Sarah Weinman - Sex, Thugs, Roll, and Rock & Roll

He looked at me for a moment, bit his lip, and broke into a prolonged cackle.

An hour later, I returned to the front room and tried again. The television was flashing shaky footage of two gerbils squeaking as they made fast and frantic love. Angel watched openmouthed and laughed. “Duuuuu-uuuuu-uuuuude.”

I stood over them again. “I’m surprised you’re not bored.”

Cujo kept his eyes on the screen. “Yeah?”

“I mean, I just figured you’d be more of a get-out-and-explore guy.”

“Nah, it’s better here.” A gerbil squeaked extra loud, and Cujo giggled. “We love it here, bro.”

They did look comfortable. They lay in the pool, happily soaking in a mealy mixture of dirty water and black body hair, all of which had reduced my roommate’s kiddie-pool cleaner to a thrashing, moaning tangle of plastic. Drowning insects rolled around in the floating hair as others struggled to climb back onto Cujo. Empty cans of Coors Light and Colt 45 encircled the pool.

“Cujo, this isn’t home.” I paused. “You agreed.”

Eyes still glued to the screen. “Hey, dude, have you heard? I’m an artist now.”

What do you do?

What do you do when you have a six-foot-five, 295-pound Raiders fan in your house? A paroled Raiders fan you barely know. A friend of a friend; an acquaintance of an acquaintance, really. A large furry mass of delinquency and physical aggression. A big load of trouble soaking in your indoor kiddie pool, groping his new lover with this triumphant look on his face, like he’s saying, Look at what I can squeeze, bro . A guy who doesn’t like to work, a guy who’d rather get high in your kiddie pool, fuck in your kiddie pool, and doze off in your kiddie pool. A guy who has the goods on you, a guy who knows you can’t call the cops and make him leave, on account of the illegal activities and substances that could be found in, and around, your rental house. A guy who knows that if you’re gonna call the cops on him, you’re gonna have to be okay with going to prison.

What do you do?

What you do is, you go to the fridge, pull out a Pale Ale, and take a long pull. And you lean against the counter and watch as he laughs and points at the television, the screen showing a couple of bush babies getting it on, their eyes extra large as they squeak and chitter and shiver.

And you stew, thinking of what he said.

Now he’s an artist.

“Me and Angel got a gig tonight, dude.”

I was still leaning against the counter, still nursing my beer. I had no idea what the hell he was talking about. “Gig?”

“Yeah, dude. Some artist chick saw me and Angel dancing around out front. Had my Black Hole clothes on.” He let his eyes cross for a second. “She says we’re artists.”

Black Hole clothes. That would be the spiked dog collar, the black shoulder pads with spikes, the black cape fastened underneath, the little rubber horns attached to his frontal lobe, and the ass-kicker boots. Cujo liked to wear his Black Hole clothes when he was feeling frisky.

“Artist chick,” I said, more to myself.

“Angel and I are grinding out there, and this hippie-looking piece of ass comes walking up and starts yammering about how much she likes the way I express myself. Next thing I know, she’s writing directions to some fancy coffee place where they’re doing some kind of performance-art thing all night. Café Popana or something. I guess we got the eight-thirty slot.”

And then he broke into another prolonged cackle.

I lay on my bed in the back room and stared at the ceiling, reviewing my options one last time.

My out-of-town roommate, David, had a crop of cannabis skunk growing in the backyard. Big fat fuckers with huge buds. Probably worth ten thousand, he was saying. Everything had been going okay until Cujo and Angel paid us an unexpected visit, noticed the crop out back, and decided to use that knowledge to extort free lodging out of us until they had someplace better to go-which probably would be the game in Oakland this Sunday. If I called the cops, David and I could be spending the next year or two in orange jumpsuits. But if I let them hang out a few more days, the chances were they’d be gone by Saturday night, headed for the Black Hole, and that would be that. Only problem was, someone could get hurt by then.

After all, it was only Tuesday.

David was three hours away, visiting his dad in the hospital. I didn’t want to bother him, but I was starting to think it was necessary. I sat up, grabbed the phone, and rolled the receiver from hand to hand, thinking about it one more time-at which point Cujo and Angel pushed through my door, dripped naked across the room, and slipped out my back window.

Cujo popped his head back in. “You got a pig out front, dude. We’re not here.”

The cop looked like a rookie-soft skin, rosy cheeks, a full head of blond hair. Even so, the sight of him there on my porch-in uniform, his radio buzzing every few seconds, the badge almost glowing-rushed blood to my face and shot convulsions to my stomach.

Harboring a parole violator. Growing pot. Fuck, I don’t want to go to jail.

His eyes locked onto mine. “We have a problem in the neighborhood.”

I stared back, feeling like a fucking idiot, my heart pounding, my eyelids fluttering, saliva welling up, my lower lip feeling like it was drooping past my chin.

“Have you seen a large bald man, long black beard, approximately six foot five, three hundred pounds, heavily tattooed?”

I feigned confusion. “What’s happened?”

The cop smirked. “Well, let’s see.” He flipped open a tiny notebook. “I’ve got home invasion, theft, robbery, vandalism, assault.”

“Home invasion?” I blurted.

“Got a house a few doors down saying they were watching TV when a bald bearded suspect entered their house, unplugged the television, and walked out with it.”

I crinkled my brow and looked away. “No resistance?”

“No resistance.” The cop referred to his notes. “Got another house where this guy walks through the front door, makes a beeline for the fridge, removes a twelve-pack and a pizza box, turns around, and exits the premises.”

I mumbled to myself, “Raiding fridges.”

The cop was staring at me now. “And he’s cleaned out the entire block of car batteries.”

My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my arms, but I knew what I had to do. I had to lie. “Wish I could help you.”

The cop looked at the kiddie pool, then at my walls. “Who did this?”

“What do you mean?”

He laughed. “Are you kidding? The holes in your walls, the giant erection drawn over the sofa there.”

“Oh, that.” I looked down and scratched my head. “We just had a party that got too big, too rowdy”-I glanced up at him-“too quickly.”

Studying my face. “Right.”

I found them in my backyard shed, still naked, and sweating heavily. The odor in there was atrocious, a mix of warm rotting milk and body cavities, but Cujo didn’t seem to mind. He was sitting on the unfinished plywood floor with Angel spread out beside him, belly up, snoring loudly. Stacked neatly to their left were the car batteries and the stolen TV set.

“You know what I do to Willards that don’t knock?”

“We need to talk,” I said.

“What I do is, I take their little heads and stick them between these two hairy beasts”-Cujo nodded to his tree-trunk legs-“and I give them the scissors.”

“We need to establish some ground rules here.”

He laughed. “The pig scare you?”

“Cujo, I don’t want you stealing from my neighbors.”

He gave me the serious eyes. “This ain’t stealing. It’s just a matter of survival of the fittest, and no one gets that.” He nodded to his loot and puffed out his chest. “I take what I want because I’m the fittest.”