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loose. He fucks me. He disappears. I brush the sand off but I
am all gritty. I get dressed fast. N and I sit and watch the
ocean. N and I sit and watch the moon. The cop comes. He
tells us girls could get hurt alone on the beach at night. We are
panicked that Mister left without us. The car is still there. We
walk to it. We get in covered with sand. I can taste sand in my
mouth. Mister buys us lobster. He sits and watches, all tight
and coiled. He drops us at the storefront. Inside we drink iced
tea and sleep entirely embracing each other. We sleep and kiss
like it’s one thing, wound round each other like the gnarled
branches of an ancient tree. She has stopped bleeding. The
sand rubs and rubs, hurting a little, we are drenched in sweat,
we sleep and fuck at the same time, not letting go.
*
Have you ever seen the moon, full, rising behind the head of a
man fucking you on a dirty beach? Have you ever heard the
ocean, lying flat on your back, your arms behind you, held
down, have you heard the sound of the ocean behind him, have
you looked up to see her broad grinning face? Have you ever
felt the sand, dirty and a little wet, all over, and kissed her
thighs and the sand? Have you ever kissed a bleeding woman
everywhere and tasted dirty sand and then watched moonlight
fall on a knife and been naked in the sand while he fucked
you, the full moon behind him, the sound of the ocean behind
him, and your wrists weighed down by lead, her knees on top
of your arms as she caressed your breasts while he fucked like
doing push-ups, but the full moon is very beautiful and the
sound of the ocean is very fine?
*
And then, alone, have you needed each other so bad that you
slept and fucked at the same time, the whole time you were
sleeping, what others call night, so close, so entangled, melted
together, wrapped around each other, sand biting your skin
rubbing in the sweat: and been at peace, happy, with time
stopped right there?
*
The narrow mattress on the painted floor is drenched through
with sweat, and the sand pricks like sharp, tiny bites, hurting,
and the room is dark and airless, and we are wound together,
sleeping as we fuck: a somnambulant intercourse: wet and hot,
55
barely on the verge of consciousness and not yet dream: the
heat turning it into delirium: for all the hours of a human
night.
*
We wash. N goes to use poor R ’s shower. She has broken the
letter of the law but will not tell. The promise was made when
N loved her. Now she doesn’t. The shower is redundant in the
wet heat but it will get rid of the sand. I stand in our kitchen,
it is dark even though sunlight blankets the earth outside the
iron bars covering the kitchen windows: I look first through
the grating over the doors and windows into the backyard to
see if the neighborhood boys are there: they stare in, bang on
the windows, bang on the doors: we try not to undress in front of
them. I fill a big pot full of water. It comes out of the tap
sweaty. I dip an old washcloth in and out of the pot and rub it
disconsolately all over. Then I do the same again, using soap,
but not too much, because you can never quite get it off. Then
I do it again with clean water. Then I am ready.
N comes back clean. She has not told, I can tell. We both
broke our promise to poor R. The beach was within the law;
the whole private night was not. I am pleased. It is never
mentioned again. Today is uptown business. The days of
uptown business are few and far between, but all the same
somehow. We are going uptown to talk with men who have
money about our film.
N dresses. She wears a silk scarf as a headband and flared
sailor pants. Her eyes are elongated and blackened and her lips
are pursed: they seem longer, thinner, as if she is sucking them
in. I too go out of my way. Clean T-shirt. Her hair is dirty
blonde and straight; it stands up on end. Mine is curly and
black; it stands up on end. We both comb our hair with our
fingers. We make it stand up more.
Uptown there is a lawyer who is going to turn us into a
corporation. He is silver from top to bottom. The spittle pours
from the edges of his mouth as he listens to the details of our
film. Of course he will incorporate us for no fee: but, leaning
over, and over, and over, almost stretching the trunk of his
body further than it could possibly go, but, he will expect to
come to the Village for a private screening. Village, private
screening. Saliva pours out, a thin, dripping creek.
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Uptown there is a producer: will he sign N up and make her
a movie star and then we can make our film with that money?
Someone who discovered a famous rock singer sends us to
him. We wait in the chilly waiting room. The sweat and the
dirt that never comes off is pasted on by the cool air of the air
conditioner. The men in suits and the women with lacquered
hair and neat blouses and modest skirts stare. The receptionist
is visibly disturbed. Inside the office is huge. It seems the producer is a quarter mile away. His huge desk is at the end of the huge room. We are told to sit on a sofa near the door. He tells
N she isn’t feminine. I say unisex is in. I say times have
changed. I say people are riveted by the way N looks. The
producer keeps staring at her. He talks and stares. He is hostile.
She mumbles like Marlon Brando. The door opens. His wife, a
famous singer but not a star, comes in. She looks old. She is
dyed blond. Her skirt is short, way above her aging knees. Her
makeup is serious. Each detail is meant to remind one of
youth. Each detail shows how old her face is and how tired
her soul is. The old legs on top of the high heels bounce under
the short skirt as she makes her way across the huge room to
kiss the producer. This is a woman, he says. You see what I
mean, he says, this is a woman. We stare.
Uptown there is an advertising executive: he wants to give
money to bright young men who want to make films. We sit in
his small office. It is chilly. He stares. We discuss the film
scene by scene. He discusses his advertising campaigns scene
by scene. He stares. We ask for money. We leave the script
with him. We are hopeful. N isn’t really. I am. She is right.