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To Chris Wallace's previous piece

Siren

You write these poems. You’re stiff and you feel clumsy but you have to do it, you have to convey your love for her. You want to give her something special, a gift. It’s so frustrating—telling her, and telling her, now painting and writing it for her—when you can’t really show her. And you know that she doesn’t even like them. She smiles all right, she makes nice sounds, but there is no connection, no release. She is simply not satisfied. And you are helpless—futilely trudging on, writing. The last time especially. She was flat, uninterested, when you gave it to her. You’ve been crippled and maimed by her indifference before, but that moment has begun to haunt you—feeling more and more… inarticulate.

There are poems… It’s like everything: some people are good at them, most aren’t. And, of course, there are the classes to teach you to write them better, but you’re not buying it.

And you have to, have to, tell her. You tell her,

"I told you you don’t love me."

"Whatever," she says, "I’ll frame it with the rest of them, soon as I get a chance."

"No, it’s all right… I mean, if it’s not good enough or whatever, you know, that’s fine—"

"No… uh, whatever…" She busies herself around the room.

You’re powerless. You say Fuck in your head. You get grumpy and aggravated because she’s all moody and huffing. Your chest and back starts pushing together, and your heartbeat gets heavy,

"Babe… ?"

Nothing.

You tell yourself that you knew it, knew it all along. She’s so cold. –No love. She doesn’t love you. You knew it… You think she must know somehow— You tell yourself you don’t love her either (you comfort yourself, sulking). "Shit, baby, I’m sorry, but, I’m just trying to fucking let you know how much I love you. That’s all." You feel empty and sick in your love—hating it, hating yourself.

She moves around her room, angry—mad, quick little gestures. You watch her with every motion. You can’t tell if she’s cleaning up or what she’s doing. You can feel that pressure going up into your ears and running your scalp. It’s fucking cold in the room—the little apartment she has on Speedway; all that gray air in the window. You want to cry like a little bitch. You think she is the Fucking bitch. You say, I don’t love you either… to yourself. Everything in your head starts to push on your eyes. You want to plead with her, like, Right now, c’mon, let me tell you how much I love you. And, fuck, why won’t you just love me back?

You resent the fact that she can move around the room with such presence, athletic and elegant, even when she’s steaming. …You love that. You think she should be kissed and petted like a kitten, her blond blond hair. "You’re no help at all. We haven’t decided

anything about this room," she says, just like that, a whole new subject, not even fazed.

"What do you think?"—not a clue what to tell her.

"Red. Right? It’s crazy red, that’d be so hot, don’t you think. Yeah, it’s gotta be red… Oh, here, and look—See, I framed your last poem, pouter."

"Hm."

Then she whispers as if someone could hear the two of you, "I got all wet when I read it."

Everything inside of you smiles. She gets up on top of you, slow slow, putting one knee around each of your hips, just seductive as shit. The back of your neck crawling, hot. All your skin pulling down.

She is remarkable, dazzling—even after three years she drives you crazy; the smell of her skin is enough to set you off. You understand poetry (even if she can’t feel yours) because of her. She is it; She is everything. Meaning. Life. You come out of the moment admiring the love you have for her, admiring yourself in a pure moment. But it all disappears quickly. Your skin is beating, hot. You love her too much, you are exposed, she has you beaten, whipped, "Babe… I have to go to work," you say, already too far along. This would be no good, you think, no, it’ll have to wait till it can be done right. You push her off, scared and upset inside of yourself (mad at yourself, mad at your weakness).

"Bay beee…" she pleads. Oh that whisper, oh god…

You scream at yourself in your head, You weak, weak loser.

And you go to work.

You don’t go up to Sunset and over (you forget to), so you drove right fucking past the big old pillar thing on Pico—the giant black obelisk (that you hate) in the middle of the square. It looks like one of those fertility statues, you decide. You feel nauseous and weak at the thought of it… your spine empty. So you drive through the intersection with your eyes closed and turn up the pop shit on the radio (Of course you can’t listen to Too Short anymore—"I got your bitch fiending for my dick" Of course not, not now, not anymore). You know what Uncle Fred would say, what he’s said a million times: ‘that shit on the radio’ll make you weak, make you a sucker.’ (You know only love makes you weak).

Still you feel justified in listening too the radio instead of your CDs. You’ve been telling Johnny for weeks that all these rap guys are just like animals anyway—sick ass greed and lust; all about their bitches and blunts. Just like dogs. You feel pathetic and sick saying it, but you believe it somehow. You hear the hunger and ridiculous arrogance in their voices. The machismo and misogyny: frightening.

And your case is getting to feel like a marathon through a gauntlet, these hood thug types up for raping some black tramps. It’s become everything you can do to not jump across the stand and strangle the fuckers during a session. You put on a calm face—really easy, you’ve felt dead and lost in the courtroom for years now, the losses piling up. You ask silly, repetitive questions, your mind wandering. Your thoughts actually seem to dissolve, exposing the brain’s underbelly, completely and totally consumed by her. Her face is on everyone you see, every word heard.

And your line of questioning is just as lost. "Will you repeat for the jury, Mr. Wilson, those specific events in question, those moments just prior to your exiting the dance club. You and your entourage, that is."

"Well, uh, the girl was all up on me in the club. She was asking me what it was like with me. She was grabbing my coc—my crotch area. She dropped down and was… and was performing fellatio on me in the booth."

Clearly sexual assault, whatever they said. "You made that little ho give you some head."

"Objection."

"Withdrawn."

"Nah, that chick… Miss Harper, wanted it, sir. She was begging for me to talk about it to her. The she said she was getting ready, you know, and going crazy. I was just helping her out."

"A charity rape—"

"Objection."

"… You are so kind. Withdrawn."

Vile creatures, all of them. You want to just choke the machismo out of ‘em. Uncle Fred’s right, ‘never shouldda given’em rights.’ You could see them out with their entourage, like they were some sort of royalty, talking all loud like these blacks do, like animals, just like animals with their tongues out to every girl that walks by. And they all told the same story—they must have gotten together about it—out at the dance club (loud rap music), drinking champagne, hooping and hollering at females. You knew they pulled those poor girls down, dumb, money hungry girls themselves, pulled them down and drugged them and took them home and shit— Guilty. Absolutely guilty. How can they play like they’re not just guilty?

It ain’t like the old days. When you had it mastered. When the system was your toy, your vehicle—manipulating, cajoling, teasing things the way you wanted them. You had real control then. Now. Now, who is not impotent in the face of the system? A hopeless lot it is, you think. You sit down, miserable and tired, hoping for the clock to speed up.

So you and Johnny go for drinks, putting the trial out of sight out of mind. You speed through martinis like you’re racing someone—your mind empty (save for her). And these chicks, just out of control gorgeous, are all over the place. College chicks. These chicks that go home with dumb ass fraternity dorks. Go home with them and are taken advantage of. You feel more sad for these girls than anything: thinking of your smeared days through college—coeds leaving your room to gray dawns, to give their friends the rave reviews. You and Johnny are swarmed in them, just sitting back, watching it all happen, watching them come to you. You feel strong, in the memory now, in the moment, tightening up, as the girls eye you and giggle. You have to brush off a couple of stinky Mexican chicks when some exotic tale comes through. You congratulate yourself on your looks. You think, God, it’s really a rough life just having them come to you.

But you see your girl everywhere around them, and you feel guilty. You feel weak, thinking about the beach—Times she walks down the boardwalk and all the guys, crowds in fact, would walk past you, pushing you out of the way, to talk to her. She would laugh, shy, playing shy, moments passing like years, before she would finally tell them, Thanks anyway, but you are her boyfriend. It was always like that with her. It still is. You know she tells other people, her friends, other men maybe, about your bed together. You feel scared and exposed, looking around you. You think maybe she does it to spite you—to pay you back for something. She must know about Diana.

You look down, picturing her out with some fuck while you are at work. You want to write her a poem, but you hear her laughing at you, mocking you to your face…

You think you could knock all these girls, drive them crazy, their boyfriends weak and ignorant at home while they’re screaming for you. You chat them all up for a while until your cell phone rings, your girl wants to go dancing. You and Johnny go and meet her friends at some colorful ass joint on Sunset—fucking music almost knocks you over before you get in: Tupac (raw, a hungry, bleeding voice). Walls shaking with the beats and everything was blurry, streaky with your martini gloss. Business men drink martinis, famous people, stars. Bogart drank martinis, said when he switched from scotch it was all down hill.

You sit down and Johnny’s just in luxury, the friends are fucking smoke, all of them. You have always wanted to knock the tall brunette and you’re sure she was down but, whatever. You think, Fuck Johnny.

Your girl is high, you can tell. You think, well, you never really can tell with her, it just fits her, you can’t see it (people like that, so in control, so at ease, have always made you want to just turn and run), she’s always so alive and in the moment or whatever. But you think she’s high. Her body moves so well, she’s got that grace, that— She’s already dancing around in the booth, jumping up and wiggling, singing with the songs and shit. The best dancer you have ever seen, blessed, just gifted—her nerves connected to Rhythm, life. You’re gloomy and left out, "Damn what time is it and you’re… are you always high?," the Belvedere talking—attention starved. She doesn’t answer. She just gets up and walks to the bar. You feel stupid and ashamed. You stare at her friends, fucking smoke, and the brunette looks ridiculous hot. Your buzz starts coming down and bringing you down with it. You lurch back into the Belvy, sinking. Thinking about that trip to New York and you and Diana. It was always so good with her, you think. You always felt so strong; control, power… She loved it and you guys had it the best, it lasted all night. With Diana it was easy—you were the conqueror. With everyone else… but with her… You don’t know what it is… Guilt stays there in the back of your throat. Cheating. Dirty weak word, cheating.

It didn’t transfer over, the power you had with Diana. (Why Not!?) You just mourn it.

Where’s your martini.

All those black rap fuckers, big clothes, and aggressive like Italians.

Mexican chicks. Martinis. That obelisk. Inarticulate. Guilt. Cheating.

Just Weak. And Johnny getting the brunette…

You sit there, nodding, feeling the warmth and beat coming off the velvet walls. It is a cave of sweat and passion and heat in here, your thinking… Your girl walks back by the table and snatches up her drink. She stands there dragging on the straw, fucking gorgeous, mini skirt, heels, this tight shirt, giving you this look like she wants to see if you see her. You shudder in her attention, her beam, lighting up. You scramble to parlay that into more—more her, more for you. She puts down her drink and walks off. You follow her, blurry, with your eyes.

She goes straight to the dance floor. There’s a group of people bouncing and nodding with the beat—Jay-Z, you think—and she starts dancing with them. You can’t really see and the martinis pull on you. You can make out one of the people in the crowd, this built, dark black thug looking dude. He moves up to your girl and starts bouncing his hips against hers. She doesn’t back away. She doesn’t even react. You get up, slow slow. You don’t even think of fear and whatever else, a spark running your spine. You don’t think Martini, coping, your body waving. Your girl moves closer to the thug and their hips are moving together in circles, tight tight. You stagger toward them. The people on the floor are backing up, forming a circle around them and hooping and hollering. The music gets louder, sweat flying, people jumping, higher. Your girl pushes her butt all the way into the thug’s pelvis. He pushes her with it, back and forth. She tosses her hair, writhing, her face painted with sex and the beat. She puts her hands up and shakes, so fucking alive, so in the beat. She turns around to face the thug and wraps her legs around his. She is sliding all over him. The crowd is roaring, rapt. Cheers come waving down off the balcony, up from the floor, your ears hot and buzzed. Your girl wraps her fucking hands around the thug and grabs his back. He puts his hands on her ass and pushes her and shakes her violently. Your shoulders are on fire and your ears are burning through you… Swirling, surging tide—rolls in the throat. The crowd crests and snaps, popping you backward, away. Elbows rattle you from everywhere. You shove your way into the circle—he’s all over her, he’s all over her—and grab the thug. Blurs. Smeary arms and lights. Someone grabs you from somewhere and you throw your arms at them, flailing, nuts. A big hand thumps on your back and a security guard is standing above you… You stand up, scurrying, drooling out the words, My girl, that black fucking bastard, my girl. The guard is iron and starts pushing you toward the door. Wailing. You can’t hear yourself for the crowd. The walls are hot hot red, swelling and pulsing—dripping heat, ecstasy. Tight tight. You look back and see your girl’s shirt coming off. The crowd is a swarm, a riot, screaming together. You are insane You jump up and down Crazy crazy You try to barrel through the fucking security guard Like a wall The fucking thug Don’t you see that fucking thug He is going to fucking rape my girl Don’t you see that fucking monster You pound at him with your shoulder Ahhhh You don’t have enough strength Rage and Fire Ahhhh and Blood is coming out of your skin Ahhhh your teeth snapping Your girl is wiggling fast Ahhhh and then you can’t see anything Ahhhh and the guard throws you into the parking lot.

These fucking bitches were standing there so you go up to them—dazed, shattered, empty—and start to chat them up, see what they are doing, your lips so heavy. Sunset quiet empty. These bitches these bishes, drunk And so you’re talking and shit and… This spic comes out of nowhere talking shit and You can’t really see… short, short little fucker. You hear yourself… talking. The little spic and shit and the lights blurry and the street and Sunset all blurry fuzzy loud talking shit and shit and the fucker talking shit and… bam… hits you…

And the lights are closing down, your head closing. My girl My girl, you think. You can’t see anything Your head your head, and you feel so weak and you scream and you hear a siren.

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