Repossession

He carried the woman out of the boot of his car using a fireman’s lift. Her wrinkled hand with knotted arthritic joints grazed his cheek, making his skin crawl. He could almost feel the dirt under her nails infect him. Of course, he wanted to help her but, regardless, he was repelled by her feral state.

The pair were at his cottage in the country just outside town in a sparsely populated neighbourhood where it rained so much the rivers swelled to twice their size in winter and the trees dominated the horizon.

He heaved her onto the sofa bed – the springs groaning, moths fluttering out of the crumpled sheets. The woman sighed and showed signs of surfacing. He bolted all the doors and pulled up a chair opposite her – ready with mace and a rope in case things turned nasty. He rolled himself a cigarette with the artistry of a calligrapher.

As the woman came to, she propped her head on her hand and absorbed the scene – red velvet curtains drawn, stale smell of potatoes, spiders’ webs assembled in every corner. This wasn’t a home, definitely not a bachelor’s pad, but a place where untold pain had been suffered. The man licked another cigarette into a perfectly smooth cylinder and offered it to her. She shook her head with a grimace.

It was then she noticed the rope and mace he’d placed on the floor that was lined with plastic sheeting. Trying to shrug off her nausea she said, “I have nothing and I have no family for you to blackmail. Kill me if you want.”

“I’m not going to kill you, and I don’t want anything from you. I’m here to help.”

“So, you’re one of those twisted freaks who gets off on power. Well do your worst.”

“You haven’t aged well,” he said, flicking through some notes. “Says here you’re thirty-two. You look sixty. I’m guessing the drug you’re on is Fathomalide, right? I’ve seen these aging effects before, but not so pronounced. What are you doing on a posh drug like that anyway?”

“Who are you?”

“I’m your repo man and now the best friend you’ve got.”

“Whatever, mate, I’m past caring. You’ve already taken everything from me.”

She stretched her arms then scratched her cheek, loosening a scab of dry skin that floated down from her face, nestling amongst the folds of the duvet. The man noticed her sagging skin hanging from her throat.

“So, you’re going to get me clean? I’m no normal fiend, I warn you.”

“I’ve seen it all before,” he said, prodding his phone, scrolling through pictures of her belongings. “Give it twenty-four hours, you’ll be a new woman. See, my method is I show the addict pictures that connect with their past. It’s cathartic. Taking drugs blocks the emotions, getting in touch with the past sets the mind free – free from the ties of addiction. Being a repo man gives me the perfect opportunity to access their possessions.”

“You don’t have family a family do you; otherwise why would you care about a random stranger like me? And you ain’t no Mother Teresa either, so what gives?”

The man began to tap his foot – disgruntled. He stood and decided not to defend himself. He went to his room, grumbling under his breath, flopped onto his bed and continued analysing pictures. He uploaded the pictures to his laptop and let them scroll across the screen, one after another.

She began to sweat – a cold fever taking control of her body. She could only wait. She pulled on a single strand of hair, curled it around her finger and then plucked it out. By the time the man returned she’d cleared a tiny bald patch above her forehead. He sat and stared at her, curling his upper lip with disgust.

He pointed at her; “your face is – is disgusting. It’s all peeling, look.”

There were flakes of skin in a small heap beside her, mingled with loose strings of hair.

“Let’s get you into a bath and clean you up.”

As they moved into the bathroom, through the open door of his bedroom the woman could see the pictures displayed on his computer. She spied one photo in particular – a shot of an elderly couple – and as the man helped her fragile frame along, her legs buckled from beneath her. She gasped. The man struggled to maintain their balance, feeling her hip bone dig into his side. He rested her on a stool by the sink, drew the woman a bath, laying out some worn towels and a shrivelled-up piece of soap.

“What just happened? You nearly fell,” he said

“My parents, a picture of my parents. They died recently.”

She wiped tears from her eyes as steam clouded the bathroom mirror. The man turned off the taps and the last few droplets splashed into the body of water.

“Take a long soak. We’ll get through this.”

“Why are you doing this to me?

“Take as long as you need and when you’re clean maybe we can look at some more photos. It’ll quicken the process.”

The woman took off her hoodie, leggings and beaten-up trainers as the man closed the door on her. Her naked body was hunched and blighted with scars from bedbugs that had ravaged her skin. She lowered herself into the water and began to shake, falling into a silent fit, losing control of her senses as time ground by slowly.

An hour later the man opened the bathroom door and chucked inside a clean tracksuit for her to wear. As she returned to the living room the man noticed her appearance was significantly altered – her posture was erect, her skin was taut, her scars healed, the leaden glare in her eyes, gone. She was transformed. Then the man’s attention was drawn to a stench emanating from the bathroom.

“Smells like something died in there,” he said, and he went to investigate. As he peered through the door, scouring the room, everything was normal, until he realised laying by the bundle of the woman’s dirty clothes was another pile, consisting of a mysterious material. An odd fly dipped and dodged about the mass, that on closer inspection looked like flesh. He poked it with his foot. It gave way and rippled. The form reminded him of flaccid, discarded intestines.

“The old me,” the woman said, grinning from ear to ear, peering over his shoulder. “I tell you; I’ve never felt better.”

“What just happened?”

“I thought you’ve seen it all. Come on, let’s look at some more pictures, I want to finish this.”

In a daze the man got a bin bag and scooped up the rotting flesh with rubber gloves and it oozed through his fingers. He recoiled in disgust. He dumped the bag outside as maggots squirmed in the creases of the mushy bundle.

After dinner the man collected his laptop from his bedroom and set it up on the kitchen table allowing the woman to comfortably focus her attention on the photos of the possessions that had once represented her entire world.

“Stop,” she said after a dozen or so photos had drifted by, “let me look at that one in more detail.”

A brown teddy bear was pictured – a toy without any real distinguishing features – and yet the woman reacted to it violently, clutching her stomach as if she’d been stabbed. Within seconds, her belly had swollen, stretching her top out as if she was six months pregnant. She pulled up her hoodie and pressed her hands against the naked bulge, stroking bruised veins that poked out of her skin. She whispered gentle words to the unborn soul. “It’s ok,” she said, “this time will be different.”

The man dragged his fingers through his hair and wore a look of disbelief.

“I’m going to need pears, lots of pears,” she said, eyes glued to her tummy.

“Uh, ok. Listen, do you know what’s going on? Because I don’t know what’s going on.”

“I think I’m pregnant.”

“Yes, it looks that way.”

“Pears.”

“Ok, you really want pears. Give me an hour and I’ll stock up. I have to lock you in because we’re not finished. I hope you understand. But you’ll have your pears soon and we’ll figure this out.”

As he returned, heaving groceries under each arm while juggling his keys, he looked around for the woman but she was nowhere to be seen. Only then did he notice a streak of blood marking the floor. He heard a sharp cry. He dropped his bags and raced into the bathroom. The woman was on the floor, resting her back against the bath, writhing in pain. Her lower body was stripped bare and blood gurgled out of her crotch. Then something slimy, something large forced its way out of her, moving imperceptibly, maybe even breathing.

“You did this,” said the woman, “you.”

“Did what? How?” he said.

“Never mind. It’s dead. I don’t know why I thought it would be any different this time.”

“Please explain, what’s happening.”

“My drug, it eats my insides up. I’ve had one miscarriage after another throughout my life.  Seeing that teddy brought all the memories flooding back – memories of a time when I was preparing to become a mum.”

“We need to keep you off the drug and clean your system out. Maybe looking at some more pictures would help. Trust me I know what drugs can do. I never had a proper family because of them. That’s why I always wanted to be a dad. But it hasn’t happened for me yet.”

“That’s a touching story. Look, I believe you mean well but I don’t want this anymore. I can’t do it.”

She got to her feet, blood and mucus pouring down her thighs and walked into the living room as the man laid a towel over the dead foetus, ready to be binned beside the skin festering in the trash cans outside. Despite her anguish, she looked fresh and full of life. Her hair glossy, teeth white. She had oily skin too and was breaking out in spots around her forehead and temples. She could pass for a teenager.

She picked up the laptop, with the man’s phone still hooked up to it, raised them above her head and sent them crashing to the ground, spreading broken electronics to each corner of the room like scuttling cockroaches. The man dashed out of the bathroom, head in hands, and screamed at her with every sinew in his body, causing the girl to cower. “Why!” he cried, “don’t you see that was our only hope!”

“Hope for who? Maybe there’s hope for you, but not me. At least if I can block any memories that trigger me, I can avoid going through more pain.”

The man took several deep breaths. There was always a solution.

“Listen, let’s gets some sleep, we’re both on edge and I’m sure we’ll see things clearer in the morning.”

That night, while the girl tossed and turned in bed – troubled by sinister dreams of rabid dogs attacking her stillborn baby, the man injected her with a sedative and bound and gagged her. By the time she woke up she found herself seated in a large room illuminated by halogen lights and filled with boxes – some nailed shut, others crowbarred open, with possessions spread across the floor.

“This is your lockup, and these are all your repossessed belongings,” said the man. “Now I’m going to take off your gag. Scream if you want to, the place is deserted.”

Once she was freed the girl said, “What now?”

“Well, we find the next trigger.”

“Where does this end? Please let me go before something worse happens.”

“Don’t look at it that way, we’re on the cusp of something important.”

The man began to sift through boxes, ripping open lids and burrowing deep inside. He fished out clothing, kitchenware, paperwork, and held them up to the girl in the hope that an object would spark a reaction. When he found a child’s watch, with the design of a unicorn floating on a rainbow, the girl sat bolt upright, straining against her ropes.

“This is something, isn’t it?” He said. “Who does it belong to? Did you have a child after all? What is it, tell me?”

Her neck began to shift from one side to the other making a loud cracking sound. The man hid the watch from the girl’s view and her body immediately slumped in relaxation.

“Ok,” he said, “I want you to be entirely honest with me. And if you do, I will let you go. This whole thing will be over for you, I promise. But you have to explain yourself.”

“You promise?”

“Yes, I have other things to do too you know.”

“That watch belonged to my older sister. She died of a brain tumour when I was young. I didn’t really know what was happening, I was too little, but anyway I wouldn’t stop crying after she passed. I cried and cried and my parents couldn’t cope. Their solution was to put me on a new drug at the time, Fathomalide. Well, the crying stopped, but it had side effects – uncontrollable vomiting, joint pain, weird growths on my body – things like that. But my parents kept me on it and I seemed to adjust.”

“But now,” he said, “you’re suffering consequences in ways you could never imagine, right?”

“Right. Now do as you promised, let me go.”

“I did promise, didn’t I. But to be honest it’s just too tempting to find out what will happen next.”

He held out the watch, dangling it by her nose as she began to gag and her body rocked from side to side. Her lips trembled and snot dribbled into her mouth. He moved the watch closer to the girl’s nose, dangling it with a steady hand as the girl fell into contortions.

“What are you? What can I do with you?” he said.

The girl spat at the man’s cheek and he wiped off the saliva with the cuff of his shirt. Suddenly there were ripping sounds. Her tracksuit tore as bones jutted out of cloth – spine, shoulders and knees, poking through like jagged knives. He could see blood dripping from her flesh. She tried to close her eyes, but somehow, she was compelled to maintain her gaze.

“Help me!” she cried.

Then everything changed. A cascade of vomit spewed out of her mouth, knocking him back on his heels sending the watch flying across the room. Then a gel-like substance was excreted from her pores all over her body, casting her in a thick layer of gunge from head to toe. As the gel solidified around her body, he could hear the sound of bones shifting and crunching again.

The man listened as her voice murmured from inside her casing. He could hear the girl sobbing, becoming desperate – a clawing cry that set the man’s nerves on end. He couldn’t hold back any longer. He thrust his arms into the gel and searched around, finally grabbing hold of her as she shuddered with fear. He pulled out the body and a green discharge spurted across the room. He unveiled a child of about two years old, draped in sopping wet rags.

“It’s OK, it’s OK,” the man said, wiping the pus from her face. The child took some deep breaths, ceased crying for a few seconds as she took in her environment, her new body and the man staring intently into her eyes. But it didn’t take long before she started up like a car engine and began to wail again.

“Ok,” he said, “what do you want? What shall I do?”

The child was inconsolable. There was the sound of activity outside. It was dawn and the lockup was opening for business.

“We’ve got to get out of here. Hold on to me. I won’t let you go.”

He gathered up the child in his arms and raced to his car before his bleary-eyed co-workers could discover any wrongdoing. The man placed the child in the passenger seat and strapped her in. Still crying, he held her by the shoulders and said, “This doesn’t fit but it’ll have to do for now. Listen, you belong to me now. I can look after you in the ways your parents never could. You will need me like I need you. I know I treated you badly but one day you’ll understand why it had to be done. So, let’s both start over. Just please, please stop crying.”

They drove off into the morning streets, sun nestling behind a block of trees, casting a long shadow in the man’s rear-view mirror.  They had no place where they had to be, nothing tying them down. They would find their own way, in their own time – into the burning heart of the future.

Big Black Widow

Here she comes, stomping down Fifth Avenue, a sexual nightmare on two legs: Big Mary, the terror of all those smaller than she. In other words, everyone.

So many years since she last tore herself out of the shadows.

She was still horribly beautiful, and dressed in black.

Her black hat was hung with a black veil. Long black gloves showed off her biceps and the whiteness of her skin. At fifty paces, she had me on the verge of premature ejaculation.

She didn’t see me, or couldn’t see me. Lesser creatures, the ants all around her, don’t really exist. We’re just packets of energy with little or no mass, aimlessly adrift in nature, while she spans and dominates the world. I could’ve turned around, or ducked into a building, or grabbed a cab. She closed in, staring off into space. Her eyes blazed red, as though she’d been weeping.

“Hey Mary.” We’d been off our playground across the Hudson River for decades, so I didn’t say, Hey Big Mary. That nickname might still be a torment.

She looked around. She seemed lost. ‘Maybe she doesn’t live in the city,’ I thought. ‘She’s just here for the day because someone she loved, or admired, has died.’ It was still difficult to imagine that Big Mary could have friends. What a huge, lonely life she must’ve led.

“Oh. Hey. It’s you.” Her lips moved slowly, like the wings of some magnificent demon.

“Wow, you look exactly the same,” I said. “I mean, you look great. How are you?” Man how stupid can you be? You see a woman dressed in mourning, and ask her how she’s doing.

“Oh, great, except that I’m a widow now.”

“Oh no. I’m sorry. How long were you married?” I mean, who the hell was the lucky guy? A professional wrestler? A monster from Hollywood? And how did you kill him?

“Not even twenty years,” she said.

“Well hey, that’s more than most couples get.” The more I spoke, the more I felt I hadn’t grown or made any progress since the woman I’d just bumped into arrested my development in the Fifth Grade. But that was already more education than most people got.

“Yeah I guess,” Big Mary said. “Hadn’t thought of it that way, yet.”

A moment was about to slip by. Had to grab it, get it back, make it stay, but moments are much more powerful than they seem. When they want to go, they go. “So, uh, you live around here?” The Upper East Side, where everyone who doesn’t live there wants to, was her natural habitat.

“Yeah. It’s weird, our apartment’s in the same building as the funeral parlor. I mean, how convenient. You die, all you gotta do is head downstairs. Don’t even have to put a sweater on.”

It was early spring, a bright day with a cutting chill wind. Big Mary hugged her arms. “Jeezus maybe I should’ve put a sweater on. I got a whole goddamn closet full of cashmere and camel hair.”

Herds of alpacas and vicuñas had been rendered into cloud-like garments to warm Big Mary’s broad alabaster shoulders.

She looked at me, then. We were more or less eye-to-eye.

Memory plays tricks with perspective and creates monsters. Black clothes accentuate height. Big Mary used to wear drab monochrome outfits to school. They were custom-made by her Mom, since store-bought clothes were expensive, and none of the shops in town had anything that’d fit her colossal daughter anyway. Mary’s family was poor.

She let me drape my coat on her shoulders. “Jeezus Mary you used to scare the hell out of me. I used to have nightmares where you’d clomp down the street and knock down buildings and uproot trees. No matter where I hid, you’d find and eat me.”

“Oh yeah?” She looked as though she’d forgotten her husband’s funeral for a moment. “Maybe fate has brought us together today so I could say I’m sorry.”

So she remembered the time she and her ogress cronies dragged me into the little house-schwitz on the playground. They tied me up with a jump-rope and threw me to the floor. Big Mary loomed far overhead, straddled, dropped to her knees. Torture was a kiss, something grade school boys were supposed to dread. But she also whispered that she was going to suck the eyeballs out of my head.

 That was one long, dark recess.

“Tell me about you,” Big Mary said. “You live in the city? Whuddya do?”

“Oh I write stories. For kids, mostly. Not little kids, though. Big kids, I guess.”

“Yeah? You make a living at it?”

“Not really. Not anymore. You got kids?”

“Zero. You?”

“None for me too. I split up with my girlfriend a while back. We had twelve years together. That was all we got. Too bad, because I think we both wanted more.”

“Well that’s pretty funny, isn’t it, us bumping into each other like this after so long and we’re both sorta available. I mean, you are loose, aren’t you?”

“Let’s go for a walk in the park, Mary. There’s a place I like.”

“You haven’t turned into some kinda ax-murderer, have you?”

“Oh, you never know.”

“Okay, let’s go. I don’t mind.”

She didn’t say, ‘I ain’t afraid of you or anyone like you.’ She’d grown polite.

The place I liked was near the carousel. The roundabout was curtained off and closed, due to the wind and cold. A playground for ghosts, the spirits of children who grew up and weren’t children anymore, though of course deep down inside they still were and would always be. The clearing was isolated, and quiet.

Big Mary pulled a face. “You like this place? That’s so weird, cuz it always gives me the creeps. I always jog around it so I don’t have to look.”

“You’re in great shape. You look like a…” I was about to say, ‘glamorous bodyguard’. “…A dancer, some kinda full-contact ballerina.”

“I just try to keep from falling all the way apart is all.” That New Jersey accent won’t go away, ever.

The carousel dissolved in the raking light. The city beyond the trees had dematerialized. I led Big Mary into a stand of ironwoods that grew from the mouth of a red brickwork tunnel. She said, “Look, I already apologized for what I did. I wasn’t really gonna hurt you anyway. I only wanted to smooch-rape you cuz I thought you were cute. Honest.”

“This is known as psycho-drama, Mary. It’s supposed to help people get over past traumas.”

“Okay, go ahead and kill me if you want. Do it quick, though. I’m not into pain.”

“You got the wrong idea. We bring the past back to life in order to make it go away.” I was lying. I lay down on the dirt, face up. The carousel’s organ began to play. The wind wheezed a ghostly music through its pipes.

“What the hell are you doing?” The wind blew Big Mary’s veil off her face. The lines showed. The years pounced into the moment like hyenas.

“This is the only playground we got left, Mary. Do it. But go all the way this time. Please.”

“You don’t mean it,” she said, but she knew I did. She moved, towered over the visible world, the way she had back at school. Her black skirt was a shroud, her black lace panties a chic touch of death. She went down slow, put pressure where the air went in, and where the blood raced to the brain. She knew what to do, where to go, knew how to meet a millionaire husband and how to snuff him when the time was right. Oh you big gorgeous cunning killer.

Everything was so sweet and black and final. But then she stopped, stood up and let the light have its way again. Sometimes I hate light.

“Why not, Mary?” I gasped. “Back then you said forever and ever.”

“We were in Fifth Grade, for chrissakes.”

“Life used to be so scary and serious, then it got light and sorta fun for a while, and now it’s all so dumb and meaningless.”

“Nothing changes,” she said. “The only thing that’s different is that when you’re all grown up it’s okay to be the biggest thing around.” She straightened her stockings, her skirt, set her veil back where it belonged.

“What’re you doing this evening?” I brushed myself off, shook the dead leaves and grass out of my hair. “Do you have to go to some gargantuan funeral banquet, or can I take you out on a date?”

“That’s what I wanted you to ask me out there on the playground,” she said.

We went to the Stork Club for drinks, had dinner at Delmonico’s, danced at Studio 54 and wound up as close to the stars as possible, at Windows on the World. The harbor and New Jersey sparkled like crazy below. We watched a storm come in off the Atlantic to erase the night and shake the skyscrapers to their foundations.

The next morning we went to the old Penn Station, that Roman Temple dedicated to Cronos, and caught a train to Jersey City to visit our old school. But the old red building had been torn down. An octoplex cinema was there instead, and its parking lot had engulfed the playground.

Bingo and the Cockless Wonders

“NEXT!!”

Bingo walked up to the massive wooden desk.

“What’s yer name, kid?”

“I’m the Cockless Wonder.”

The fat man behind the desk raised an eyebrow.

“Well, it’s Bingo – but I’m the Cockless Wonder.”

“You got a name like Bingo and you call yourself the Cockless Wonder?”

“It’s the act. You gotta see it. It’s really–”

“I like it! But we need four more guys. You’re Bingo and they’re the Wonders. I like it.”

“Don’t you want to see the act?” Bingo reached for the zipper on his crotch.

“Not if you’re gonna whip your fuckin’ dick out, kid. Leave the pleasure to the crowd.”

Bingo frowned. “I don’t whip my dick out. I’m a cockless wonder.”

“This is Hollywood, kid. You wanna be a wonder? You gotta have a cock to make it, or you gotta find one that can do it for you. It’s the only way.”

“You don’t understand – I’m different. I don’t need a cock to make it. That’s the whole point.”

“Fuck it. Let’s see what you got.” The fat man leaned back in his chair and lit a cigar.

The kid unzipped his fly and dropped his pants. The fat man was momentarily stunned; he choked on his cigar smoke. A cat hissed and scurried out of the room. Then Bingo began…

It was something magnificent, like a sunrise over Halong Bay. Like the chorus of angels from on high. A foul odor crept into the air, filling the small office space. The fat man sat frozen with awe, his tearful eyes growing wider with each passing moment. He hadn’t felt this way in so long; a lip quivered as his mind rolled through tender childhood memories. The Chinese Ballet had nothing on Bingo. The Roman Empire would have fallen to its knees for him. Such a glorious fantasy display, unparalleled in all of history. This kid had it.

As Bingo finished, the fat man sat silent for a moment. He couldn’t believe it: of all the talent agencies in L.A., Lady Luck had chosen this one to grace with her presence. He grabbed a tissue and wiped snot off his upper lip.

“Just sign right here,” he said.

Bingo walked past the hardware store and took a left, stopped next to a stairwell. He pulled a torn napkin out of his pocket and looked at the address again; this was the place. He climbed the stairs to a red door that groaned when he opened it. Inside, he stood in an old rehearsal hall. The fat man was at the other end of the room, pacing, eyes glued to his wristwatch. He looked up and startled, nearly tripped on his own feet as he went to greet the kid.

“Thank God! I thought we might’ve lost you. Follow me.”

The fat man hurried through another groaning door and Bingo followed. In the next room stood four men: two blondes, a redhead, and a bald one. Bingo could tell they had little means.

“Boys, this here is Bingo,” said the fat man. “He’s gonna make you the Cockless Wonders.”

The men looked concerned. The redhead took a step back.

“It ain’t like that,” said the fat man. “We’re all gettin’ a fuck-ton of money.”

The redhead stepped forward again.

“That’s more like it! This is the time of our lives, gents – believe me!”

Bingo waved the fat man over. “What exactly are these guys here for?”

“Son, it’s showbiz,” said Fatty. “With this act, you’re gonna be on a big circuit – a big stage, see? Can’t have just one guy up there. The crowd gets restless. Besides, this way the name has some zing to it.” He turned to the four guys and winked, then faced Bingo again.

“Okay, kid…go ahead. Show ‘em.” The fat man braced himself for the spectacle.

Bingo shrugged and dropped his pants. Then he began…

It was, of course, phenomenal. It was like the Grand Canyon: pictures could not do it justice. You had to be there yourself. All that beauty pouring out from one source…so much talent, such incredible moxie. Hitler would have been jealous. And the stink! – God, it was overwhelming.

When Bingo finished, the four men applauded. It would have taken a swimming pool to catch all the tears. Only the bald man spoke: “I’m gonna buy my mama a Cadillac.”

The fat man slipped a ten-dollar bill to each of the men. “I’ll have your suits ready on Friday,” he said. They thanked him and left the room in single file.

It was an opera house in New York City. Bingo rolled down the window and saw steam rising from the curb as the limo came to a stop. It was cold as ice out there; he hardly noticed. The past ten months had been a whirlwind of record deals, TV interviews, and a sold-out national tour. The reviews were fairly mixed: “CONTROVERSIAL!” … “GREATEST SHOW ON EARTH!!” … “THIS GUY’S GOING TO HELL.” This was the last leg of the tour and momentum was still on the rise. Top-notch film director Willoughby Jones was considering leads for his new action flick; rumor had it that he might be in the crowd. If tonight went smoothly, the sky was the limit.

Bingo got out of the car and squinted, then held up a hand to block the flashing lights. The fat man exited the vehicle behind him and beamed at the cameras. Bingo waved, gave an unsteady smile as he walked along the carpet. This was a bit more than he’d bargained for, but oh-so delicious. Along the grand marquee stood tall words lit up like a fairground:

TONIGHT!!

BINGO AND THE COCKLESS WONDERS

(Cash Only)

The fat man pushed Bingo through the double doors and into the lobby. They made a sharp right through an entrance marked ‘TALENT.’ Outside, the people were still screaming. There was a long corridor that reeked of spilled champagne; Bingo remembered New Years Eve, and marveled that it was coming up so soon. Time moves fast when you’re keeping busy, he thought. He entered a dressing room and the fat man followed.

Fatty closed the door and faced Bingo squarely. “Listen…I mean, this is kind of a big night. Not that it really matters, but do you do any other numbers…or just the one?”

“Just the one.” Bingo was confident.

The fat man grabbed his shoulders with love. “Okay. Well, no matter what happens, this has been amazing, kid. I want you to know how much it means to me – it means everything.” He looked pretty genuine.

“Just another day on the clock.” Bingo smiled.

“Yeah, but it’s a big fucking clock.” The fat man left the room and walked down the hall as Bingo closed the door. It was almost go-time.

Inside the dressing room, Bingo stood motionless for a moment. It was hard to believe this was all real. Last year he’d been picking up dimes off the sidewalk – it seemed people only dropped dimes, for some reason – and eating from trash cans in the park. His life then was filled with false starts, dead-end jobs, and broken promises. He was never the type to fit in. His response to the talent ad in the local rag had been a joke, a shot in the dark, a last-ditch attempt to do something worthwhile with his final hours. Just that morning, Bingo had decided to jump off the tallest bridge in town. But it was more like a choice, really. Decisions are made with conviction, and the suicide was mostly about apathy. His response to the ad? Now, that was a decision: a conscious effort to complete something once and for all. Just one thing – just one little thing, for God’s sake. It wouldn’t really matter any more or less than the things he had done before, only this time he would see it through to the end. Then he could get on with the suicide, if he still had the balls.

That’s the problem, he’d thought – I don’t have any balls. And the cycle of self-loathing started all over again.

Now Bingo was doing alright. No more dimes off the sidewalk. No more food poisoning from the recycle bin. Things were looking pretty good. So he stopped standing in the dressing room and began walking. He walked straight to the fridge for a bottle of chocolate milk. It was full of them, just as requested. This was important for the show.

Ten minutes later, the show was about to begin. The Wonders walked to center-stage and stood on their marks behind the stage curtain. They were ready. Bingo was ready. Somewhere not far away, the fat man was ready as well. A local radio announcer walked up to Bingo and shook his hand. He held out a Starbucks receipt and a ballpoint pen.

“Listen, if you don’t mind…my kid would really appreciate an autograph. He’s crazy about assholes. Don’t ask.”

Bingo obliged. The announcer thanked him and walked out into the spotlight as the music began playing. The audience piped up in celebration. Bingo stepped to his place in front of the Wonders. It was tuxedos all around.

From there, all Bingo could see was the dark backside of the deep-red curtain. But he could hear the audience; he could smell their popcorn, feel their bank accounts dwindling in the atmosphere. The roar of their excitement was beautiful. Bingo knew he had earned this with his commitment to that one fateful decision. And yet somehow he felt an immense gratitude to the powers beyond his control. It seemed the moment he had stepped out in faith, all the pieces just came together. If he could ride this high for just one more night, Bingo would never consider the bridge again. He could easily carry on living. He promised this, somewhere, deep down inside.

The radio announcer wailed into the microphone: “Ladies and gentlemen! Please give a warm New-York welcome for… BINGO AND THE COCKLESS WONDERRRSSS!!”

The ruby curtain rose. The audience stood clapping and cheering, happy as children on Christmas morning. Bingo waved to them. The Wonders waved to them, too. Panties flew onstage. Then the lights dimmed, the excitement softened, and everyone returned to their seats.

Bingo walked closer to the front of the stage, folding his hands in front of his waist. He turned briefly to his bandmates and nodded. On his cue, the Cockless Wonders cleared their throats and commenced humming a soft acappella number. They swayed from side to side in unison, their tune rolling in rise and fall like the refrain of a Southern Gospel hymn. It was low and sweet, fit for a funeral; the pace was measured, the tempo calm. For some in the crowd, it held a certain familiarity they could not yet define. The Wonders raised their volume. Bingo lowered his head in reverence, and just as the melody lifted he deftly unzipped his fly. Then he dropped his pants to the floor, and the audience gasped: Bingo was as bare as a plastic doll. Not a hair could be found, not a shred of evidence to suggest that he’d ever possessed an organ at all. But for the lack of scars, one could have sworn he was a eunuch, or the victim of some tragic accident.

On the next measure, Bingo turned his back to the audience and bent over at the waist. He spread his cheeks apart gently, and in that moment the sweetest voice rang out through the auditorium:

“Clock strikes upon the hour,
and the sun begins to fade…”

It was an impossibly clear tenor, perfect in pitch. Gorgeous, velvet tone spilled into the theater in waves. The audience gasped again.

“Still enough time to figure out…
how to chase my blues away…”

Such crystalline, operatic body… A range that stretched to infinity… And the vibrato – my god, that vibrato!

“I’ve done alright up to now…
It’s the light of day that shows me how…
And when the night falls… loneliness calls…”

It was beauty incarnate. It was simply indescribable. It was a soulful, heart-crushing rendition of Whitney Houston’s nineteen-eighties mega-hit ‘I Wanna Dance With Somebody.’

“Ooohh, I wanna dance with somebody…
I wanna feel the HEAT with some-bah-da-aay…”

The impassioned wails moving each line… An incredible display of control… All that unfettered power, fit for a king, yet reserved to one lowly asshole. It hardly seemed just. The smell was overpowering.

“Yeaahh, I wanna dance with somebody…
With somebody who loves me!”

The Sirens of ancient Greece were rolling in their mythical graves. This kid really had it. By heartache or by stench, not an eye in the house was dry. The fat man watched from the wings; his face was distorted with joy. Somewhere in the third row, Willoughby Jones was frantically reaching for his cell phone.

Bingo couldn’t believe it: for the first time in his life he felt the touch of grace. From a hobo on park benches to the darling of Hollywood; from the bottom of the gutters to the heights of his wildest dreams…this night was worth everything. It could all end tomorrow and he wouldn’t be any less grateful. This was more than the result of a decision; it was a validation of his desperate intention. It was magnificent and it was pure. It was, finally, a holy and miraculous calling.

As the anus reached its final note, Bingo sobbed into his open hands. The crowd went wild.