On the Roof
JANET’S HUSBAND, AL, WAS MAKING AN ASS OF HIMSELF, AS he usually did at parties lately. With a few drinks in him, he turned into an irresistible lothario, good God. There he was, drunk and clumsy, with his shirt off, dancing with a girl who was no more than eighteen. Nobody in the hot, crowded apartment paid any attention to him, but Janet was, nonetheless, embarrassed and angry. He had acted, since their arrival, as if he didn’t know her, as if she were somebody he’d bumped into on the street that evening. She went into the kitchen to make herself another drink. There were two men there, drinking straight whiskey and eating the cheese and crackers and pretzels that had been laid out on the counter. One, a short redhead, had an open, somehow friendly yet blank face, and the other, a black man, looked like a bank officer, in a dark suit, white shirt, and carefully knotted tie. Janet didn’t know them, but then she hardly knew anybody there, save for the host, one of Al’s friends from work, a prig of a man whom she despised. You’re not having too much fun it looks like, the black man said. The other man looked fleetingly at her legs and then up into her face, smiling candidly. Oh well, she said, a party, you know, and shrugged. She looked around into the living room and saw Al with his hands on the girl’s hips, swaying erratically to “Just For a Thrill,” the damn fool. I know what you mean, the redheaded man said, and a drag of a party, too. They all laughed, complicit. The black man suggested that they go up to the roof and smoke a little, you dig? that might help things along. Maybe the party will be better when we get back. Or at least look better, his friend said. Janet hesitated, but why not? Why not? She was tired of being humiliated, she was tired of being ignored. She thought to tell Al that she was going up to the roof for some air, but knew that he would immediately become the possessive and jealous husband and make a scene. Sure, she said, let’s go up. She liked these young men, if only for the fact that they weren’t the other young men at the party, laughing and shouting into each other’s faces, desperately hip. It was a warm, sticky August night, the moon hazy in an overcast sky, the smell of rain in the air. She was suddenly very high, very very high, they were all high, smoking two fat joints of hash. Oh my goodness, she said, I am so stoned, so stoned. She wasn’t, however, so stoned, wait! as to want this, wait! No, wait, no! she said. The redheaded man was kissing her in a frenzy, and roughly squeezing and pulling at her breasts, while the black man was pulling her skirt up and clawing at her panties, come on, bitch! They pushed her down onto her hands and knees and she felt the black man’s weight on her back and then he was in her. They were raping her, you’re raping me! she said, you bastard! She felt him coming in her and she started to cry. Her head felt as if it were floating free of her shoulders and then the redheaded man pushed a spittle-wet finger into her anus and pushed himself brutally into her, while the black man held her head between his hands. The pain traveled through her gut and up her spine and into her head, a blazing agony behind her eyes, and she sobbed and screamed, drooling onto her torn blouse. The black man slapped her across the face again and again while the other man moved wildly in her, grunting. Fuck the bitch! the black man said, fuck the cunt bitch! The man pulled himself out of her and came on her buttocks and thighs, panting. Then they ripped off her blouse and yanked off her skirt and half-slip as well. One of them threw her torn panties in her face and the black man put her skirt and blouse and slip under his jacket, laughing. Go back to the fucking party like that, bitch, see if it’ll be more fun! They left and she sat there, shivering and weeping in the soft rain that had been falling for some time. Her brassiere was soaked through, and one of the straps was broken. The cupola door opened and Al stood there, the cold light of the stairway behind him. Janet? he called. Janet? I can’t even dance with somebody without you getting all pissed off? Jesus Christ! She sat, biting her hand to keep silent, her knees pulled up to her chest, her torn panties clutched to her vagina. Her entire lower body throbbed and burned and she thought that she was going to move her bowels. Where the fuck are you? Al yelled.
The Jungle
WHO IS HE? WHO IS SHE? IS THIS HER HUSBAND? WHAT IS he doing here? Is she drunk? Is this apartment on Riverside Drive? Or on Bank Street? Is this a bathroom? A hallway? Tissues? Who is he and where did he go? He says he’ll fix her face? Fix it? What does that mean? Why is the floor sliding around? Is she going to vomit? Who is the woman in the photographs on the wall? Is this her bathroom? Or their bathroom? Why does the woman in the photographs look like her? Are they photographs? Or drawings? Do they look like her sister? How long has her sister been dead? What was her sister’s husband’s name? Why did she go to bed with him? Because her husband went to bed with her sister? Did he really? Where are her shoes? Or one shoe? Did she have both shoes on when he took her into the bathroom? Or down to the hallway? Why did she go with him? Is she really Claire? Or is she Inez? Or Cora, or Anna? Who is she? Who is he? Is he Pierre? What is he doing at the party? Is her husband jealous of him? Or jealous of her job? Is he jealous of her? But why? Why is the bathroom floor so familiar? Or the hallway floor? Why did she marry this old man? Is he really that old? Maybe this man is her sister’s husband? Or, rather, was her husband? Did she marry Ray after Claire died? Why? Is Claire, then, her sister? Or was? Are Ray and Pierre brothers? Or is Warren Ray’s brother? Are Ray and Warren and Pierre brothers? Did Claire really die of multiple myeloma? Or a botched abortion? Why is the bathroom floor so filthy? Is it a bathroom? Or a hallway? What does he mean, fix her face? What did he see in that whore at that party? What does he see in that girl at this party? Is she what her mother would have called a chippie? Why did he give her a cigarette? Didn’t she stop smoking a long time ago? A month ago? Last week? Yesterday? Why did she stop smoking? Does she want to live forever? In bathrooms and hallways? Why is he laughing? Who is he? Why is he adjusting her clothes? Is he fixing her clothes? Why did she want to go down to the street with that filthy man? What filthy man? Warren or Ray or Pierre? Is her husband Pierre? Or Warren? Or Ray? Is she Claire? Is she losing her mind? Don’t they say that if you think you’re crazy then you’re not? Who says that? Freud? Jung? Adler? Ferenczi? Is she really a wreck? What does he mean by badassid? Is he fixing her face and her clothes because she’s a wreck? Why is she all wet? Is it raining? Why is it always raining when they go someplace? Does she have amnesia? Why is the man showing her a detective’s shield? Is he a detective or is he a fake? Is Pierre a detective? Since when? Is she going to throw up again? Is this man a black man who looks white or a white man who looks black? Does it matter as long as he’s a detective? Is he a detective or is he a fake? Why is he taking her clothes off? Because she’s a wreck? To wash her? To fix her? To fix her in the shower? Who is he? Who is she? Why is there a shower in the hallway? Who is she?