“So.” Randy crossed his arms. Big arms. “When can I see it? Tonight?”
The sensation of being boxed in, trapped in a cusp moment of purest choice, warred with a weird diluted glee, what the hell, right? What the hell. It’s not my goddamned hole anyway now is it, not my personal property, it doesn’t have my name on it. Whatever happens won’t be my fault.
“Sure,” I said. “I get home about six.”
“All right” Randy’s smile restored, I thought he would actually shake my hand but instead he punched my shoulder, lightly, a gesture so adolescent that for a minute I misunderstood and stood, my own grin fixed, waiting to get smacked again but this time less tenderly. “I’ll give Shrike a call. See you later, man,” and gone, cold air blowing in his passing, and watching him all the way to his car, wondering, still my stupid grin until my friend the deserter came up to me, tapped me on the back.
“Friend of yours, Nicholas?”
“Guess so.”
I reached, seemingly without my own consent, for the phone: call Nakota. Then: no. No I won’t. Let her find out from him. Still grinning, put the phone down, and as I did I saw my bandage, soaked and bubbling, a rich reddish gravy leaking fresh across the counter and I blotted it, fast swipe with my sleeve, went at once to the bathroom to peel free the clotted gauze and rinse the wound, the hole, the running water not as fast as the leak, drainage they call it, this was drainage all right. “Look at that shit,” I said to myself, finally not even rinsing but just letting it run, run, if it was blood, I thought, I’d be bleeding to death.
It went on so long it got embarrassing: somebody, the new guy knocking at the door, “You okay in there?” and me watching the flow, mumbling something; at last he went away. Finally, without slowing, it just stopped. With my left hand, clumsy but getting better, you know what they say about necessity, I extracted my little Band-Aid tin of gauze and preclipped tape, made a new bandage, watched a careful moment to make sure it wasn’t going to start up again. Nothing. Nothing but the white innocence of the gauze, the crisscross tape, my sallow flesh.
The rest of the day dragged. Was I actually excited about my new job as ringmaster, hur-ry, hur-ry, hur-ry, step right in to the greatest hole on earth, you betcha. For once exercising my bullying rights as assistant manager, I made the new guy close up, drove home too fast for the weather, slewing and skidding, arriving a little before six.
Cold enough, in the entryway, to see my breath, cold enough to stiffen my normal hand as it tried to work the key, lumpy feel of my fingers and impatient, I used my right hand, ignoring the pain for that moment, sorry I had the next. Boom, boom, migraine throb in my palm and I had to sit down, right hand cradled in left, coddling my cut-rate stigmata and the knock on the door, loud and brisk, already?
“Come on in,” I said, too quiet, had to say it again but by that time they were, big ol’ Randy eager enough to slobber, and Nakota, cheap black windbreaker, hair in disarray, surlier than ever. She went to the refrigerator, came back scowling, no mineral water of course. That idiot grin was back on my face. It felt great.
“You’ve met,” Nakota said, as if that were somehow my fault.
“Want a beer?” I asked Randy. “Let’s take ’em with us.”
He got two Old Milwaukees, had his half-drunk before we got downstairs. Nakota, no dear, I will not let you lead, this is my dance. You made this bed, so lie in it. Buddy buddy down the hall, and my hand on the door, no flourish, it didn’t need one: “After you,” to Randy, and—am I smooth?—a quick step in front of Nakota, cutting in, cutting her off, I almost stepped on her. Grinning over my shoulder.
“Fuck you very much,” she said, less than a whisper; I winked at her.
My beer can was empty. I tossed it in the corner, heard its faint metallic rattle, nudged Randy. “Should’ve brought a couple,” but he wasn’t listening, no, he was on his knees, humble worshiper, saying—I had to get closer to hear— “Look at it, man, look at it, look at it,” his jacket’s shoulders hunched and damp with melted snow, white hair hanging down like tattered fringe.
Me on his left, and Nakota of course between us, her face, what, peaceful? Sort of, or as peaceful as she ever got; “fulfilled” might be a better word. Bending low as if at a water hole, ignoring both of us, drinking in the smell and it was truly staggering tonight, an almost liquorish reek. Was it a taste in the mouth, for them as for me? Did they feel my rich foreboding, my sudden nervous itch?
“Look at it!”
Nakota’s breath, in and out, in and out, I could see, even in the dimness, the tiny quiver of her breasts beneath the windbreaker. There was new blood at the corners of her mouth, not even dry yet.
Breath going in and out.
“Look at it.”
In and out.
My hand hurting, irritating, like a beating heart, in time almost with Randy’s rhythmic exclamations, shut up, I felt like shouting, shut up you stupid bastard, in and out and “Look” and all at once it was funny, funny in a way it had never been before, in fact hilarious, and beneath its influence, in a gleeful spasm of lunatic bravado I stood, flexed my knees in runner’s burlesque and began to jump, fast and then faster, back and forth across the Funhole, Jack be nimble, back and forth and sweat ripe on my forehead, what fun, back and forth, “Look Ma,” yelling, “no hand!” and back and forth now in slowing pirouettes and Randy’s arms grabbing me, his grip on me much like mine must have felt to Nakota, her face now pointed toward me, and I saw, with a clarity that calmed me, that she was frightened.
Randy’s face was blank, but his eyes were wide, so wide I saw the veins, and I laughed, a descending little chuckle because I was realizing I had just made pretty much of an inexplicable dick of myself and wanted to salvage something of it with a joke, in fact I had no idea exactly what had been so overwhelmingly funny just a minute ago.
“You were floating,” Randy said.
“You should see me dance,” but I saw he meant it, no metaphor, Randy would not reach for a metaphor, now would he? No. No, he would say what he saw.
“You were, you were, what’s the word—”
“Levitating,” Nakota said. Her voice was very dry.
“No no,” weak josh, “I’m just very fast,” but they weren’t buying, they were barely listening, they were staring at me.’Finally Randy turned to Nakota.
“You were right, Shrike,” he said. “Boy were you right.”
I looked at her, but she was looking at Randy, and then they both looked at me and Randy said, with a peculiar inflection, “You better lay down for a while, man. You don’t look too good,” and the fact was I didn’t feel too good either, so back we went, me lying on the couchbed with a fresh beer balanced on my stomach, Randy beerless across from me, Nakota running tap water in fruitless hopes of making it cold.
“Just drink beer,” I told her.
“What’d you do back there, man?” said Randy. He took a big swallow of beer. His earring jiggled. “What was that?”
“Nothing.” I was embarrassed now, I wished they would just quit looking at me and talk to each other about the Funhole, the weather, their curious tastes in sex partners, my curious taste in sex partners. Anything. “I was just acting stupid, okay?”