Xstabeth, page 2
* * *
On the night of the show the famouser musician called my father. He apologised for not being able to come to the show himself. He said he had some hassle with a chick. Those were his exact words. I couldn’t help but smirk. But then I felt bad. My father was annoyed. Jaco can’t make it. He said. The famouser musician’s nickname was Jaco. Damn it. My father said. I’m all on my own here. Jaco had my back. He said. I’ll be out late. My father said. Don’t wait up for me. I imagine there’s going to be a bit of a do afterwards. He said. A bit of a do. That phrase really caught me when he said it. It still catches me now. I imagine there’s going to be a bit of a do. I wished him well. Kill them stone dead. I said to my father. Murder them. And I really meant it. Have a ball. I said to him. Then I waited for the door to slam. Then I ran upstairs. And hand-washed my best panties. Which were black and which had a red love heart on the back. I put on my best nylons and my heels. I wore my hair up but with carefree strands hanging down. That way I looked like a seductive intellectual. In other words just his type. I put on red lipstick and smoky eyeshadow. I practised smoking a cigarette in front of the mirror. Making my mouth a perfect O. He rang the phone three times as was usual. I could see his car across the road. It was a gold Viva. He was wearing a pair of shades and his arm was dangling out of the driver’s window. His dark hair was slicked back. I could almost smell him from there. That musky smell. He was tapping the sides of the car to the music. He was playing a cassette. It was a blues song. You know the one. Delia. Delia. How can it be. You say you love those ramblers but don’t love me. I threw a black shawl over my shoulders. Then I swayed over to his car. Oh my. He said. When he looked at me. Oh wow. Oh baby. He said. And he got out and opened the passenger door for me. But before we drove off. Before we drove off he put his hand on my thigh. Just the way he had before. Only this time he used it to slide my dress up my legs a little bit. So that he could see my stocking tops.
* * *
The movie was a cowboy movie. That’s why I mentioned cowboys earlier. I was surprised. I thought he would have taken me to a movie about suffering and loneliness. You don’t get it. He said. I had expressed surprise about the cowboy movie. This is the final frontier. He said. Don’t you know the difference between a wilderness and a garden. He asked me. It seemed like a boring difference whatever it was. The cowboy is the ultimate existentialist. He told me. He’s no armchair philosopher. He said. He gets on his horse. He said. And he rides. What’s he looking for. I asked him. Absolution. He said. But what about killing all those Indians. I asked him. We were at a stage in the movie where the Indians had been ambushed as they passed along a thin path between two high rocks. That’s the point. He said. And he put his hand back on my thigh and hooked his little pinky beneath my stocking top. The point is that after all the thought and deliberation. After all the thought and deliberation he gets back in the saddle and does what is asked of him. I didn’t see much thought and deliberation. I had to be honest. But perhaps that happened off-screen. After all that would be even more boring than a garden and a wilderness. But who asks it of him and what do they ask. I pressed the famouser musician. Who I might as well start calling Jaco like everyone else. Maybe I was trying his patience a little. Or maybe I seemed smart and unwilling to accept easy answers. Call it what you want. He said. Call it the word of God. Destiny. The heart. Fate. A calling. True will. Listen. He said. And he moved his hand up to just above my breasts and slipped it in between the buttons of my dress. Listen. He said. And he left it there as the Indians were massacred in the narrow pass.
* * *
Afterwards we went to a bar and the famouser musician started to get drunk. Vodka was in the picture. I had a pale ale 8 per cent and stared at him from behind the glass. He was becoming impassioned. I thanked him for getting a gig for my father. I told him it was a decent thing to do. But he just laughed. Your father is a terminal case. He said. I had no idea what he was getting at. He was really drunk by this point. At least my father believes in something. I went to say. But then I didn’t. I remembered the beach in the dark and how no one really knows anything. I didn’t want to make a fool of myself. Some people came past and patted Jaco on the shoulder and said congratulatory things to him. They didn’t even notice me. I began to imagine that he was regularly seen with young girls gazing at him from behind their glass. I imagined what was going on in his head right then. For a moment I saw myself tied to a chair in nothing but my underwear. Wow. Did I just see a picture in his mind. I thought. Then he asked me if I had ever been to a strip club. I hadn’t seen that in his mind. I lied and said yes. Yes. I said. Of course. But really I only knew them from videocassettes. I know a good one. He said. One where we will be made most welcome. By this point he could barely stand. I felt sorry for all the strippers up ahead. But somehow he was still attractive to me. Like a wild mountain. Maybe.
When the taxi pulled up in front of the strip club Jaco opened the passenger door and fell out onto the pavement at the foot of a security guard. Then he just lay there for a bit. I saw the taxi driver look down at him with complete contempt. I paid our bill. Fortunately Jaco was known to the club as the guard simply lifted him up and dusted him down and led him in by the arm. I followed behind. I heard someone wolf-whistle at me. They think I’m the main attraction. I thought to myself. I remember the club was so cold. The air conditioning. This is a strip club in Siberia. I said to myself. Most of the girls were wearing cheap swimwear and heels. Purple bikinis and leopard-print bodices. They were playing heavy metal music. A woman brought us over a bottle of awful wine. Do you want a dance. The waitress asked us. Well. Jaco said. And he looked at me from under his black greasy fringe that had flopped down over his forehead. Do you. Sure. I shrugged. I was trying to look blasé. I could take a dance. Who do you want honeybun. The waitress asked me. There was a girl with long blonde curly hair and a little piglet nose that looked like it had been permanently pressed up against glass when she was a kid. She was dancing onstage and the DJ was making affectionate jokes about her. The waitress waved her over and Jaco handed her a wad of money and just pointed to me. At first she seemed perturbed. Maybe she had never been with a woman before. I hadn’t. Oh my. Then she instructed me. Push your chair back against the wall little one. She said. That gave me a shock. That was my father speaking. She kneeled up on the chair so that I could stroke her soft skin. Her beautiful soft skin. And so that I could smell her too. She smelled like a glamorous baby. She unhooked her top and her breasts fell out in front of me. Bite them. She instructed me. I put my teeth on her huge nipples and pressed down. But it wasn’t hard enough. Bite me. She instructed me again. Really bite me. Go on. I was afraid to hurt her. But then I thought maybe they are fake. I didn’t know the difference between fake and real breasts at that point. The only breasts I had to go on were my own. So I had no comparison. But I thought maybe if they were fake then they had no feeling left in them. So it was okay to bite them. I bit them hard and I thought I might taste blood. But no. She groaned a little at that and her long hair fell down over my face. Then she pulled her thong to one side. Put your finger in my asshole. She said. Can you believe it. Give me your finger little one. She said. Go on. Then she said please. Please. Little one. She said. Put your finger up my asshole. I did what I was told. And it wasn’t even clean. I felt a mess back there. At first I thought I had been tricked. That she was out to humiliate me by sending me home with a dirty finger. But really. She was in rapture. I couldn’t believe what you could do to a woman with just your hands. She slid up and down on my finger with a soft squelching noise that made me feel like being born all over again. Soon I got more confident and I pulled her cheeks apart and put two fingers up there. One finger from each hand. Then she started bucking. And then she had an orgasm. Bite me bite me. She said. Give me your fingers little one. I didn’t know you could have an orgasm in your butt at that point. It was amazing. I felt so proud. That I had put on such a performance. I felt proud for Jaco to see me. But when the girl got off me. And started adjusting herself. When the girl got off me I realised he was nowhere to be seen. He had paid for my dance and hadn’t even hung around to watch me. I was crushed. Finally I caught sight of him at the other side of the club. He was staggering around drunk propositioning other women. It was pathetic. I loathed him then. The girl kissed me. And thanked me. And then walked off like nothing had happened. I dared to sniff my own finger. Oh wow. But I decided to keep it to myself. This is my own trophy. I said to myself. Not for pathetic males like Jaco. That’s how I felt right then. They switched the lights on in the club and it was home-time. But Jaco was still staggering around propositioning women. They were repulsed by him. So was I.
Let’s go. I said to him. And I grabbed him. He was going to be sick and so I had to wait in the reception while he threw his guts up in the toilet. All the time customers kept coming out and saying thank you to me. Thank you. Like I was the star attraction. Then when we got a taxi. When we got a taxi he insisted that we go back to his. My father will be back soon. I warned him. He’ll kill me if I’m not there. But he insisted. There’s something I want to show you. He said.
When we got back to his place in St. Peters in a street named after a revolutionary hero he pushed me down on the stairs. Then he tried to make love to me. It was pathetic. He was completely incapable and soon he rolled off me and just groaned. Forget it. He said. He was talking to himself then. Wait. He said. There’s something I want to show you. Come with me. He said. Then he led me down into his garage. Where an old 1970s motorcycle was parked. It was painted yellow. I don’t care about motorbikes. I told him. That’s not what I want to show you. He said. And he put his hand inside a rusty metal toolbox and drew out a knife. The blade must have been eight inches long. Look at that. He said. I told you already that Russians love their knives. I’m not playing that game. I told him right away. And then I remembered when I had seen a vision in his mind of me being tied to a chair in my sexy underwear. Oh no. I thought. But really he was a sap when he was drunk. He didn’t seem aggressive at all. I felt safe. But that’s not what I meant to show you. He said. Then he pulled out something else. Something that was wrapped inside tarpaulin. It was a handgun. Wait a minute. I said. Where did you get that. I found it. He said. I found it in the mud of a river. We were in a heatwave in St. Peters in those days. The rivers had all dried up. Someone must have thrown it in the river. He said. Maybe it was a murder weapon. In that case don’t get your fingerprints on it. I said. But he said it was too late. And besides the original prints had probably worn off in the water. Is it loaded. I asked him. I don’t know. He said. Why don’t you try it. Then he stared at me with his hypnotic eyes. Did I mention he had hypnotic eyes. It doesn’t matter because this is where it becomes relevant. Can’t you just open the barrel or something and check. I said. I don’t think you should do that. He said. I think you should just try it. Don’t check it out. He said. I think you should just go ahead and fire it. I took the gun off him. I put it up to my head. Then I asked him to get his camera. I took control of the situation. Get your camera. I said. He looked at me in amazement. Now. I said. And he went scurrying back upstairs. By this point I think he was sober again. In the meantime I examined the gun. It was caked in dry mud. Maybe he was telling the truth. But I didn’t open the barrel to see if it was loaded. Besides I had no idea how. Does that camera have a timer on it. I asked him when he came back. In that case set it up on the seat of the motorcycle. Then bring me that knife too. I told him to put the knife up to his throat. Don’t even think about it. I said. Just do it. Stand next to me. I told him. And smile for the camera. I thought about the changing forest. Then I put the gun to my head. I thought about a beach in the dark. Then I waited for the camera to flash. I remembered where my finger had been earlier. Then I pulled the trigger.
SYNCHRONICITY IN XSTABETH
by Dana Scallon (Dx(e))
That things happen together and then somehow begin to relate to one another, somehow draw connections with one another, invisible connections, in a way, I would say, connections that at first you are not aware of at all, like two separate things that just so happen to be going on at the same time but maybe more than going on, maybe two separate things (or more in big events, in major synchronicities) that somehow seem to interact with each other, though not deliberately, not obviously causally, though intersect is maybe a better word, not a better word for synchronicity, synchronicity is the best word to describe synchronicity and that in itself could be seen as the ultimate in synchronicity, that a sound or word or set of letters has come to mean that there is a perfect moment of synchronicity going on and of course it was coined by the psychoanalyst and magician (some would say, especially those who are familiar with The Red Book) Carl Gustav Jung and since then it has become a magic word, but not like abracadabra, which is a word that precedes a magical act, whereas synchronicity is a word that bestows on a certain moment in time the feeling or the observation or more properly the realisation that moments in time are made up of lots of mutual or parallel or wildly vectored streams that come together, that intersect, as I said, though intersecting is not synchronicity unless the intersections, in a way, bring information, visual spectacle, ideas or even mathematics or cause and effect together in a way that expands the possibilities of the moment, at least in how the brain organises or predicts or puts the past and the future together, in other words the way the brain conceptualises the movement of various time streams through one moment and out again, the meaning that that intersection has is synchronicity, but in a way it is the word synchronicity, the various streams that meet in that sound, those letters, that concept (and a concept itself is a meeting or intersecting or way of understanding the coming together of certain ideas at one focused point), in other words it is synchronicity that brings synchronicity to bear on synchronicity. But what about coincidence? Well, I would say that coincidence is the opposite of synchronicity. Coincidence is something that makes life mean less. It puts it down. It says “just.” “Just” a coincidence. That’s why scientists love it. Science (except of course for our great prophets Bruno, Kepler, Newton, Einstein, Sagan, Bohr and their disciples, what a coincidence) is all about “justs” and “onlys.” We are “just” a collection of atoms and cells and complex physical processes. God doesn’t exist, it was “only” a big bang that started it all. So, when something happens, and you say, well, it was only a coincidence, you have made the decision not to speak the magic word. You have, in effect, said to yourself, I will choose the lesser interpretation, I will choose to remove meaning from the situation, I refuse to anoint these happenings with the magic word of synchronicity. Synchronicity can’t happen to me, that’s what you’re saying, and I’m aware that I am drifting from my point but that’s because I took LSD last night because I was feeling bold. I was feeling so bold that I decided to celebrate my newfound boldness by taking some LSD and listening to some music, in this case Bach’s Actus tragicus, which is funeral music and which at the start has the most remarkable dissonances, blurry notes that almost seem to turn in on themselves like the big bang in music or is that just a coincidence, but like a quiet bang, and what’s that saying, the universe begins not with a bang but with a whimper, but I listened to Bach on LSD and I spoke the word synchronicity, as you suggested, I spoke the word and then now, today, here I am, still coming down from LSD, still tripping, as they say, and isn’t it true, I believe it is, isn’t it true that the founder of Alcoholics Anonymous, I have no idea of his name, it’s something that just came to me right now, a moment of synchronicity, I have called it, but didn’t he recommend the use of LSD as a way of combatting addiction early on, didn’t he think that LSD could be put to good positive psychiatric effect? On LSD, I pronounce that my presence here, in St. Andrews, meeting you, is in fact synchronicity itself, synchronicity across time and space, synchronicity which unites myself with all of this perfect moment, and synchronicity does not simply promise meaningful fun, I realise that, it also contains meaningful sorrow too, but again sorrow that has meaning is not “just” sorrow, sorrow whose end is not simply sorrow but which brings meaning in its wake, well, that too is magic and I pronounce it so: s-y-n-c-h-r-o-n-i-c-i-t-y, I pronounce it so, feeling sad and feeling happy, happy that the next phase of my life can begin, right now, up ahead, finally, but feeling sorrow too, sorrow that this last phase of my life is coming to an end, but I pronounce that synchronicity too, with gratitude, I pronounce it, and I feel blessed and thankful to be caught up in so much meaning.
