from a drawing by Jeffrey Wade

 

BUZZ AND ISRAEL

(Chapter One of first novel)

 

The Actors

The watery city was crushed under a sea of clouds a mile thick through; rain dripped like tiny waterfalls and street gutters chimed like chatty mountain streams. Outside of Buzz’s basement apartment window, one such phantom torrent rushed by; a rooftop drainpipe had burst and cascades of water, born out at sea, crashed violently onto cracked concrete. Moss was slippery and it was always night, the floor of the deepest sea.

At an uncertain time around evening, the ailing telephone on Buzz’s night table purred. The woman on the other end sounded frantic, paranoid. Buzz lit a crooked cigarette and fell back onto his tangled bed sheets. He cleared his throat and scratched his ass through his plaid boxers. Searching his hazy memory he asked, “Now, who is this?”

Her voice was smoky and sensuous, like antique velvet. “Uh, my name’s Simone. We met at Rachel’s birthday party...you gave me your number. I…can call later if that would be better.”

Buzz saw visions. “Oh yeah, I remember you now, long black hair. Yeah, yeah, so what’s going on?” He stared across the room at nothing; a pale memory surfaced and he was tense with desire. It hurt to wake up hard, when there was no one around to help that pain go away.

“Like I said, I can call back later,” she added.

“No, no, no. Hold on, baby,” he assured her.

A clamor erupted from the other end of Simone’s telephone exchange. “Buzz?” It sounded as if his phone were being dragged behind a running animal; the impacts sounded like explosions in her head. Bumps and blips were overridden by the sounds of things being hurled and shoved around, sadistic percussions. She cursed him silently; she hated being called baby.

Buzz hissed laughter. “Hey, I’m back. Had to look for something. How many?”

Devilish giggles filled her ear; she took a deep breath and was barely able to answer, “Four, please.”
“For when?”

She clenched the phone and scanned her twilight surroundings. “This Saturday night. It’s my boyfriend Israel’s birthday party.” The dusk of Oregon winter was hurrying in the night and she was alone.

“You got it. Where and what time, sugar?”

“Like eight on Saturday. We’re just off of 20th and Hawthorne. I’ll give you that address.”

“You got it, sugar. I’ll give you a holler and let you know if something comes up. Oh yeah, one Benny for me.”

“Benny?”

“A hundred bucks, babe,” he answered her, counting twenty-dollar bills to himself.

Simone etched a message to herself, in German, in her address book. “Thank you…for your time, Buzz.” She scratched her orange rug with long, dagger-like nails.

After writing down her address, Buzz set the dirty phone receiver down and tended to his unyielding tension. A spirit of tenderness surrounded him; he howled out obscenities as his body became stiff and crooked with rapture, his lips curled. Trying to sleep again, pulling himself down to the dark depths of winter slumber, he became stuck in a dreamy limbo. Night had finally conquered day and in his head he heard a happy melody; a flute-like air that haunted him and kept him awake. And so, sleep never came, just a shallow forgery of it.

A ten-minute stroll through labyrinths of thorny branches and arcades of sleeping elms and alders brought him to her doorstep on the night of their rendezvous. Puddles soaked his leather boots; his hat was heavy with cool, fragrant rainwater. There was nobody on the streets, just shadows cut away from their bodies, hallucinations. As shadows beneath the deep sea, they were visible for brief intervals before camouflaging with the darkness that surrounded them.

The courtyard of the building smelled of manure and new life. Buzz heard soft flute music playing inside the apartment, a stale techno dirge peppered with piccolo. The party was quiet and he knew that he would change that. He parted his wet bleach-blond hair to the side and cleared water from his face, before feeling for the lump of tablets on his jacket pocket. He shot a load of snot onto a rosebush, wiped the residue on his jeans and knocked on the heavy door.

A thinly sculpted, dark-haired woman in a leather corset answered the door; a wispy, black and turquoise feather boa hung from her small shoulders. It moved like fish fins. Some of the feathers drifted to the ground, to their soft death, as she whipped one of the tails around her shoulder to free an arm. “Hi, I’m Simone. You must be Buzz. Enchanté.” Her thin and cold hand escaped Buzz’s confident grip like a panicked lizard’s retreat. “Come in Buzz, come in out of that brutal rain, darling.”

Buzz hated being called darling.

A rowdy trio of glamour boys sat squashed together on a mint-green couch; they were drunk and slurred like dirty men of the sea. A tempest of herbal fumes hovered in the center of the living room; its purple arms danced in slow galactic waves, as they dissipated and were reborn from the bowels of a smoking metal vessel that one of the glamour boys sucked on. Pretty girls and faeries bickered about makeup and two earthy boys flipped through wrinkled playing cards on the floor, next to the pulsing stereo speakers. Other glamorous tragedies lingered insecurely in dark corners.

Simone led Buzz into the parlor, where he fell into the crosshairs of the glamour boys; the “boys” that reviewed him with equal parts lust and contempt: a cock in the hen house. Waves of laughter erupted from the mint-green couch as one of the boys stood up and did a bump-and-grind routine to the throbbing bass sounds oozing from the speakers. The laughter was hoarse with insanity.

The Silver Giraffe, the tallest of the glitter and rhinestone trio, sat up stiffly to scrutinize every detail of Buzz’s stallion physique. The Giraffe sipped his cocktail with great concern and scrutiny; his sterling, one-piece dress a mirror’s shattered soul, drama and mischief. What alien eyes! He fluttered his large black eyelashes like frantic hummingbird wings and tapped his long cigarette into a large, tangerine ashtray. “Mmm”, said he and said it often.

Next to The Silver Giraffe was The Pink Chiffon Lovely, a dark-toothed horror movie victim, Hollywood wig. And next to her was The Captain’s Favorite Rhinestone Whore, complete with a fake parrot strapped to her left shoulder and a red rhinestone eye-patch. The Pink Lovely, noticing Buzz, leaned into The Silver Giraffe and asked, while turning her chin to her shoulder like an owl, “Who is she?”

The Silver Giraffe fluttered and said, “A gift, for Israel. Mmm.” Long sip. The Giraffe then colored his face with contempt and added, “You know how Simone’s been lately, with the girl. Mmm.”

The Pink Lovely’s brows furrowed as he examined the masculine creature in question. “How beautiful.” Every man and woman, regardless of the nature of their desire, studied Buzz twice. Those who pined for female beauty visualized how women could fall for such a rare specimen of strong and blond beauty. And those who sought masculine desire tried to imagine what he looked like in a raw, nude state, whether there were more tattoos than the ones on his fingers and neck. They wondered how it was he made love.

Buzz cupped his hand to funnel words into Simone’s ear. “I wish I knew this was a costume party, I’m not in costume...”

Simone, immune to his beauty, grabbed a hairy man by his shoulder, as he passed them. “Now speaking of looking like—Buzz, this is Water. He seems to think that patchouli hides the fact that he hates bathing, and it doesn’t, but he’s terribly sweet. And see, he came to the party as a hippie. You can always pass for a leather-guy-sort-of-thing. A cocktail, darling?” She regarded her sparkling cigarette holder and turned to sneer at the squabbling glitter faeries in the corner; the pixies spilling bongwater on the immaculate carpet.

Buzz felt his blood pressure quicken, his ear started to ring. “I’ll have rum and coke. No lime.” Lifting his eyebrows he asked her, “So where’d you want to?” He opened his eyes as wide as he could, to remind her that he wasn’t there to be a character on her imaginary television show.

The painted hostess froze. “I’ll be right back, Buzz.” She slammed into the kitchen through a set of saloon-style doors, feathers trailing behind her. She mixed a hasty rum and coke, bracelets jangling. Her boyfriend Israel arranged appetizers at her side, whistling to himself.

Shaking, she growled, “Israel, this guy worries me. I want him out of here as soon as I get the X.”
Israel (dressed in a white tuxedo, slicked black hair) craned his neck to study her for a silent moment. He rolled his eyes and wished he were elsewhere, his stomach twisted as soon as she’d slammed her way in. He forced a smile and said to her, “So much for surprises.”

“Israel, I’m not in the mood.”

“Not in the mood to be nice?”

“Israel!”

He made a comical face, eyes bulging, mirroring her trauma. “It’s a chance you take, Simone. Just let me handle illegal matters from now on and we’ll be fine.”

“Are you stoned again, Israel?”

“Do bears shit in the woods, Simone? It’s my birthday.” He laughed to himself while slicing Swiss cheese, imagining the knife elsewhere.

“You’re never any help, are you?” She flicked the stirrer into the trash and slammed into the living room.
Israel scooped up the heaping platter and glided toward the swinging doors with the grace of a French waiter. And to himself he muttered, “That would be no, Our Lady of Perpetual Fury.”

Buzz flipped through magazines and scrutinized the glitzy strangers, their costumes. He recognized a needy, one-night stand and avoided him. A mousy boy in a suit and tie, who nobody seemed to know, sat next to Buzz and asked him ridiculous questions. The boy’s glasses were thick and he appeared innocent in contrast to the louder, sparkling monsters around him. Simone stormed into the chattering crowd, handed Buzz his drink and insisted, “Let’s go to the bathroom, it’s time.” Her voice had deepened.

As Buzz was about to stand up and follow Simone to the bathroom, a voice from behind him seized everyone’s attention.

“Simone, is this Buzz?” Israel stood behind Buzz like a child star from an old and scratchy silent movie.

Weakness seized the drug dealer’s knees; he was paralyzed by the vision of the man standing before him; a young man crowned with dark hair pomaded slick against his scalp, a freshly shaved face, a bone-white vintage suit set and a sculpted razor-thin Latin mustache. Buzz faced him, eager to be introduced. “You must be the birthday boy.” Buzz put out a hand; it was spiked with long fingers and etched with two, large, ivory-colored scars on the palm. There was a spider-web tattoo on the right index knuckle, C O C K painted on the segments of the fingers where rings sit, left hand.

Israel took notice of the primitive markings and beamed, “Yes, that would be me. And you must be Buzz. The pleasure’s all mine.” Israel shook his hand and a hurricane was born elsewhere in the world. He had built himself up to kick this “Buzz” character out of his apartment, but could not find the words.

Buzz held onto Israel’s hand. “Mine. The pleasure’s mine.”

Israel jerked his eyebrows and shot back. “I insist. My house, my pleasure.”

The towering punk let go. “Okay, yours.”

Israel smelled like a strange combination of shoe polish and light cologne. Captivated by the leather and denim-clad drug dealer, Israel asked, “So, how are you tonight, Buzz?”

A large rock, perhaps a diamond, pierced Buzz’s right ear lobe; three days’ worth of face stubble framed his jaws, he was strong. “I’m…I’m fine.” In Israel he saw an air of filthy sophistication, royalty on vacation. Buzz and Israel sat on the couch together while Simone joined the wasted glamour faeries for affirmation.

The mint-green couch made way for one more ass, much to the amusement of Pink Lovely, Whore and Giraffe. Simone tried to keep her voice under the room’s radar, as she leaned in to Giraffe. “What are you saying?”

The Giraffe spoke up. “You asked and now you shall know.” His arms moved in the air above his head, as he jived her on. “Where was I?” Setting his drink down, he let out a long loud belch. The other two Nymph-Birds of Perverted Paradise giggled to themselves as Giraffe recaptured his straying declaration. “We think your boyfriend’s a faerie.” Giraffe, like a macabre and powdery effigy come to life, like a howling, aluminum-foiled and bug-eyed piñata of nightmares reanimated, stood up and stumbled for the toilette, vomiting laughter like a neglected faucet. Long web-strings of saliva tied his blood-red lips together. His knees buckled under him, his silver hair scraped the low ceiling along the entire length of the hall like nails on chalkboard.

Simone catapulted from the sofa and landed between Israel and Buzz, who were discussing Judas Priest. “Excuse me Israel, but Buzz and I need to settle up. Why don’t you fix him another drink honey, this one must be warm by now.” Simone put the ice cold drink into Israel’s hand and pulled Buzz toward the bathroom, like a schoolgirl dragging her friend away to tell her a secret.

Israel watched as the backs of their heads disappeared into the hallway, then the bathroom, where they forced Giraffe out and slammed the door in his face.

The bluish-white cubicle smelled of herbal potpourri that churned Buzz’s innards. Simone’s gestures were choppy and sudden. Unnerving. Buzz unbuttoned his denim jacket pocket. “Here it is, Simone. Four hits. A hundred bucks and I’m out of here like a turd.” He exhaled and tapped his cigarette.

“You hear all the winners, don’t you? And please don’t ash on my floor.” She shuffled the contents of her purse, until she found her wallet. Buzz scooped up the ash from the floor with a piece of scented toilet paper. He noticed her shoes and wanted to laugh, but resisted.

She counted fresh bills. “Here you go, Buzz. I should really get back out there. Guests, you know.” Perhaps it was his reptilian stare. Or maybe it was because he put his hands into his jeans’ pockets a lot, as if he were touching himself. His gaze was blank but there was a distinct undercurrent of slyness, a foxy nature that shattered her tranquility. The whole of her instinct hated him—he had entered her world and not yet left it.

Buzz counted the fresh twenties and shoved them into his jacket pocket. “Perfect,” he said, staring her in the eyes. As he worked on securing the button, he explained the custom of “tipping” to her. “Usually, you give the person that gets it a little bit.”

“How barbaric of me! Here you go.” She chiseled two small pieces from two of the four tablets. “There you are. Thanks again.” She unlocked the door and exited stage left as a chorus of carnival maniacs laughed inside of Buzz’s head.

He stared at the sand-like grains and swallowed them with another tablet he had in his jeans; guzzled water out of the singing faucet. The water was winter sweet with mountain magic. It was the purest thing ever.

Israel was pillaging gift wraps amidst a small and spirited crowd when Simone returned to the living room. A faerie with a withered lisp was smashed and yelling at someone over the telephone in the kitchen; he was clearly heard by all, yet no one wanted to laugh first.

Simone stood over everyone. “Just start without me, why don’t you?”

People either ignored her or smiled with reluctant obedience. “We did,” the Giraffe warbled, taking a long and sloppy sip of booze, with one eye closed.

Israel tore open a small box filled with purple tissue, from which he unraveled a hemp necklace with a dark green rock crystal woven into its center. “Is it a talisman for protecting oneself from the fury of evil sorceresses?”

Water could barely keep his eyes opened, he was that stoned. He hunched forward to explain the object’s magical properties. “Dude, this is a piece of moldavite. It’s from a fucking meteor, man, from outer space.”

Israel smiled at the necklace he would never wear. “I’m sure it’ll come in handy. You never know when, oh never mind.” The crowd tittered as each person finished Israel’s sentence for themselves.

Catching a scent on the wind, the Giraffe looked around nervously. Giraffe, Pink Lovely and Captain’s Whore conspired to buy the rest of Buzz’s ecstasy as soon as Giraffe lowered his neck and head and introduced himself to Buzz in the kitchen.

Israel looked up and saw Simone hovering above the crowd; she clamped a round ecstasy tablet between her front teeth. Another lay in her hand, which she opened, to tease him with. She circled the small group and dropped his in his mouth. Cheers erupted.

The glam boys hollered back from the bathroom. Buzz stared at the three painted freaks with amusement and dropped cigarette ash on the floor as much as he could. The Glitter and Rhinestone Whores (who were nearly too drunk to walk) swallowed their pills with cocktails.

About an hour later, Simone and Chloe (who worked together at a downtown department store) sashayed and rolled around the bedroom, trying on clothes and wigs that the Giraffe and Company dressed them up in. A two-foot deep layer of dresses, lingerie and shoes littered the shellacked bedroom floor. The girls spoke in long grunts that said nothing, yet meant everything. Simone’s hands never left Chloe’s hundred-pound, handcuffed frame. The reigning princess rambled, “Oh how beautiful you are. If I was a lesbian, oh, come here you. You’re my best friend in this whole beautiful round Motherball Earth. The Motherball, it’s ours.”

They slithered on each other like aroused serpents, as Giraffe and Pink Lovely dressed them and changed their makeup. They were photographed for their future embarrassment. Captain’s Whore and another drugged faerie painted each other’s faces in the living room, away from the scene in the bedroom; they discussed art and legend. “No one did hair like Caravaggio, darling, no one!” Captain’s Whore kept repeating

It was the hour of the hunt, yet who was hunting and who would be hunted was not yet certain. Music became stronger and so did desire. In the bedroom, loud girl-rock drowned out the hoarse voices of the dysfunctional runway show. The party began to splinter. Israel watched as sound waves became visible and evoked sexual exhibition around him. People’s inhibitions seemed to stick to the clothes they began tearing off.

The air was a mixture of the raw musk of curiosity and marijuana exhaust. In the living room, liquid trance music dribbled on, like a river of sound. Water had not taken ecstasy and was nearly frozen in a beer and marijuana haze: His jaw dropped down to his neck. He was negligent of the small groups of fevered men that passed him on their way to the kitchen, where they groped each and mixed fresh cocktails. Shirt buttons popped open like firecrackers. Skin, tattoos and body hair appeared. Breezes rushed in through the open windows in the living room, moans overtook speech. The smell of sweat was as incense.

Pan’s song was in the trance track.

Water was startled out of his coma when he felt a finger in his mouth. It was Israel, who spread a big smile and flashed the scarlet eyes of mythic delight. “Water, baby. Are you sleepy?” Israel swayed like a palm tree; his shirt buttons and buttonholes were not aligned, they were off by one.

Water rubbed his fatigued eyes with his chubby fists. “I’m sorry. I got up early, Israel. Come check us out next week.”

Israel rocked forward and backward. “Where you guys playing? Damn, I’m high.”

Water flipped his knapsack onto his shoulder. “At The Con, midnight. I’ll put you-plus-one on the list. Some trucker-punk shit from San Francisco.”

“Sounds good. Cool, yeah. But you need to remind me. You won’t forget?” Israel smiled like a cartoon character, from ear to ear.

“You got it. Have a good birthday.” Water zipped up his jacket, as Israel waltzed him toward the front door like Fred Astaire on hallucinogens.

Buzz appeared, startling at Israel.

Israel returned a blank and intoxicated gaze. “What?”

Buzz made obvious inspection of Israel’s exposed chest. “Just looking, it’s still legal, ain’t it?”

“Everything fun is illegal. When fun is outlawed, only outlaws have fun.” Israel could feel Buzz’s heat.

Buzz took a daring step forward. “If you’re gonna be sticking your fingers in people’s mouths like that, it’s just gonna turn me on.”

Israel was about to answer him when Giraffe and the Cuckoos scrambled into the living room cackling harder than they had all night. They were tangled in clothes and wires. One of them lost footing, causing all three of them to fall to the floor in a slapstick heap of smeared makeup and clothes. Pinky was slurring on about something in the bathroom. Captain’s Whore chose to cover his mouth rather than speak.

Israel zigzagged through the hallway and knocked on the bathroom door, which was locked. He could hear giggles and Simone’s unmistakable moaning. Grinding into the bathroom door he yelled, “Simone, open up. I have to take a wiz.”

Her voice had hoarsened, “Go pee in the kitchen sink like you do when you get too drunk! Oh my God, listen to me, Chloe.”

The mousy boy that nobody knew was passed out in the bedroom. Israel could see his little feet and wondered if he’d died; it looked like a scene from a murder-mystery. Israel punched the door. “Simone, open now.”

“Wait a minute asshole, I’m coming.” More girl giggles. An eternity was required to unlock a simple latch. “I can’t open it!” she slurred.

The door flew open. Israel jumped back. “Holy shit.” He put his hands to his mouth and filled them with juicy laughter. Simone’s face was smeared with red lipstick, which had been applied over a layer of brown, which had been painted over orange. Her eye makeup was a dreadful paste of brown goo; rays of eyeliner shot out from her eyes like spider legs.

A smeared trail of the mud was plastered on Chloe’s breasts, which she failed miserably at trying to conceal, with a garment reminiscent of a pocket square. Chloe’s skirt was on the floor; she stared at Israel blankly.

Humored by the nymph-like, handcuffed vision before him, Israel avoided staring at her for too long. Her embarrassment was that evident. Israel had played the part too many times, handcuffs and all.

Simone hung her head down for a moment, threw it back, and howled. Chloe did the same. Their thin frames tensed as they yodeled like coyote girls in heat.

Israel had an idea. “Chloe, get off the shitter so I can take a wiz.” He lifted her off and set her down next to Simone, who kept calling him awful names. The girls continued to slobber on each other, alternating between sucking each other’s breasts and French-kissing. They ignored the pissing man next to them.

Israel zipped up. “Now Simone, just have fun. Do you need anything from the store? I’m out of smokes.”

Releasing Chloe she said, “Guys are so gross when they piss. No, I don’t need anything.” Moaning, she crawled onto the water-nymph and attacked her mouth, saying, “It’s all right here Israel and it’s beautiful.”

Israel wandered back to the living room expecting to stumble into an orgy. It was three in the morning and the party shrank to a nervous trickle. The Glamour Hogs rambled on about something, a cab. Their voices were worn out and their costumes were shredded.

Israel said to the Giraffe and Friends, “I’d like to thank y’all for beautifying tonight’s cast. Simone looks like muskrat road kill and Chloe looks like a plate of greasy breakfast puked up on Tammy Faye’s face.”

Captain’s Whore barked, “Hey faggot in the tux. Yeah you.”

“What could you possibly want?” Israel barked back.

Captain’s Whore and his dead parrot couldn’t laugh anymore. “Call us a cab, Israel.”

“Where do you guys think you’re going?”

Giraffe slurred his way in with newly-applied white ostrich feathers in his hair, one eye half-opened and the other closed for the evening. “Now look here, Israel. Your girlfriend is busy, busy, busy with that little lesbian girl she works with and there’s a beautiful man lurking this joint who wants nothing more than to treat you like a prince. Call us a cab.”

Pinky stood up and put a hand on Israel’s shoulder. “Go use the phone in the kitchen, Israel. Just go.” There was fairy dust on his teeth; they glittered with every word spoken.

Israel glided toward the saloon doors. He smelled sweat. Man’s sweat. Buzz was leaning against the refrigerator with a fresh drink in hand; he was nibbling on the last of the kiwi and Swiss cheese. He’d shed down to a dirty and tight white t-shirt. A barrage of greenish-black tattoos danced along his forearms and into the short sleeves of the shirt. Red bursts of demon eyes and blood graced some of them and others had been pricked into his skin with a sewing needle and India ink. His chest and biceps pushed against the tight cotton, exposing the sharp peaks of pierced nipples. The torso wasn’t gym-sculpted—it was tempered by a healthy brew of testosterone and the hardening blows of a rough life.

Israel froze in his tracks like a hunting dog; he was mesmerized by the animation before him. Buzz’s tattoos seemed to switch places and merge together, a nymph dance in action. “Hey there Buzz, I wasn’t sure if you were still…here or not.” Israel approached the sink and dropped off a load of dirty glasses.

Buzz watched him curiously and intently, like a wildcat about to charge out of a patch of savanna grass. Then he said, “I was hoping we could finish our conversation from before.”

“Which one?” Israel felt heat expanding inside of him.

“Leather. Rock-and-roll shit.”

“Oh, yes of course, that one. Maybe in a minute though, I have to call these guys a cab.”

The Giraffe shrieked yoo-hoo in the living room.

Israel had to reach past Buzz for the cordless receiver. “See, they’re really anxious to get going, hold on a second.” Israel reached for the phone—and as he did—Buzz’s hungry arm wrapped around him like a spiraling and contracting constrictor.

Buzz drew him in. He pressed his rum-soaked lips onto Israel’s and pinned him against the refrigerator, knocking off pieces of paper held up by small magnets. Israel resisted at first, but soon yielded and found himself opening his mouth as wide as he could.

Buzz’s musky odor was as weakening venom—his lust boiled over like a seismic rupture. None of this was new to him—the passion, the heat—but Israel was different than the others. There was something he could not identify that did make all of it new.

Everything swirled in Israel’s head; the voices in his skull cavity, the howling in the next room. It had never felt so good to surrender—he’d been raised to rule the roost. Everyone knew that Simone was the boss in their household, as it was. But this new surrender, to strength, to the trust of your own senses, was mesmerizing.

Israel’s furious and unleashed hunger became a tornado ripping everything in its path to ruin. The roaring got louder and he shoved Buzz against the sink, away from him, so that he could hear his own thoughts more clearly. “I said I needed to use the phone.” Shaking and heaving, he grabbed the phone and called the Glamour Boys a cab. Turning to Buzz he said, ““We need to do this somewhere else.”

Buzz moved in again and Israel pushed him back.

The birthday boy patted his pockets down. “I need to smoke, let’s smoke.” Israel flew through the doors and into the living room. “I called you guys a cab. Someone give me a cigarette, please.”

The Glam Monsters had found the mousy boy who’d passed out in the bedroom. They’d dragged him into the living room and painted their versions of Impressionist classics on his chalk-white torso--with Simone’s very expensive makeup. Israel decided to allow it to continue, it kept them quiet at the expense of a stranger’s cosmetic ruination. Buzz and Israel went back to the kitchen with The Giraffe’s pack of cigarettes.

Captain’s Whore looked down at the sleeping victim. “Now stop breathing, will you? You’re ruining my genius!” The Whore stood up and went outside into the yard. He came back in with a sandwich bag filled with something that looked like mud. “Hey you guys, check this out.”

The Whore smeared a lump of dog shit onto the sleeping boy’s hand. “Now tickle his face with a feather.” Whore stood back. Giraffe swashed the boy’s face with a cobalt ostrich plume and the boy, in his death-like sleep, hit his own face with his hands--which caused the faeries to laugh with endless and depraved abandon.

Israel and Buzz came out of the kitchen and The Giraffe shrieked, “Were you guys getting to know each other or what?”

Israel wished he’d called a cab sooner. “One could call it that.”

The Giraffe put his silver coat on. “Where’s our cab, hooker?”

Israel straightened himself out before a gold-framed, full-length mirror. “I called one. What did you guys do to this poor kid? Help me wrap him up, it’s getting cold.”

They set the desecrated mummy on the couch. Israel turned the stereo off and the sound of Chloe and Simone’s bedroom fantasy episode became all too audible.

The cab arrived.

The Sparkling Faeries were history.

Buzz and Israel were alone.

Israel stumbled over piles of clothes in the bedroom while gathering new clothes to replace his soiled party outfit. There were four female shadows on the bed; they were still drugged and whispering. He could smell vodka and body odors; Simone was swigging a half-empty bottle of Smirnoff. She completely ignored him and floated somewhere between sex and sleep. Israel closed the door behind him and went back into the living room. The next-door neighbor hit the wall.

Buzz ran a hand along Israel’s chest. “I think you should leave what you’re already wearing on. It’s a huge turn-on.”
“Really?” Israel examined his filthy suit set.

Buzz lit a crooked joint and said, “You have no idea.”

Israel paced the living room for a second. “It smells like shit in here, do you smell it?”

Buzz pinched his nose. “I think that kid crapped his pants or something. It’s coming from him.”
Israel patted himself down and put on his Navy peacoat. “Whoever did his makeup did a shitty job. Wait until he sees himself in the morning.”

The inked drug dealer zipped up his leather hide and said, “My place ain’t that far.”

Buzz and Israel wove through a labyrinth of vines and hedges and trees to the nearest twenty-four-hour convenience store and then scurried to Buzz’s basement apartment in southeast Portland. The two laughed hoarsely as they exchanged accounts of the then-defunct party. It was nearly five in the morning as they stopped to exchange anxious kisses in the Oregon predawn twilight.

They stumbled down a narrow walkway between two rotting Victorian houses that were covered in vines. The alley was mossy and two raccoons were scared off; the masked nocturnes could be heard retreating into the thickets of wildflower beds like two criminals on the run. Buzz wrapped one arm around Israel and unlocked his door.

They descended in the dark. There were heaps of dirty clothes thrown along the floor and molded dishes piled high over the surface of the kitchen counter. Cobwebs. The kitchen reeked of mold and rot and the small bathroom needed a furious cleaning.

The walls were etched with gold spray-painted words that made no sense. There was a torn painting of a child dressed as a clown next to the front door. The ceiling was an asymmetrical assortment of planks nailed together; it was reminiscent of a pirate ship.

Rock and roll’s giants watched from the surrounding walls; there were posters and pictures of the Dead Boys, Iggy Popp, Bowie, Judas Priest and The Damned. Marlon Brando on a motorcycle, from The Wild One. Buzz opened a window for fresh air and it rushed in like running water. It started raining again.

The bed was a messy tangle of sheets and squashed pillows, delinquent boxer shorts. Buzz coughed and said, “I never really bring people here, can you tell?”

“I think it’s just fine,” Israel mumbled, “I mean, a little cleaning around the edges wouldn’t hurt.”

Buzz lit some candles and turned on a red light. “It’s home anyway.” Israel sat on a squeaky chair. “I love the Marlon Brando poster.” Buzz stuffed a huge bong with stinky herb. “Yeah, that’s from LA, it’s old. I love old biker shit.” He then walked over to his stereo and shuffled through some CD cases making stale, libidinous word play.

“So what do you wanna do, Israel?”

“I don’t know. Listen to music, talk.”

“I think you’re gonna have to stay though, it’s raining hard and I need to crash soon. What should we listen to?”

“Oh, whatever you want, Buzz. You seem like you’ve got good taste.”

“Good taste, huh? We’ll have to see about this good taste.” Buzz heard his bed squeak.

Israel slopped backward onto it.

Buzz powered up The Stooges’ Raw Power.

Israel shifted on the lumpy mattress, taking in the smell of the nest. His skin felt hot. He closed his eyes and lost himself in the world of the Stooges’ primal fury.

Buzz walked over to the bedside and stood over him; still in awe of the striking, shiny black hair, the legs slightly spread. Buzz sat next to him, softly, as not to shock him into premature flight. “It was really hot kissing you in your kitchen, Israel.”

When Israel opened his eyes, Buzz was in his entire field of vision. And not only was this tattooed and mysterious man so close to him; every tattoo was visible—the muscular landscape no longer concealed. Buzz retreated to undo his wet boots and Israel watched as his back muscles moved mysteriously under his skin. “Hey, Buzz.”

“Yeah?”

“I feel hot.”

“Then take your clothes off.”

Israel stripped down to his boxers and Buzz leaned over and gently ran his tongue along Israel’s chest with animal delight, while keeping a straight eye-to-eye gaze into Israel’s core, through the windows of Israel’s dark brown eyes--the eyes framed with crimson, with blood.

It took on the sound and motion of industrial equipment, of a racing locomotive zooming over an orange landscape, like an arrow. The locomotive was calling from a distance, barely audible, just a ghostly whistle riding a weak wind. It raced closer, as disciplined as an Olympic athlete that drives it to its destination.

The arrow flew free and made a sound that no one heard; it was the muted intention of the steam engine, the wordless messenger. And while it raced down to that moist forest floor, from the reaches of Lower Heaven, Israel could hear it slice through the air above him. Suddenly, it seemed that the locomotive was about to blast through those concrete basement walls and kill both of them; the Love-hungry romantic and the mischief, Noon-time Sleeper.

The steam engine blew its whistle at maximum volume—a loud and sustained flourishing---and Buzz collapsed onto the bed. Israel realized that somewhere in the blue-green thunderstorm, he too, had arrived at a fresh destination, a place he had only dreamt of. The first rays of sunlight poured in through the dirty windows of the subterranean bunker, as Israel Ramirez smoked cigarettes and ran his fingers along a sleeping beast’s tattoos, body and hair.