Stain
Adam E. H. Wilson
He never reads, and he never rusts,
and he never sleeps cause he’s got bad luck, yeah
--Kurt Cobain
Why I went, I can’t say.
No, that’s a lie.
I went because I thought maybe. Maybe I was wrong; hopefully I was. Maybe there was a chance. But there wasn’t—I knew that long before I started walking. I was very tired.
She looked, as usual, lovely. She never looked okay, so-so, or bland. She was always lovely, always beautiful. She had green eyes, snow white skin, and blood red hair. She wore a green skirt that I hadn’t seen before and . . . tights? Nylons? Leggings? She was wearing something blue and tight that covered her lovely legs. Around her feet where these things stretched tight they became slightly transparent and you could see her beautiful, lovely toes.
"Nice feet," I said. I was very tired.
"Thank you," she said and smiled. Her smile was lovely, and her reddening cheeks rose up and almost completely hid her beautiful eyes.
She had just hung up the phone. She had been talking on it when she opened the door.
"I have to go," she had said, "I love you too."
I hope that was mother, I had thought.
She said hi again. I said hi. She stepped aside to let me in, and I unzipped my coat. I talked with her, about how finals were going and how I was very tired.
"How are the papers going?" she asked.
"Argh–I’ve finished four musical reviews, one of my English papers, and the photography paper. That leaves two more English papers, two take-home finals and a presentation in the next forty-eight hours," I rambled, more out of self-pity than to satisfy any real curiosity on her part.
She was lovely and explained how finals were for her. She was very intelligent, very compassionate.
"I really only have one left, geography, and I’m not worried about it," she said with her trademark air of self-confidence.
A self-confidence that was based on self-doubt, I knew.
I asked if I could sit down. She directed me to the bed and sat down next to me.
"I have your Christmas present," I said. That was my excuse for being there, the reason she was expecting me—to give her my gift.
"Close your eyes," I said.
She laughed, "Okay." She closed her eyes and relaxed her neck, letting her head rock back and her blood-red hair hang freely in its long, heavy spirals.
"Now hold out your hand," I said.
She laughed again and did so. I dug the gift out of my pocket and placed it in her petal-soft hand.
"Don’t open your eyes," I told her. "What is it?"
"A box . . . a wooden box."
"Very good. Open it."
"May I open my eyes?"
"Yes."
"What’s this?"
"A rock."
She held the round, lumpy rock in one of her elegant hands.
"Where is it from?" she asked.
"Northern Mexico, probably," I said and sighed.
She examined the rock, rolling it in her delicate palm.
"Although I abundantly make—although I have abundantly—" I exhaled. I carefully articulated each syllable as I said, "If I could form an English sentence.. . . " Then I continued, "Although I believe I have made it abundantly clear in what high regard I hold you, I don’t think I ever explained how much I admire your decision to study philosophy." I did admire that. Few people look past the pecuniary aspect of their major. She had decided it was better to think for thought’s sake.
"Thank you," she said smiling again. "So what’s with the rock?"
"What’s with the rock?" I mimicked. "Well, my dear lady, the odds are nine in ten that if you put that rock in a sock and hit it with a hammer when you pull it out you will discover that it is full of beautiful crystals. It’s a geode. So—the geode paradox. Do we need to smash it open to see the beauty inside, or can we appreciate it from the outside?"
I looked at her. She had green eyes.
"Do you want my answer?" she asked, looking back at me.
"Yes."
"I won’t break it." She explained that she could only break it once. "If I keep it, I can always imagine—sort of endless anticipation." I suppose that meant something. I tried to think what, but I was so very tired.
"I wouldn’t break it either. Better, I think, to appreciate the outside than destroy the in." That meant something. I knew that. I thought the outside was just as beautiful, but I didn’t tell her.
I was tired. I couldn’t think of what to say. I knew what I wanted to say, but saying it would make no difference. She would understand, I knew that, too.
It was time for me to go; I had given her my present. I didn’t particularly want to go, though. I liked the idea of sitting next to her. I looked around at the tasteful posters of paintings on the walls. Over my shoulder, a new hanging caught my eye.
It was a white piece of paper with words in large green crayon letters. "I can’t wait to be with you," it said at the top. Only, where "I" should have been there was a clumsy drawing of an eye and where "be" should have been there was a drawing of a bumble bee. The pictures were simple, and for an instant I thought it was a letter from her eight-year-old brother. But the drawings were so stereo typically child-like that I knew they were the work of an adult.
"I can’t wait to be with you," I read aloud to the wall.
"Oh," she said and laughed, nervously.
I was not so very amused.
I did not read the entire letter. At the bottom it said "I will lavish your" and there was a drawing of red lips. Then there was another eye, a heart, the letter "u" and the name Jason.
"It’s interesting," I said, "but there’s a juxtaposition of age and graphic ability."
"What?" she asked behind me, "It’s just my crayon letter."
Duped again, I thought.
I wanted to leave. I felt an uninteresting and grey future spread out in front of me. I felt English papers that I wouldn’t finish, letters I wouldn’t write, finals I would flunk, and a semester I had botched. I was very tired and no longer wanted to talk. Too long had I been rotting and wasting.
I talked some more, unconcerned, tired, cool. She spoke, beautiful, lovely, intelligent. She wasn’t going to discuss the damn crayon letter, and I didn’t ask. I knew I wouldn’t like the answers, and maybe she understood that.
I wondered if Jason was the idiot his letter made him out to be. I doubted it. I wondered how it felt to lose yourself in her acceptance and your own stupidity. Exactly like you feel now, I thought, but more of the acceptance part. This is mainly just stupidity.
"I’ve got to go," I said and stood up. I thought I had talked enough to cover my tracks.
"All right."
I pulled on my gloves and coat and opened the door. She followed, gracefully relieved.
"Have a good vacation," I said. "I’m sure I will see you again."
"Next semester," she assured me with another smile.
At the door she hugged me. It was long and warm. She smelled very beautiful and lovely. I don’t know if she was consoling me, reassuring me, or just saying good-bye. I imitated hugging her back. When we stepped apart, her hand knocked off my hat. I clumsily bent down and picked it up. I felt tired.
"I hope you get some sleep," she said.
"So do I." I turned away and put on my hat.
Then I remembered something.
"Merry Christmas," I said as I walked down the hall. I didn’t look back.
"Merry Christmas," I heard her reply. I know she didn’t look back either. She never had before.
I stepped out into the December night wishing I was alive.
Well, he never bleeds, and he never fucks.
And he never leaves ‘cause he’s got bad luck--Kurt Cobain
"I love Jodie," slurs the kid from the shadows of his cowboy hat.
"You sound serious," I say.
"I let her go once, and I’ll never do it again. Two years we’ve gone out. "
I puff on my cigar. It’s too burnt-tasting. It’s a woodtip. I hate woodtips.
"Been with her since I was fourteen . . . . "
And I hate this guy.
". . . just got up and left her one day. Packed my shit and went. "
He’s too damn drunk. He stands on the other side of the deck swaying side to side in his hat. He nurses from his bottle of beer and stares into the darkness, seeing nothing.
"Humph," I say, and puff again on my cigar. It really isn’t a very good cigar. The cool summer wind blows past me, and I taste the burnt smoke. It leaves a bad taste in my mouth, like this kid’s sappy story.
"I’d do anything for her. As long as she’s happy. She’s in there flirting with another guy, but as long as she’s happy, ya know? She could fuck eight guys, and I wouldn’t care, if that’s what makes her happy."
I smile at him knowingly through my smoke. The glaze over his eyes thickens, and he adds, "I wouldn’t stay with her, but she could do it."
You poor bastard, I think. He stops talking and slumps down in the corner, cradling his beer. I look inside and see his girl, Jodie, lying on a couch with a man named Tailor. She is trying to kiss him, but Mr. Tailor does not want her kisses.
In the dark, the kid sits and mumbles something senseless. I want to kick him. I want to kick him over and over and shout into his bleeding ear that he knows about love what a beaten dog knows about justice.
But I stand here, drawing on my cigar, which tastes poorly. Jodie giggles inside. A man in another cowboy hat asks me for a light. I give him my lighter, but he can’t light his cigarette because he’s too drunk. I light it for him. He thanks me and stumbles back inside.
Rotting. Wasting. All I can do is smoke my cigar, which offers no comfort. The kid in the corner struggles to his feet, and waves stupidly at the smoke I blow in his face.
"Sorry for dumping all my shit on ya, ya know?" he says.
"It’s interesting shit," I say.
He smiles with half of his mouth and slaps me on the back. "I’m gonna go back inside."
"Okay."
"Awright, I’m goin’ back inside."
He swaggers away, and I watch him go. Then I crush my cigar under my foot. It had tasted poorly.
I’m a stain.
I’m a stain!
Huh!-- Kurt Cobain
Why I went, I know.
Action.
Ah, yes, this one was a novelty . . . and I collect novelties.
When I pulled up to the curb (I was twenty minutes late to be sure she would be waiting) she jumped into the car before I had a chance to stop. I felt vaguely like I was picking up a prostitute, which annoyed me—I hadn’t paid for anything yet.
She looked, as usual, plain. I suppose she qualified as pretty, but not really, not to me. Her hair was nondescript, the same color as all the girls back home. Her eyes, however, had a little something behind them.
"Sorry I’m late," I said.
"It’s okay. Where do you want to study?"
Ha.
"Wherever’s good for you," I said. "There’s always the library."
Ha.
As I knew she would, she suggested a secluded, predictably romantic spot I knew well enough.
"Hmmm," I said, as I contemplated the idea.
I had a concert to go to that night, all my friends would be expecting me. The place she named was a long drive away. The light was fading in the sky. It would be dark five minutes after we arrived. So much the better. I was curious.
We babbled to each other on the way. We talked of this and that, the test, the class, her husband.
I am a collector of novelties.
I don’t recall what we said, really. I was doing time calculations in my head. A half hour out? About that. The concert started at nine, that gives me how much time? I was not a huge fan of the bands playing, but the rush of the pit was always a thrill. I could be late. The boys, however, would not wait on the curb.
When we arrived, rolling to a stop in the gravel, the sun was practically set. The wooded hillsides surrounding us were silent.
You know the routine, I thought to the hills, I’m sure you’ve heard all this before.
"Let’s go for a walk," she said with a smile. No talk of scholastics now.
"Awright." I wished I had a cigar, it had been a long time since I had smoked one.
She hooked one of my elbows as we started walking.
"I didn’t think it would be so dark," she said.
"I did."
"Why did you come out here, then?"
"Curiosity, my dear. Curiosity."
"Me too."
We smiled in the fading purple light. And a little voice in the back of my mind spoke up.
Hello Jimminy, I thought, Where have you been?
She and I walked slowly through the woods. She talked, and I listened. Haven’t we been friends for so long? Well, we’ve known each other, anyway. You should do something. You have talent. You should work at the newspaper. Make a difference, get experience, change the world. What are you waiting for?
"What have you been doing?" she asked, looking at her feet as she walked.
Rotting and wasting, said Jimminy.
Fuck you, cricket.
"I’ve been hanging out," I said, stopping. Oh, I’ve been hanging out all right. I turned my back to her and stared at the hills.
"I’ve been thinking about you," she said.
Bleep, went my targeting computer. Locked in.
She stepped in front of me and I smiled, but not for her. The hills were turning to black outlines against a deep purple sky. The stars were twinkling nicely now. I had to concentrate. This next bit was important. The sounds mean more than the words, like a song by Nirvana.
Silly men, who give up reason at the softness of a woman’s thigh, who are oh-so-proud of their own importance. They play their games while the world passes them by. She found me cute, I’m sure, an over-grown boy who didn’t see the need to grow up.
Foolish women, who think my actions will ever reveal my mind, who think my head, my heart and my dick are somehow connected.
The air was cold as it blew past me (us). I was cool, unconcerned, and suddenly tired.
You can’t play this game, said Jimminy.
"What are you thinking?" she asked.
That I’m above this . . . and that cricket doesn’t have the first fucking idea.
"Nothing." I pulled my gaze away from the hills and looked into her wide eyes.
"You looked like you were thinking pretty hard," she said with a smile.
I once knew a girl who always looked like she was thinking, and it made her very lovely and beautiful. She didn’t like it when you asked for her thoughts.
"Maybe I was," I said to those black hills. Tonight, I was playing a game that didn’t include trading hopes and dreams.
I started walking again and came across a convenient log. I sat down. She sat next to me, looking at my face, but the hills still interested me.
"I’ve always felt that we were . . . connected, you know?" she babbled.
Nope. "Really?" I said.
"Yes. Haven’t you felt it?"
"I suppose, yes, I have." Jimminy didn’t like that one.
"Why haven’t you done something about it?"
"Why do you think?"
She shook her head and smiled. "I don’t know."
She leaned forward, putting her lips within range. It would have exposed her breasts nicely, but she was wearing a coat. I reached out and ran a hand absently through her hair. It brought me no pleasure. Her nondescript hair was fine and light, coursing between my fingers without sensation.
She kissed me; it left a bad taste in my mouth. It, too, was nondescript. A feeling on my lips that was waxy and annoying.
Hey, asshole, said Jimminy, is that what you came for? Whee. If only I had my youth again.
"This is wrong, lady," I said.
"Is it?" She didn’t pull away, but breathed it into my ear. She lightly touched my earlobe with her tongue.
I raised one hand to her small breast.
Whoa, there, pard! said Jimminy, I reckon we better vah-moose.
Damn you, I thought, feeling the softness on my neck now. Like all gunslingers, what I really wanted to do was draw my iron and fire. Put a hole in somebody.
"I’ve got to go," I said, and stood up.
"Why?"
"Because I’m going to a concert tonight and this is wrong."
"But is it?" she said, looking wide-eyed. She placed her hands on my stomach and ran her hands across the top of my jeans. "Is it wrong?"
"I should certainly hope so," I said to the hills.
I really wanted to leave her there, in the dark. I still might be able to salvage the evening.
I stuffed one of her arms in mine and walked her back to the car. No philosophy tonight, Jimminy didn’t care for it. There was still time to go to the concert.
In my head, Jimminy was whistling, but I wished him death.