Self-Defence

future, aren't you? Off-the-rack Gentleman's Farterly suits pretending to be bespoke. Politically correct careerism masquerading as moral duty- do you drive a Beemer? Or a Baby Benz? Either way, Hitler would be proud, though I don't imagine you've ever studied history. Do you know who Hitler was? Are you aware that he didn't drive a Buick? That Eichmann worked for Mercedes-Benz while hiding out in Argentina- do you know who the fuck Eichmann was?'

Remembering the white convertible out front, I said, 'I drive American.'

'How patriotic. Did you get it from Daddy?'

I didn't answer, thinking suddenly of my father, never able to afford a new car…

'Daddy's dead, isn't he? Was he a would-be doctor, too?'

'A machinist,' I said.

'Tool and die- he tooled, then he died. Tut-tut. So you're a blue-collar hero. Shaky-kneed arriviste by way of the public school system. First in the family to go to college and all that, a Kiwanis club scholarship, no doubt. Mommy's so proud in her Formica prison- is she dead, too?'

I stood up and began walking to the door.

'Oh!' he bellowed after me. 'Oh, I've offended him; five minutes and he's running off to puke in the bushes, the fortitude of a mayfly!'

I half turned my head and smiled at him. 'Not at all, it's just boring. The shape you're in, you should know life's too short for small talk.'

His face incandesced with rage. He waited until I'd opened the door and stepped out onto the porch.

'Fuck you and fuck your charwoman mother on a Formica counter! Walk out, now, and you'll eat my shit in a souffle before I give you my insights.'

'Do you really have any?' I said, with my back to him.

'I know why the girl tried to kill herself.'

I heard squeaks, turned, and saw him wheeling himself forward very slowly. He stopped and spun the chair, finally managing to turn his back on me. His hair hung in greasy strands. Either Nova wasn't much of a caretaker or he didn't allow her to groom him.

'Fix me a drink, Cubby, and maybe I'll share my wisdom with you. None of that single-malt swill you yuppie pricks go for- give me blended. Everything in life is blended; nothing stands on its own.' Spinning again, he faced me. I thought he looked relieved that I was still there.

'What's yellow and red, yellow and red, yellow and red?' he said.

'What?' I said.

'Jap in a blender, hawf, hawf-and don't give me that look of outrage, you buttoned- down poot. I fought in the only war that counted and saw what those scrawny-dicked monkey-men are capable of. Did you know they used to peel the faces off the Allied prisoners? Marinate human hearts and kidneys in teriyaki sauce and barbecue them? There's your sushi bar for you. Truman dry-roasted the buck-toothed capuchins, only good thing that exophthalmic rag-pimp ever did. Stop standing there, gawking like a virgin sailor at wet pussy, and fix me a fine blended drink before I tire of you beyond the point of forgiveness!'

I went to the wet bar and found a bottle of Chivas, almost empty. As I poured, he said, 'Know how to read?'

I had no intention of answering. But he didn't wait for a reply.

'Ever read anything I wrote?'

I named a few titles.

'Did you have to write term papers on them?'

'A few.'

'What grades did you get?'

'I passed.'

'Then fuck you, you didn't understand a thing.'

I brought him his drink. He drained it and held out his glass. I refilled it. He took longer with the second drink, staring at the whisky, sipping, lifting a leg, and passing gas with satisfaction. I thought of all he'd written about heroism and finally understood the word fiction.

He tossed the glass away. His throw was weak, and the tumbler landed near the wheel of his chair and rolled on the rug.

He said, 'The girl tried to end it all because she's empty. No passion, no pain, no reason to keep going. So anything you do with her will be worthless. You might as well be psychoanalyzing a tadpole in order to prevent its froggy fate. I, on the other hand, have a surplus of passion. Spilling over, as it were.' He made slurping sounds. 'The only thing that can save her is getting to know me.'

I tried not to laugh or scream. 'Getting to know you will be her therapy.'

'Not therapy, you limited gowk. Therapy is for moral anencephalics and hamstrung aerobi-geeks. I'm talking about salvation.'

Leaning forward. 'Tell her.'

'I'll let her know,' I said.

He laughed and raised the pitch of his voice. 'Does she hate me?'

'I'm not free to talk about her feelings.'

'La da la da la da la da. You claim you read Dark Horses. What was the point there?'

'The racetrack as a mini-world. The charac-'

'The point was that we all eat horseshit. Some dress it up with bearnaise sauce, some nibble, some hold their noses, some stick their faces right in it and wolf, but no one plays hooky. Best novel of the millennium. Flew out of me; my cock tingled every day I sat down at the typewriter.'

He looked at the glass on the floor. 'More.'

I obliged him.

'Pulitzer capons thinking they were giving me something.' He finished the whisky. 'She hates me. I don't give a shit about her feelings. Hatred's a great motivator. I've always hated writing.'

I looked over his shoulder at the animal heads, the leering warthog.

He said, 'No attention span, Veal-chop? They came with the place. I considered adding to the collection- critics with glass eyes. Know why I didn't?'

I shook my head.

'No taxidermist would take on the job. Too hard to clean.'

He laughed and demanded another drink. The Chivas was gone, and I poured him cheap scotch. With his body weight, his blood had to be pickled, but he showed no effects of the alcohol.

'Have you ever looked into the toilet after you've shat?' he said. 'The bits of crud that are left sticking to the porcelain? Next time, scrape some of that off and place it in a dish of agar-agar. Feed it more shit and anything foul you can find, and in no time at all you'll have cultured yourself a critic.'

More laughter, but strained. 'A criminal- the vilest child-fucking inchworm of a mother-raper- is entitled to a trial of his peers. Do you know what kind of justice artists merit? Trial by cretin. Dickless, decorticate, petty-ante pissbladders who'd give their glands to have the gift but don't, so they take out their frustration on the blessed. Those who can, do. Those who can't, teach. Those who lack the tongue motility to lick the arseholes of teachers, write reviews.'

He'd finally produced saliva. A strand trickled down the side of his mouth.

He stared at me. I readied myself for another outburst.

But he grew very quiet and his eyelids started to droop.

Then he fell asleep.