vadim

 

-I-

Lysenko Genetics

 

Dancing at his mother’s third wedding, he did a little one-two-three he’d picked up at the rehearsal dinner, with his cousin, who’d sprouted a grand set of tits since their paths last crossed. The food then was stale – mock food at a mock wedding. His cousin pressed his left leg between her thighs as they danced and they hummed and were awkwardly aroused.

At the wedding, he danced alone. The cousin was picked up by a horny groomsman and was being mutedly drilled in a reception hall broom closet. Sweat was probably making her dirty blonde hair stick to her flushed cheeks. She most likely took it from the back, palms pressed flat against the wall, bothering only to take down her pantyhose, as to not get a run. At the wedding, he danced a lonely little one-two-three.

Somewhere around him his mother danced too, lovingly gazing at her beau with a degree of separation on account of her round belly. She said she was bloated but he knew better. It was all by accident. The unkempt drunk probably punctured the caoutchouc fumbling it on. Balancing his tumescence like a funambulist’s pole, he blew a woozy load into the face of the world’s chagrin. Life misses no opportunity to plant a seed, no matter the aridity of the soil.               

The wedding day came and went. Not much had changed, and he could not believe it. The vertigo of his skepticism made him nauseous and he stayed home morning, preferring to lie in bed rather than catching his footing. It was hot out, but the breeze found its way into his second floor window. He heard Number Three’s heavy steps walk back and forth past his room. The son-of-a-bitch must be late, he thought.

Number Three had permanent beer stains in his grey a-shirt and let the folds of his sack peek carelessly from under his trousers when he bucolically watched his evening pictures. He was a balder older Number Two. His father wasn’t much better – just different. He wondered where his father was today. In the mountains, he guessed, maybe on a lakeshore with a half-naked pig-tailed redhead donning a small red bikini, all of it in small white polka dots. His big hand found the small of her back and they tried hard to resist one-another’s come-ons and come-alongs. No, Three would never do.

 

*     *     *

Hello. My name is Wegener and I am an orphan. I live with a man for whom I feel much pity and contempt. I will kill him tomorrow and bury him in the snow. 

*     *     *

 

By brittsomar she was nesting. She wore loose quince patterned shirts and wobbled slightly when taking a carefree step. Her skin was aglow and she felt new. What a marvel, what a joy.

She went about her nest in sensory layers. She woke up early in the mornings and heated up the skillet. He liked his bacon crisp and she long ago learned how to crisp it. It was finally simple enough for her. Her first layer was a scent. Next, she began to hum and, when she couldn’t contain it, she let flutter a note of song. Footsteps down the stairs. She kissed them both on the lips and it tasted like a coconut balm. At the table she stroked up his leg, all the way to the base of his shaft, teasing, promising. It was finally simple enough for her. Wegener never did forget the taste of his mother’s lips.

He couldn’t watch her hand disappear beneath the tabletop. He took a piece of bacon and walked to his room. Rather, he watched yellow bus after yellow bus pass by, and in each one he saw his childhood. There, in that one, he was at six. And there he went at twelve. Licking his lips he tasted her coconut. He thought of the redhead by the lake and her pokadots and wondered if her rug matched the drapes or if it was just a ruse. Maybe she was yellow like the busses. His father would know.

*     *     *

            It got cold around mid-October. I remember telling Jess that it was early this year. She moved in because of some problem with her father and we started sleeping together. She was wet and warm and liked to wake me up with my junk in her mouth. Her skin was firm and she bit the pillow when I was in behind her. She had a curious way of squealing that really did something for me. When I heard her squeal, I couldn’t hold it anymore and had to get out. She’d run to the other side of the room to watch me fumble helplessly with my load. She’d laugh and laugh.

*     *     *

 It turned cold around mid-October. She was quite large now and began to take time off from work to sleep late and cry. Wegner grew insensitive to the gags, the splash on the bowl, and the flush – always in that order. He learned to ignore it for productivity sake. His cousin Jessica had moved in and she had learned to use her big tits well.

She’d placed a restraining order on her father but he refused to move out of his own house. The judge saw his point. Jessica came to Wegener’s room in early October, wearing a small flannel button-down shirt, single knotted just above her navel. It’s your room Wegener. You’re the boss. He walked to her and pulled on one end of the knot. It came undone and each half of the shirt covered half a breast, full and tight with goosebumps. Her nipples stood up and she watched him quite frankly. His hands shook. What now Wegener? You’re the boss. His shaking finger pointed to the ground. She let slip the shirt, and followed it to the floor.  

*     *     *

It snowed on 10/20/1947. Wegener and I lay pretzeled in bed under a heavy down comforter that smelled like us. My face was to the window and I stared out into the flat blankness of the forest fog when I saw a snowflake. Snowflakes float up, I noticed that.

*     *     *

The weathermen didn’t know what to make of it by the fourth day. They said it was a winter storm, ashamed and insecure in their science. It wasn’t quite winter, and this was no storm. They said it was a blizzard. They ran out of names within a week, when the graupel began to fall. They began to mind the microscopic structure: a crystal lattice, they’d said. People began to get furious. Tax money, they said, was wasted. The meteorologist pleaded their defense: so many times you’ve known to bring an umbrella, they cried, we’re no soothsayers! We’re scientists!

Wegner’s mother was in her third trimester when her skin turned green. Deep blue bags sat beneath her eyes and she cried and cried. Number Three had shot the first weatherman. He was promoted and though he was still fat, drunk, and lazy, he was now fat, drunk, and lazy abroad. New pains curled her and she spent days, shivering and waiting either for more heat or for Number Three. She looked like this:

 

*     *     *

I died on a Saturday. The snow erased the neighborhood roads. Somewhere, another woman was making a casual call, to borrow a fifth of vodka or a pinch of salt. My line was out and I held the silent receiver to my ear, looking at the red spreading about me. Wegner was upstairs with Jessica, listening to music. As my world spun, I searched for something to throw at the ceiling. HELP. I NEED HELP. I could find only a pillow. I tossed it up, and it kissed the ceiling, landing on my collapsing belly. This was to be my girl. My girl, my new start. I was to call her Faith and give her my everythings. This was my girl! The receiver was so cold against my ear. And so quiet.

*     *     *

 

THE END of Part I

 

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-II-

Of Small Talk and Consumption

 

“Jack, two Seagram Sevens. Don’t be daisy armed with the Seagram.”

“You don’t like my arm, get the fuck out of my bar,” Jack said with his back to Wegener, mechanically pouring the drinks. He liked to make his drinks slowly, to watch the gin melt the ice. This, it was his scene – consumption; small talk and consumption.                 

“How’s the old lady?”

“She’s alright. Bitching.”

“And the kids.”

“Fuck the kids.”

“You’re in a mood Weegy, you know that?”

“Just make the fucking drinks Jack.”

Jack was the kind of guy to put a bell over a door. The bell tolled and Jack turned away from his drinks to see. Wegener turned too.

“What’s she doing here?” Jack grumbled, returning to the sevens.

“Just make the goddamn drinks Jack.”

 

Jessica walked into the room like an unrolling carpet. The bar’s smoke billowed out the door, into the snowy cold. In the bar all was conserved. She walked to Wegener and sat down without making eye contact. “A diet coke on the rocks Jack.”

“Off the horse?”

“Fuck you Jack.”

Wegener spun his ice with the small red straw. He always liked the noise of ice on glass.

“What do you want Jess; what this time. The fuck do you want?”

“You may want to reconsider your tone you blood-lustful bastard,” she hissed. “I’m rather stuck in my ways. What I want is what I always wanted.”

“You stopped drinking. One; it only takes one; one exception and you’re unstuck.”

Jack turned around and slid the soda pop to Jessica.

“Right,” she spoke under her breath, twisting the cap off a chrome flask she’d kept in her purse. “So, you have a place in mind or are we fucking on Jack’s bar stool.” She spoke dryly, pouring caramel colored rum into the glass.

            Jack minded his bar, adjusting the well bottles in a failing attempt to avoid listening in.

The lightbulb was going out on the ceiling fan light. The lazily spinning blades staggered its incandescent flashes. Jack thought of filming it with a WV-3085 he kept beneath the bar, a sort of black box evidence incase he ever got robbed. He’d catch them in profile. Weegy would be Leonard Diamond and Jess, Mr. Brown.

Jessica wore a low-cut green satin frock without a bra. She kept slim growing up, and she couldn’t look better. The satin toyed with perspective, falling just above her areola, revealing the careful transition from her copper skin to the soft brown of her nipples. She really couldn’t look better. Jack wanted her and nursed his erection under the bar.      

“What are you thinking? Look around Jess! I’m in my 40’s. I’m married for thirteen years. Thirteen years, Jess. I have kids, Jess. Fuck you and your ways. Way yourself straight to hell.”

“My kids.”

“You left.”                             

“I’ll tell,” she calmly whispered.

“You won’t.”

“Don’t fool yourself Weegy. You know me inside out. I said I will. And I will. So, where were we? A room?”

“Why don’t I just take you into a broom closet, I know you’d like that.”

“There we go. Now you’re playing along like a good boy,” she said, facing the bar. She reached her hand towards his lap and grasped his johnson. Good, it was up.

*     *     *

I took her to a cabin in the forest I’d found years ago for emergency escapades. It was a good hour’s drive, and she kept me in her mouth the whole way there, stopping short every time I was ripe and going. She still fucked like an animal fighting for its life. My wife was nothing like it and I hated liking Jess more.                                                                                        - June 4^th, 1979

*     *     *

THE END of Part II

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-III-

Terracotta Warriors

 

One dusky morning, Alerro Valdernili was woken by the insistent ringing of a telephone. He stretched himself awake and felt beside him for company. He was alone. The phone rang unflinchingly, emphasized by the silence of dawn and darkness. He rolled over and lifted the receiver. 

 

Hello?… Yes, speaking … yes … in another room … still sleeping … yes … all day? … fine, good day.

 

Thus, Alerro’s morning started with a phone call. He replaced receiver and went about the house. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, leveraging himself upright. He shuffled his feet along the floor and, upon finding his home slippers, slid his feet in and rose. His back ached, but all in all he felt all right. He walked to his window and turned the slats on his blinds to let in the sunrise. Outside it was cold, but through the window it felt warm.

Relieving himself in the toilet, he aimed for stains on the bowl, and pondered the strength of his stream. It stopped and started like a skipping record. It was strange to be there. He liked linoleum and these new floors were stick-on tile. He liked open red brick walls and these were paneled wood.

He ate instant oats and had a cup of black coffee. Still hungry, he toasted an English muffin and spread apricot jam over the crispy nooks. She kept a decent kitchen. A paper bag with his name sat on the countertop, beside his wallet and his keys. On the bag: Jess circumscribed by a heart. He gathered these items and walked into the snow. He worked the car out of the garage. This certainly was a rotten day. 

*     *     *

That morning, I waited for him in the back seat of his car with horse tranquilizer in a syringe. I squeezed the plunger slightly and a drop squeezed from the barrel, as I’d imagined. I stuck him sideways, through the neck, like a piece-of-shit-shish-ka-bob. I must have nicked his voice box. It let out a gargling hiss and he closed his eyes. I said shhh, taping over his eyes with solid grey masking tape, easing his head on the cushion of his passenger seat.

*     *     *

 

THE END

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