Broken String
Thirsty Work — Chapter 23: self-harm by promiscuity
Two young women from California travel to New Orleans in search of redemption after the death of their mother. Carolee thinks she will show her little sister the world, but what they find in the barrooms of the French Quarter at Mardi Gras is more than she knows how to handle, or could have imagined back home. This is the twenty-third chapter of the novel Thirsty Work.
It took me years of therapy to work out what happened next. I was guilty. I was frightened. I had failed in my mission. And the world I’d believed in was a lie. So I used the weapons I had at hand to punish myself: liquor and men.
Dennis was the first. He was a small man with greasy black hair wearing silly white pants and a Hawaiian shirt. But he had a vocabulary. He seemed, at least, kind. When he invited me back to his flat to smoke pot, I swallowed my pride and accepted.
“I’m going to go see Dennis’ place,” I told Sally behind the bar.
She scowled at me. “You sure?”
I nodded.
“I’m getting off work in an hour. Why don’t you wait for me?”
“We’re just going to smoke a joint together. I’ll be back by then.”
Once inside, he wanted to show me his souvenirs from his travels. I smiled at the Oriental fan, the ivory elephant, the African mask. He took his time rolling and lighting up the joint. His hands were sinewed and callused, his voice soft, like a girl’s. He took so long getting around to it that I was rising to go back to the bar when he pulled me back to the couch and put his wet lips over mine.
They felt slimy and pulpy, like a jellyfish. I felt my muscles contract. But I didn’t turn away. Take it, Carolee, I told myself. This is what you’re good for. This is what you get for being a bad daughter. A bad sister. A woman. A piece of meat. This is what you deserve.
His hands groped for my breasts, bearlike and clumsy. His skin felt greasy against my cheek. He smelled of bad cologne. Underneath the cologne was the scent of sour sweat.
I blanked out most of the memory as soon as it happened, like I did on the night my mother died. But I remember the fiery burn of his black, lank hair across my face. My skin growing numb beneath his caress. He unzipped my pants, unbuttoned my blouse. I saw my smooth breast, rose-tipped, pear-shaped, beautiful. A part of me still loved myself. Still believed in my value. But that part wasn’t running the show. I was a cloth doll full of sawdust. Watching him deliver justice.
I don’t know what he thought when he stood up to pull his bloated penis from his pants. It sat like an uncooked sausage in his hand. Did he think I was impressed? Did he think I wanted it? Did he care if I did?
I turned my face to the couch and concentrated on not puking.
It smelled of incense and old cotton. It had a good, knubby texture. I rubbed my face raw against it while he came.
He smiled afterwards. Layed on top of me with his body all slick and sweaty, eyes closed, wearing nothing but a goofy smile. He was innocent, really — had no idea that I’d used him to inflict self harm. But I hated him anyway. I slid my body out from under him and into my clothes.
“What’s your hurry?” he mumbled, pulling the blanket to cover him, turning away from me at the same time, toward sleep.
“I don’t know. Just feeling restless. I’m going back to the bar.” I said to the back of his head.
When I got back to Matassa’s, Sally was off her shift, sitting on the other side with the rest of the patrons. She had two tall, sturdy men beside her, crowding in close, and three beers lined up in front of her on the bar — they were buying her drinks. I hesitated at the door, but where else was I going to go? The night was chilly and black, the streets empty post-Mardi Gras, and there was nothing in Sally’s apartment that could distract me from my thoughts.
“Hey Carolee,” Sally said when I came up beside her, reached her arm out to pull me in close.
“How’d you like Dennis’ pad? Was the dope as good as he said it was? Or is he just all talk?” she made an exaggerated face designed to inspire laughter. The men were a responsive audience. The blonde on her right touched her arm. The big brunette on her left gave a deep laugh that shook his broad belly
“It was pretty good,” I lied, feeling helpless and shy, not knowing how to banter with Sally and her friends, not wanting to try. The bar seemed too bright, too noisy, too full of smoke. Sally’s friends seemed too big, maybe even malevolent. Yet the blonde moved aside politely to make room for me next to Sally. I sidled closer and put my hand on the bar. It was sticky.
“Where’s Dennis now? He come back with you? He bring any dope back wit him?” she put her hands on my shoulders and peered around my head, comically, moving her head broadly from side to side.
“No, he didn’t come back. He went to bed,” I said awkwardly, wishing the conversation would shift away from me. “He was tired.”
Now the blonde beside me moved closer, pressed his elbow against my shoulder, leaned over to address me, after he burped up some beer. “You were over at Dennis’ place?” I nodded and tried to take a step back, but there wasn’t much room behind me, just Sally on her stool.
“You all know each other?” Sally asked when I leaned into her. “Carolee, this is my buddy Jack.”
“Nice to meet you,” I nodded.
“It shore is,” Jack said. He had curly blonde hair and a tight white t-shirt and big biceps encased in a denim jacket. His hands were rough and hard, with yellow calluses on the sides of the fingers where he probably held his home rolled cigarettes. “You know what? I’m ALWAYS trying to get some of that good dope out of Dennis, but that man is the stingiest sucker I ever saw!” He gave me a winning smile, all white teeth, straight across. Could be dentures.
“Guess is takes a pretty girl to get him to open up his drawers, right Ricky?” He leered across Sally at his companion and let out a great guffaw.
I turned to go then, suddenly tired, suddenly ready for the stone quiet of Sally’s apartment, but Jack grabbed my arm before I got away. “Wait a minute, hon,” he said. “I didn’t mean nothing. Come back here. Did he show you all his treasures from his travels?” he asked in a gentle tone.
I nodded slightly, uncertain. Put my hand up to peel his fingers off my arm. “Did he show you ALL his toys?” he continued, turning back to his friend before giving out a lewd laugh.
“Excuse me,” I got out from his grip. “I gotta go to the bathroom.”
Sally nodded her approval. “You go on, hon.”
I started off toward the bathroom, but the hall outside it was dark — the bulb burned out — and the door to the ladies’ room was locked, so I knocked lightly to let the occupant know I was waiting before going to stand at the opposite end of the bar, away from Sally and Jack. The bartender was there, so I ordered a beer. But when he dropped it down on the counter a minute later, I didn’t want to drink. My crotch was sticky in my pants, my breasts bruised where Dennis had suckled them, and I felt a slimy pattern of handprints on my belly and back.
What if Dennis walked in now? Wearing fresh white pants and a satisfied smile. Would he move directly to my side? Would he think it was his right touch me? I didn’t want that to happen. Or would he ignore me entirely, walking straight to Sally and her two friends? Which would I prefer?
I heard the blonde one laugh loudly. I left my beer untouched and hurried back down the bar. “The bathroom’s occupied and I really gotta go. I’m going back to your place, Sally.”
“You coming back after? We gonna party?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I’m kinda beat.”
Sally took a few seconds to appraise me. “Well go on then. I’ll catch you later. You change your mind, just come on back here. You know we never close.”
“I will. I know.”
On the dark street, tripping over the cobblestones, fishing for Sally’s small silver key in my pocket, I felt the pressure of a big wave rising within me. I thought maybe it was the angry red swell of my soul, fighting to get out of my unclean body. But it was just vomit — a lot of vomit and few miserly tears that I flushed down Sally’s toilet bowl.
I slept hard that night, hard down a deep, black tunnel, and barely woke when Sally returned, stumbling through the apartment to her bed. So when I became aware of gray light falling through the window, my body stretched out on a comfortable couch, I felt some surprise. So I’m still here, I thought. I might have to try harder. I lay a long time in the gray light, listening to my breathing, waiting for Sally to wake up to tell me what to do next.
The sun was high and the light yellow by the time she awoke and entered the living room in her white nightie. “Hey girl. Did we have fun last night? I don’t remember.” She grinned a goofy smile and sat down on the couch next to me, the heat of her body spreading welcome warmth up my numb legs.
I nodded. “I think so.”
Sally nodded back. “I think so too. But even if we didn’t — let’s lie and say we did.” We laughed. “Are you hungry? Whattaya say to some sausage and eggs?”
“That sounds great. .Just don’t ask me to help you. I think my head is about to split wide open.”
“No honey. You stay right here and recover. I know how it is with you amateurs.”
I watched from the couch as Sally went to the kitchen and made us both a meal. I was lucky to be here, under Sally’s wing, that was sure. There was something wholesome about her. Sturdy. Healthy. Unbroken. She had her fun, she paid her dues, and she never felt sorry. Then the next night she was back for more. Why can’t I be more like her? I wondered.
Because she didn’t leave her mother to die alone? Because she didn’t lose her little sister on a cross-country road trip?
After breakfast we walked together over to Matassa’s, where Cathy had agreed she would call that afternoon. We drank Irish coffee, read the paper, joked with Billy the bartender — or Sally did. I mostly sat quiet and tried not to stare at the phone. But the call never came. And I tried not to panic.
“She probably forgot. She couldn’t find a phone. She didn’t have any quarters. Don’t worry!” Sally told me. But Cathy was lost on my watch. She was a kite untethered. I stood alone with a bit of broken the string.
That night it was Kenmore who took me home, his rough hand slapping my ass on the back of the barstool by way of introduction. “Anybody ever tell you you got a fine ass?” he asked.
“Yes,” I laughed.
I liked his opening. I liked the way he cut straight through the bullshit. I was not in the mood to play the coquette. I was tired. Not tired in my body; my body hummed with liquor and cigarettes and pot and adrenaline, my blood coursed through my extremities like a low, blue fire. I didn’t need sleep. I wouldn’t dream of laying my head down on Sally’s couch before long after midnight, when the curtains in my head would be at least half drawn. But I was tired of smiling. I was tired of nodding. I was tired of pretending to listen to stupid people telling inane stories. I was tired of jumping every time the phone rang — hoping it would be Cathy. Tired of forcing my brain not to think about her. Tired of pretending nothing was wrong. And I was tired of considering who among the men lumbering through the room would take me home, who would throw me down on the bed, who would have enough intensity of purpose to administer the rough justice that would give me a few moments of peace.
Kenmore, at least, was different from the others. Although he’d drunk one whiskey after the other, his voice wasn’t slurred. His body was short and broad, not impressive in its dimensions, but he carried it with authority. He was strong, you could see that. And mean as the devil. I had no doubt that he would beat the shit out of any man who challenged him. He was top dick. Head gorilla. His eyes shone out from beneath his shoulder length brown hair like Charlie Manson’s.
I was flattered that he chose me.
I would have worried about going to his place, but Sally knew him. She spent some time standing in front of us at the bar, making small talk. As we left, I made a point of telling her where we were going — and I made sure he heard me. He wouldn’t kill me, I reasoned, if Sally knew where to look for the body.
Outside the night was sharp and cold after the stale, smoky bar. As soon as I got out the door he backed me up to the wall and kissed me roughly, stretching a little on his cowboy boots to even our height, grabbing my ass with his hand, pushing a fat tongue into my mouth with an insistent repetition, like a dog digging a hole, then releasing me abruptly.
“This way,” he said, taking off into the dark.
I followed after him.
On the corner Kenmore stopped before a big, black and silver motorcycle. He straddled it and told me to wait while he got it started. He reared up and came down on the foot pedal four or five times before the engine caught. Then he revved it loud with a little wrist motion; his hand flicked and the bike roared and jumped like an angry animal.
“Get on,” he said, tossing his head back behind him.
I cautiously put my leg over the long, leather seat and pressed my crotch up against Kenmore’s back, wrapping my arms around his thick waist. He took off with a sudden kick that jerked my head back on my neck.
I fear motorcycles. I not even comfortable in a car. I always imagine a fatal accident is waiting for me on the highways. But I closed my eyes and held on tight as the wind slapped my hair and clothes. I gripped Kenmore’s legs with my thighs. I put my cheek against the rough denim of his jean jacket to escape his hair lashing my face. I held tighter, scooted closer, until he yelled over his shoulder for me to loosen up.
I tried to let my fear go then. I forced my hands hold his jacket only lightly. I let the night wash over me like warm water. I smelled the exhaust and heard the engine proclaiming our passage. People knew that we were coming. I felt them watching. I saw their heads turn. I sat up straighter. The houses were rushing past me, the stars remained still overhead. I leaned my head back and let it fill with the tickling, delicious sensation of nothing. Of not knowing. Of surrender.
Movement. Noise. Wind. Pleasure.
Fear.
A vibration beneath my legs.
Fifteen minutes later Kenmore shut off the engine in front of an old shotgun house in the run down neighborhood out by the racetrack.
He got off the bike and told me to do the same, then pulled it up on its tiny twin kickstands. He said nothing and I simply stood and watched as he walked up to the door, rattling the key in the lock angrily and finally kicking it open with his cowboy boot, then disappearing into it’s maw.
The door hung open expectantly. I still stood outside, staring at it in the blue-black light, considering whether there were any other options besides following him inside.
I couldn’t think of any.
I didn’t know exactly where I was. I had no car. I saw nothing around me but houses. All dark. It was the middle of the night. I had enough money in my pocket to call a cab. But for that, I would need a phone and Kenmore to tell me the address. I gave one last glance to the silent bike, resting now, quiet, almost gleaming in the moonlight, before trudging inside.
The house was one long hall, each room opening into the next, with a small kitchen at the end, illuminated by a naked bulb hanging from the ceiling. Kenmore was there, washing his face in the sink. His shirt was off and I could see the muscles cord in his broad back as he brought his hands, cupped with water, to his face and the back of his neck.
The rest of the house was in darkness. But even in the dark, I could tell the place was a slum. My shoes scraped like sandpaper on the dirty linoleum floor. The walls were bare. There was no furniture to speak of. Just one chair in the front room and an old TV on an upturned crate. One of those plastic fold up trays for an end table held a used plate and fork. A lamp with no shade.
The second room had a double bed sitting flat on the floor, a kitchen chair with some clothes flung over it.
Kenmore turned as I stood surveying the scene, wiped his face on a towel, and clicked out of the kitchen on his cowboy boots. “Whatcha doing out there girl?” he asked me. “Close the door. Come on in here and get in the bed.”
That was simple. I couldn’t see much point in arguing with that. Still, I lingered on the threshold. “Hey Kenmore,” I said, making my voice silky. “Where’s the phone? I think I wanna make a call.”
“There ain’t no phone,” he said. “It’ll have to wait for the morning.”
“Oh.”
“Come on to bed.”
I walked toward him then, in the darkness. This was what I had come for, after all. A man who could fill my body with his and squeeze my soul out through the back of my neck. A man who could fog my brain with thick smoke, wash my skin with slick sweat, flood my throat with salt tears.
I took my clothes off and let them fall to the grimy floor. When I was naked, he called. “Come here and pull these boots off.” I walked around to his side of the bed and picked up his foot, putting the muddy bottom of his boot against my smooth, yellow belly. I pulled off one boot. Then the other. Then the two sweaty socks, pressing his callused skin into my soft flesh.
He undid his own belt then, and pulled his pants off, and pulled me down to him on the bed. It wasn’t too bad: the feel of his scratchy hands on my hips, the beery smell of the skin on his neck, the frantic push of his fat tongue in my mouth like a rat on meth. But was it bad enough? The cold moon watched us through the window as he pushed and pulled me out of proportion, stretching my limbs like so much bread dough, snapping open my neck, filling my head up with flour, patting me down, punching me up, greasing the pan when I was shaped and ready for the oven. Throwing me in and slamming shut the door.
I would have stayed for days with Kenmore, letting his treatment of my body become my prison, subsuming my will to his whim, except that he kicked me out first thing the next morning; claiming he had important business to attend to, he drove me back to the bar on his bike and dropped me off at the door.
I had on the clothes I was wearing the night before, rumpled, and I smelled like sex and sweat and stale cigarettes and sour beer. I planned to make my way to Sally’s and shower, throw on some fresh clothes, but I thought I’d better check in at the bar first to see if Cathy had called. It was two hours later when Aunt Viv walked through the door.
“Well. Well Well. I thought I might find you here,” she clucked, pulling up a barstool beside me and sliding her perfectly clad butt atop it. She wore a red and white checked dress and matching red pumps. Her hair looked freshly coifed and coiled. Her nails, I could see when she tapped a cigarette out of a little leatherette holder, then held a red Bic lighter to its tip, were painted and filed.
“So,” she turned to face me, spreading her lips wide to reveal her big, straight teeth, “what are you doing here at this hour?”
“I could ask the same of you.” I wasn’t happy to see Viv, and I couldn’t imagine what she might want of me, other than to make me pay, somehow, for discovering her and Doug in the bathroom on Mardi Gras, and for provoking the confession that she’d made that night.
“I’m looking for you, of course. Otherwise I wouldn’t be in this dive.” The bartender stepped over to us. “Vodka screwdriver,” Viv told him curtly before turning her attention back to my face. Her eyes scanned me over, taking in the greasy hair, the soiled shirt, the sweat circles under my armpits, the second-day socks. “You look like something the cat drug in. And you smell worse than that.”
“Thank you.” I didn’t bother looking up from my beer.
“Now Carolee. Don’t be difficult. I’m just telling you the truth. Surely you don’t have anything against that.”
“No, I believe in truth.”
Viv rolled her eyes, took a drag on her cigarette, blew the smoke out in a precise, gray line. “Look. I’m sorry I picked up on your little boyfriend, if that’s what’s bothering you. But I don’t think it’s that.” I gave her a sour look. “And I’m sorry you had to hear about my father the way you did.” I looked away.
“It’s not Grandpa. It’s Mom. You said you hated her…”
I hadn’t noticed the bartender put Aunt Viv’s drink down in front of her, but when I turned back to look at her now, I saw that it was almost gone. “I have a right to hate Rose if I want. She’s not just your mother. She’s also my sister.”
“But she didn’t do anything to you.”
“That’s the point.”
“She couldn’t have saved you.”
“She could have tried.”
I thought back on the room at Grandma’s house — the two twin beds, the knubby white bedspreads, the family portrait on the bedside table — with little Viv sitting on Grandpa’s lap, his thumb poking under her shirt, Mom looking perplexed to one side with her big bow askew — and the picture of Jesus Christ on the opposite wall, chest open to show his bleeding heart.
“She was just a little girl, too. She was probably afraid.”
“I guess she was,” Viv nodded into her second drink. “For all I know, he was using her, too. And to be honest, I don’t really hate her. The person I really hate is me.”
“Not Grandpa?”
“Me.”
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