Apophenia Chapter Nine

Candy meets me outside during my break. We chat, exchange cigarettes, offer each other little stories that we’ve stolen from other lives lived poorly, just like our own. I have a flask in my jacket; I give it to her and she takes a long drink. It’s cold and rainy, like the sun has never existed, and we can’t see much besides the steam clouds emitting from our opened mouths. Her lipstick is a dark red like fresh blood. She’s wrapped in a big faux fur coat, and we huddle beneath the overhang, unable to go back to work. Leslie eyes us from the window, his bushy eyebrows arching briefly in consternation before collapsing in resignation. It is final; we will have our lengthy break. No one is coming into Les Adultes or Cans. Candy says she has to get back to work eventually, but would I come and see the club? She acts like she’s trying to hire me. I rush inside and ask Leslie, and he says ten minutes, or he’ll start answering the phones and dealing with the weirdos. He is such a kind-hearted dictator, a character out of one of Gibbons’ deranged poems.

There is a large bouncer at the door, as predicted. He’s tall but grotesquely fat, his brow wrinkling in numerous folds, his eyes little porcine lights moving sluggishly within their caves. Floyd is the name I am given; I shake hands and venture down the maroon carpet walkway to the spacious area where the stage is. A few sad-looking patrons sip overpriced drinks and stare at a chubby girl wriggling inside a hula-hoop. She’s limber despite the extra weight, more limber than me, her bob haircut moving as a unit with every calculated gyration, a snake tattoo writhing on the bottom of her stomach, just above her thong. Instead of backstage, where I expected Candy to take me, we sit down at a booth and watch. Neither of us says anything for several minutes; I fight the desire to check the time. The lighting cycles between a soft purple and a soft blue. The flask appears on the table, and Candy takes a sip.

"I saw your porn," I tell her.

"What did you think?" she asks.

"Solid stuff. I'd give it an A plus." A little flattery never hurt.

"So how do you grade porn?" asks Candy.

"The sincerity of the actors. Their commitment to the scene. A shared artistic vision. The same as anything else." I take the flask back and swallow some Jim Beam.

"What if they're just thinking of making money?" asks Candy.

"Does it matter? Art is art, no matter how self-aware the creators of said art are. That’s what my professor would say, at least." Jesus, it's as though Gibbons has possessed me.

"There’s a professor who comes in every Tuesday. One of the girls pointed him out. Wears a lot of tweed. Has a thick white beard, heavy set figure," says Candy.

"Kind of like Hemingway?" I ask.

"Was he a writer?" asks Candy.

"Yeah," I reply. "A pretty good one."

"What makes a good writer?" she asks.

"A lack of faith in their fellow man. A drinking problem. An eighth grade proficiency with grammar. The desire to be heard without screaming one’s head off. I dunno." The hula-hoop dancer has finished to little applause and no cat-calls. Candy shrugs and slides out of the booth.

"Our time is up," she says. "We have to get back to work."

"Are you drunk?" I ask.

"Not enough."

I stand up next to her, smelling her peach-scented perfume. She wants to kiss me, I can tell, her eyes say it. Her soft hand touches mine, and I feel dizzy, the whiskey kicking like a mule.

"Why don’t you come by on Friday? Stop by after work. You can see me up there. There won’t be any hula-hoops."

"I can’t. I have to go to a show," I find myself saying, incredulously.

"Maybe come by after. This place is open late, you know."

"What’s going on here?" I ask, my face forming a half-smile.

"You’re a pretty girl, Leona. I’ll see you later."

…

I take the caller’s info and everything checks out. Then I hear my name spoken into the receiver.

"Leona," he says.

"This is Jasmine," I reply, not missing a beat. "What’s your pleasure, big boy?"

"I was going to guess ‘Leona’ before you hung up on me. We were talking about patterns, remember? Why do we try to find truth in meaningless data? We’re inundated by ones and zeros, assaulted by trigonometry through the airwaves, and yet we scatter innards on the ground, looking to augury and other perverse forms of divination. This is how we deal with our inability to comprehend our own existence. We swallow data; we bathe in it. We produce it and regurgitate it and then decipher what we will. Do we create our own luck, my dear? Those gas station lottery cards you purchase, what are you trying to buy? What patterns do you see in the lotto numbers flashing across your bunny-eared tv screen? Do you listen to hymns at night, your headphones cupping your exquisite ears? I watch and watch and listen and listen, and I hear glorious things in the monorhythmic music of your breathing. Those handprints on your windows are created by gloved fingers. Remember, please: this is time that I have purchased, and so you must listen. I get what I pay for, you understand. You prostitute yourself, Leona. You put on a harsh face and fill the air with your quips, you slouch and meander through the halls of your school, yet you run from home to this pathetic little smut-house to answer the desires of strangers, men of filth, men of lust, men of anger. Let’s not use the false name. Let’s admit what we are, all right? You are the stripper across the street, the walking pair of legs and tits. You’re meat, you understand? You fire synapses with your words and create images in the diseased heads of sick men. Words aren’t just words, Leona. What you say and think can be used against you. We each have our own court of law, and we must abide by those laws, else we are no better than beasts. You are guilty, my dear. You are guilty by the very nature of your sex. God made you from the rib bone of man. You sinned, and then we sinned, so who is ultimately at fault? I am not. He is not. She is. You are."

"Listen, buddy, I have your information," I say into the phone, my voice calm and collected. "I’ll go to the police. I’ll tell them you’re stalking me."

"You think my name is really Robert Heinlein? Names and credit card numbers are just data. Little things that can be stolen or rearranged. People are data, Leona. Jasmine is data. Leona and Jasmine can be rearranged, stolen, misplaced, dissected and reassembled. There’s a pattern in every human being just waiting to be found. I’ve found your wayward ambitions, dredged from the depths of a trailer park existence. But you’re not being honest, Leona, you know that, right? Honesty is the key. Honesty makes a square peg fit into a round hole. You can bludgeon someone to death with honesty. I guarantee it. Some say that there is nothing but life and death. I think there is nothing but information trying to find a meaning. Most people have no meaning. They are no better than a credit card number. I don’t want you to become one of those people, Leona, which is why I am calling. I am watching. I am waiting. I am looking for a change, and if there is not one to my liking, mark my words, there will be dire consequences. I will be with you on your wedding night. That is all."

The line dies, and I get up and walk out the door. Leslie doesn’t notice; he’s sleeping in his chair, his bushy eyebrows twitching with the passage of dreams. He’s like a dog, Leslie, a big, Stalinesque mutt. I lock the door behind me and run out onto the street. As I walk, I keep looking around me, searching for any sign of the caller. There is no one on the streets; all is calm, dark and cold. The wind picks up and rustles my hair. Newspapers dance down the pavement. All of my steps seem to have echoes. Inside my purse is a butterfly knife, a present from my father, which lets you know what kind of man he was. I fumble around until I find it, and I’m surprised to discover that I’m shaking. Just another weirdo. That’s all. They’re my customer base; without them, I wouldn’t be going to college. I understand them, sometimes, or at least, I empathize with them. They’re just people like you and me. These thoughts do little to temper my trembling. A mad thought tells me to run as fast as I can. I look behind me and see what looks like a face peering around the corner. "Shit," I say, and take off, my legs pumping hard. I run for five blocks before I slow down. There is no one behind me.