily, not from relief, its just a place to sit. The old man smiles, she looks away, back to her bag and white socks, back to the entrance. The watch again, 11:32, the sun picking her through the window, stinging one side of her face, keeping her alive for another moment. Behind her now, he taps her on the shoulder. She turns, its him at last, her small face wakes up, smiles for the first time today. he takes her hand and kisses her. they embrace over the plastic seat, trying to pull each other closer, and old man and plastic in the way. They break apart long enough for him to face her, takes her unto his arms again, raising her off her feet and she forgets everything; the ticket on the seat and her mother left in that house with the man they want to get away from.

She’s got those snake blood hands to strangle with, she’ll give you something to die for, got a taste for bile that one does. I’ll give you her story, yeah sure, scrape myself back to the keys like you want, choke back these cigarettes, spin out this fucking tale stained with blood tears and that wailing child you’d cover your eyes to forget about.

The people filled orphanage gave birth to her, bunked her in with liars, made that strange reality a flesh. Kids throwing stones in the grounds, a litany of transitional strangers taking turns to stroke her hair made the disgusting love-thing possible … you, me everyone can do this, she thought, yeah them, but really no one. There’s those dead eyed kids, a few teachers that are paid to give hope and the usual bed cleaners.

Is it placed or chosen into a warm home with strangers who can’t get that self-loving pity out of those eyes. This is your (her) room now, too pink and soft, could dry sheets make sense, a dead child’s stuffed animals staring out for love, stacked in an adult pile. All she does is stuff a few things into the top two drawers, sit down on the carpet, let the sunlight bake her flesh and wait for the next thing to happen. it’s a few hours before dinner, the sun backs into its corner after a while, she plucks a few teddy bears from the pile, touches them a little, doesn’t want to touch them too much, puts them back.

Listening to their music, school friends on the ground, drunk, hands on each other, tongues visible in their kisses, candles melting onto the tool shed bench, a parent out with them every so often, just to turn the dial down and chat with a few kids they’ve seen before. She sits across from other strangers, they take her a block away, tell her she’s different. They smoke drugs, she falls in love, some people end up there, surround them all with wide eyed drunken curiosity. She’s in a dark street, stepping towards lights, alone.

She’s had dates before, lies about herself, makes up a great job for her surrogate father, tries to drink too much, get that confidence. Only struggling down the street with all the strangers makes sense, gives her something to talk about … ‘the thing about these people is …’. he holds her up, laughing, good catholic girl, falling to her knees again and again, stuffing her into a cab. She doesn’t say she wants to go, falls into his lap. he tells the driver where he lives.

That same crowd, coffee, tutes, past lesson insights, $6.50 focaccias in that leafy suburb. She’s got a few ideas she keeps to herself, lets the rich kids pay, give her a lift somewhere. ‘No thanks’ she says, grabs her coat, a thin guy with glasses joining her down t he street. They talk about things, he makes sense, tells her about his family, she adds him up like money. They kiss near the bus stop, he asks about her and she gives him a phone number and asks for twenty dollars.

Too much wine, nice food, nice view, nice waiters, he asks her to marry him, she gives him that yes answer too quick, he sits back, takes the box from his pocket, slips the $6000 ring onto her finger, she finishes her wine, smiles at him. They sit n silence for a moment, the waiter comes, she orders a scotch and he gets nothing. So, she gets drunk, its closing time and they ask them to leave. he pays them the money, she barely touches him as they get up, leave and get into his car.

The cleaner sweeps around her, too much silent respect, putting those empty bottles away, asking questions like “where do you want this?” and “are you going to use this today?” and “where does sir keep the…”. So she’s the nothing person, the meaty thing drunk on the lounge to answer questions on where the master wants his stuff. “Anywhere!” she yells back, the cleaner already too far away, making their bed. After 2pm, the silent phone, clear skies across the bay, no visitors for two weeks, a woman itching around the house, taking too long and more ice melting into the scotch.

“I think this is what you want” she tells him. He slumps into the hard wooden chair, another purchase this year to fill the dining room. “You want someone else around here, don’t you?” she tells him. He lets her do what she wants again, signs the adoption papers, gives her money for the plane ride to pick out the child. Someone else around here, she wants, someone else for this guy to love.

There’s a group of friends, praising the adoption, giving her too much cause for righteousness. She calls it “her little black kid”, she loves that her husband has so much love to give … makes those long nights with cocktails and strange young successful men more important. She breathes for the first time in years, those friends of hers, hate her disgusting opinion, try to get away without offence. She makes her way hoe before midnight, her husband curdled up on the lounge with their daughter.

“You sick fucking prick! You love that little black bitch don’t you! Well. that’s it, you ugly fuck … that’s all you’ve got now! Better get used to it fucker … you’re never going to have me again, you got that, arsehole?!”.

He barely listens to her, talk softly to his daughter, lets his wife vomit into the toilet and pass out in some bed.

I lost my money
gambling on a cheap slut
but that same night
I fucked my girl like never before.
There’s a poetry there
somewhere, takes more
than me to make it
even now the gentle kisses
come free and clean
There’s a tenderness
in everyday life,
in her unknowing eyes
and the free new life
I gave myself
simply by not
doing anything.
Things I tell
others, mean nothing
let them speak their mind
boring, relentless, soulless
things that I watch, record
someday they appear
on this page.
The worst of it
they hardly make it
here, or anywhere.

Their eyes and frail voices
betray the booming confidence
so we stare and wait until tears
or complaints surface.

Schizophrenic obligation
a new reality.
Keep yourself locked away
in the daylight.

We forgot things;
being together is sick;
silence, ignorance.
Basically moving on.

A new thirst, teeth,
hungry that taste new born
things, we hate the old
because they already know.

The End came for us
the music stayed
the same, like the baby
cuddling any mother.

I’d already given my friendships away
just to help this young girl junkie
get off the shit, the fucking dead ‘H’
and she made it worth it by fucking the shit out of me
and although I didn’t wear a condom
I felt safe and sure that this thing
never shared a needle or did any strange junkie shit.
Luckily I was right and my cock maintains its integrity.

Since then I’ve become engaged and its been a decade
since I’ve worn a condom and this story
is the worst thing a parent can hear
their special young girl gets to be a junkie
or fucked by a benevolent boy who saved a junkie
and the confessional gets to hear himself a story
that has no good or bad guys and he can’t
even condemn a guy for not wearing a condom or
saving a heroin addict or tell the parents its wrong
to save a junkie and then fuck their daughter unprotected.

the beautiful irony of static religion…
it becomes so meaningless that every action is praiseworthy.