Удушье (Choke)

This isn't about somebody brave and kind and dedicated. He isn't anybody you're going to fall in love with.

Just so you know, what you're reading is the complete and re­lentless story of an addict. Because in most twelve-step recovery programs, the fourth step makes you take inventory of your life. Every lame, suck-ass moment of your life, you have to get a note­book and write it down. A complete inventory of your crimes. That way, every sin is right at your fingertips. Then you have to fix it all. This goes for alcoholics, drug abusers, and overeaters, as well as sex addicts.

This way you can go back and review the worst of your life any time you want.

Because supposedly, those who forget the past are condemned to repeat it.

So if you're reading this, to tell the truth, it's really none of your business.

That stupid little boy, that cold night, all of this will just be­come more of the stupid shit to think about during sex, to keep from shooting your load. If you're a guy.

This is the weak little suck-ass whose mommy said, 'Just hold on a little while longer, just try a little harder and everything will be all right.'

Hah.

The Mommy who said, 'Someday, this will be worth all our effort, I promise.'

And this little dickwad, this stupid stupid little sucker, he stood there this whole time shaking, half naked in the snow, and really believed somebody could even promise something so im­ possible.

So if you think this is going to save you . . .

If you think anything is going to save you . . .

Please consider this your final warning.

Chapter 2

It's dark and starting to rain

when I get to the church, and Nico's waiting for somebody to unlock the side door, hugging herself in the cold.

'Hold on to these for me,' she says and hands me a warm fistful of silk.

'Just for a couple hours,' she says. 'I don't have any pockets.' She's wearing a jacket made of some fake orange suede with a bright orange fur collar. The skirt of her flower-print dress shows hanging out. No pantyhose. She climbs up the steps to the church door, her feet careful and turned sideways in black spike heels.

What she hands me is warm and damp.

It's her panties. And she smiles.

Inside the glass doors, a woman pushes a mop around. Nico knocks on the glass, then points at her wristwatch. The woman dunks the mop back in a bucket. She lifts the mop and squeezes it. She leans the mop handle near the doorway and then fishes a ring of keys out of her smock pocket. While she's unlocking the door, the woman shouts through the glass.

'You people are in Room 234 tonight,' the woman says. 'The Sunday school room.'

By now, more people are in the parking lot. People walk up the steps, saying hi, and I stash Nico's panties in my pocket. Be­hind me, other people hustle the last few steps to catch the door before it swings shut. Believe it or not, you know everybody here.

These people are legends. Every single one of these men and women you've heard about for years.

In the 1950s a leading vacuum cleaner tried a little design im­provement. It added a spinning propeller, a razor-sharp blade mounted a few inches inside the end of the vacuum hose. Inrushing air would spin the blade, and the blade would chop up any lint or string or pet hair that might clog the hose.