Joe Hill: Horns

The problem with thinking that his horns were nothing but an especially persistent and frightening delusion, a leap into madness that had been a long time coming, was that he could only deal with the reality in front of him. It did no good to tell himself that it was all in his head if it went on happening anyway. His belief was not required; his disbelief was of no consequence. The horns were always there when he reached up to touch them. Even when he didn’t touch them, he was aware of the sore, sensitive tips sticking out into the cool riverside breeze. They had the convincing and literal solidity of bone.

Lost in his thoughts, Ig didn’t hear the police car rolling down the hill until it crunched to a stop behind the Gremlin and the driver gave the siren a brief whoop. Ig’s heart lunged painfully, and he quickly turned. One of the policemen was leaning out the passenger window of his cruiser.

“What’s the story, Ig?” said the cop, who was not just any cop but the one named Sturtz.

Sturtz wore short sleeves that showed off his toned forearms, toasted a golden brown from routine exposure to the sun. It was a tight shirt, and he was a good-looking man. With his windblown yellow hair and his eyes hidden behind his mirrored sunglasses, he could’ve been on a billboard advertising cigarettes.

His partner, Posada, behind the steering wheel, was trying for the same look but couldn’t carry it off. His build was too slight, his Adam’s apple too prominent. They both had mustaches, but on Posada it was dainty and vaguely comical, the sort of thing that belonged on the face of a French maître d’ in a Cary Grant comedy.

Sturtz grinned. Sturtz was always glad to see him. Ig was never glad to see any cop but in particular preferred to avoid Sturtz and Posada, who had, ever since Merrin’s death, made a hobby out of hassling Ig, pulling him over for going five miles above the limit and searching his car, ticketing him for littering, loitering, living.

“No story. Just standing here,” Ig said.

“You been standing there for half an hour,” Posada called to him as the partners got out of their cruiser. “Talking to yourself. The woman lives back that way brought her kids in because you were freaking her out.”

“Think how freaked out she’d be if she knew who he is,” Sturtz said. “Your friendly neighborhood sex deviant and murder suspect.”

“On the bright side, he’s never killed any kids.”

“Not yet,” Sturtz said.

“I’ll go,” Ig said.

Sturtz said, “You’ll stay.”

“What do you want to do?” Posada asked Sturtz.

“I want to run him in for something.”

“Run him in for what?”

“I don’t know. Anything. I’d like to plant something on him. Bag of coke. Unregistered gun. Whatever. Too bad we don’t have anything. I really want to fuck with him.”

“I want to kiss you on the mouth when you talk dirty,” Posada said.

Sturtz nodded, unperturbed by this admission. That was when Ig remembered the horns. It was starting again, like the doctor and the nurse, like Glenna and Allie Letterworth.

“What I really want,” Sturtz said, “is to bust him for something and have him put up a struggle. Have an excuse to knock his fucking teeth out of his sorry mouth.”

“Oh, yeah. I’d like to watch that scene,” Posada said.

“Do you guys even know what you’re saying?” Ig asked.

“No,” Posada said.

“Kind of,” Sturtz said. He squinted, as if trying to read something printed on a distant sign. “We’re talking about whether we ought to bust you just for the fun of it, but I don’t know why.”

“You don’t know why you want to bust me?”

“Oh, I know why I want to bust you. I mean I don’t know why we’re talking about it. It’s not the kind of thing I usually discuss.”

“Why do you want to bust me?”

“Because of that faggot look you’ve always got on your face. That faggot look pisses me off. I’m not a big fan of homos,” Sturtz told him.

“And I want to bust you because maybe you’ll struggle and then Sturtz will bend you over the hood of the car to put the cuffs on,” Posada said. “That’ll give me something to beat off over tonight, only I’ll be picturing both of you naked.”

“So you don’t want to bust me because you think I got away with killing Merrin?” Ig asked.

Sturtz said, “No. I don’t even think you did it. You’re too much of a pussy. You would’ve confessed.”

Posada laughed.

Sturtz said, “Put your hands on the roof of the car. I want to poke around. Have a look in the back.”

Ig was glad to turn away from them and stretch his arms out over the roof of the car. He pressed his forehead to the glass of the driver’s-side window. The cool of it was soothing.

Sturtz made his way around to the hatchback. Posada stood behind Ig.

“I need his keys,” Sturtz said.

Ig took his right hand off the roof and went to dig them out of his pocket.

“Keep your hands on the roof,” Posada said. “I’ll get them. Which pocket?”

“Right,” Ig said.

Posada eased his hand into Ig’s front pocket and curled a finger through his key ring. He jangled them out, tossed them to Sturtz. Sturtz clapped his hands around them and popped the hatchback.

“I’d like to put my hand in your pocket again,” Posada said. “And leave it there. You don’t know how hard it is not to use my position of power to cop a feel. No pun intended. Cop. Ha. I never imagined how much of my job would involve handcuffing fit, half-naked men. I have to admit, I haven’t always been good.”

“Posada,” Ig said, “you should really let Sturtz know how you feel about him sometime.” As he said it, the horns throbbed.

“You think?” Posada asked. He sounded surprised but curious. “Sometimes I’ve thought-but then I think, you know, he’d probably pound the snot out of me.”

“No way. I bet he’s been waiting for you to do it. Why do you think he leaves the top button of his shirt open like that?”

“I’ve noticed he never gets that button.”

“You should just unzip his fly and go down on him. Surprise him. Give him a thrill. He’s probably only waiting on you to make the first move. But don’t do anything until I’m gone, okay? Something like that, you’re going to want your privacy.”

Posada cupped his hands around his mouth and exhaled, sampling the odor of his breath.

“Hot damn,” he said. “I didn’t brush this morning.” Then he snapped his fingers. “But there’s some Big Red in the glove compartment.” He turned and hurried over to the cruiser, muttering to himself.

The hatchback slammed. Sturtz swaggered back to Ig’s side.

“I wish I had a reason to arrest you. I wish you’d put a hand on me. I could lie and say you touched me. Propositioned me. I’ve always thought you looked more’n half queer, with your swishy walk and those eyes that always look like you’re going to start crying. I can’t believe Merrin Williams ever let you in her jeans. Whoever raped her probably gave her the first good fuck of her life.”

It felt as if Ig had swallowed a coal and it was stuck halfway down, behind his chest.

“What would you do,” Ig asked, “if a guy touched you?”

“I’d shove my nightstick up his asshole. Ask Mr. Homo how he likes that.” Sturtz considered a moment, then said, “Unless I was drunk. Then I’d probably let him blow me.” He paused another second before asking, in a hopeful sort of voice, “Are you going to touch me so I can shove my-”

“No,” Ig said. “But I think you’re right about the gays, Sturtz. You’ve got to draw the line. You let Mr. Homo get away with touching you, they’ll think you’re a homo, too.”