Russell Banks - Lost Memory of Skin

P: How long is that?

K: Not since I got convicted and sent up. About two years now, I guess.

P: Does she know you were living under the Causeway?

K: No. Unless she figured it out on her own when it got into the newspapers and such. Though the papers never used my name or singled me out. She’s not much for newspapers anyhow. I know she didn’t learn it from me. Not that she’d give a shit. Which I can understand.

P: I’ll come back to that. What about your father?

K: Yeah, right, what about him? My so-called father took off as soon as he knocked up my mother. They should have a different word than “father” for someone who just happened to fuck your mother and she got pregnant from it. To me he’s not even got a name. They were never married or anything. That’s why my last name’s the same as my mother’s. He was from up north and went back there supposedly where he probably already had a wife and kids. He was like a roofer or something. Even my mother doesn’t know much about him. One of those northern guys with a pickup and a set of tools who shows up for work after the hurricanes. They fuck all the women and girls for a few months, spend a lot of government and insurance money on booze and drugs and then disappear back north till the next hurricane. My mother’s a sucker for those guys. Especially the black dudes. She likes only black dudes with northern accents though. The same with Latinos. Like Puerto Ricans from New York. That’s what she says anyhow. Maybe she thinks inside they’re really northern white guys, only outside they’re these sexy dark types, if you know what I mean. It’s sort of racist but she doesn’t have a clue. She thinks it’s liberal and all. My mother’s okay but kind of a dim bulb.

P: Was your father black?

K: You shittin’ me?

P: Latino?

K: Look at me, for chrissake.

P: How old is she? Your mother.

K: I dunno. Maybe in her late forties.

P: How old are you? The registry says you’re twenty-two.

K: Registry?

P: The National Sex Offender Registry. I looked you up online this morning.

K: Oh yeah. So you know everything worth knowing about me already. Why bother interviewing me then?

P: To learn what the registry leaves out. And to let you tell your story yourself. Like about your mother. Tell me more about her. And about your childhood. Would you say you had a happy childhood?

K: C’mon, man, what’s a happy childhood? Anybody says he had a happy childhood is bullshitting. But mine was okay I guess. At least nobody beat on me and I didn’t starve and I always had a roof over my head, thanks to my mother, which are things she always likes to remind me of. Until I enlisted in the army anyhow. Although afterward when I got out she let me have my old room back. So I can’t complain about my childhood. Or my mother. Not really.

P: You were in the army?

K: Yeah. For a while. I signed up when I was twenty right after I lost my job at this light store which closed on account of the guy that owned it got killed in a robbery. It happened on my day off, so for a while there the cops thought I was involved and almost busted me for it, but I had an alibi. My mother. Another thing she did for me and won’t let me forget. She said I was home with her all day. Which was basically true, since I really was home all day, only not with her, because she was at the beach working on her tan with her boyfriend of the moment. That’s okay. I was home alone with my friend Iggy but he’s an iguana and couldn’t testify. Or he was an iguana. He’s dead now.

P: I’m sorry. You were in the army? For how long? Did you get sent to Iraq or Afghanistan?

K: I really wanted to. Yeah, Afghanistan, man. I was jonesing for Afghanistan. But no. I only got as far as basic training at Fort Drum in New York State which is way the fuck up by the Canadian border in the middle of winter, man. Freeze your ass off up there. Not exactly good preparation for desert warfare. Except you get really buff in basic, plus you learn how to use your weapon and shit.

P: You didn’t complete basic training?

K: You could say I got discharged early. Not a dishonorable though. I got what they call a general discharge. So I never made it to Afghanistan. Pissed me off. I think I would’ve done good there, kicked some serious Arab ass. I could like kill people with my bare hands, man. They teach you that in basic.

P: Why were you discharged early?

K: (long pause) Porn. Distributing pornography, they said.

P: Pornography! What type of pornography? You mean children?

K: No, no! Just the usual kind. Videos. Triple and quadruple X. Your basic hard-core. I wasn’t really distributing them anyhow. I was only giving them away free to my buddies. Some DVDs I bought and paid for myself. It’s a long stupid story. You don’t wanna hear it.

P: I do want to hear it. Tell me.

K: Well, like I said, I was stationed up at Fort Drum which is only about an hour’s drive from the Canadian border, and over there in Ottawa on the French side of the river there’s a lot of strip clubs and such, and I overheard some of the guys in my outfit saying that this actress who’s my favorite porn star was appearing in a place called Lucky Pierre’s. Her name’s Willow. Just Willow. Which is cool. No last name. I mean she has a last name but she doesn’t use it in her profession. And she’s really special. At least to me. Not like your regular suck-’n’-fuck porn actresses with tats on their butts and clit rings and nipple rings and shaved pussies and who all they do is moan and groan and squeal and can’t act for shit. Willow’s different.

P: How do you mean, “different”?

K: I dunno. Most guys don’t really get off on her. Her Internet videos only get one or two, sometimes two and a half stars instead of five and not many hits compared to Cassidey Rae say or Brianna Banks or Hannah Hilton who look like they’ve had these huge breast implants installed and get thousands of hits. Maybe not Cassidey Rae. Her tits are pretty normal-looking. But Willow’s tits are kind of small. Like plums. With these dark almost purple nipples. Willow’s more natural, if you know what I mean. Also her teeth aren’t perfect white, and she has curly brown hair instead of straight blond like she’s maybe Italian or Jewish. She’s got this fantastic warm smile. Actually, I bet she’s French Canadian, which is why she was performing at Lucky Pierre’s. It’s on the French side of the river in Ottawa where they’ve put all the strip clubs and hookers for the Canadian politicians that keep their offices and homes over on the English side. She was probably in town visiting her family and took the gig to pay off some of their overdue bills. She looks like she comes from a poor family. Her website says she was born in Colorado and went to college in Southern California and studied architecture, but they always lie on those websites. They’d never say things like she’s French Canadian from Ottawa, Canada, and dropped out of high school and got into stripping and porn to help support her family. But that’s what she looks like, and that’s one reason why she’s my favorite porn star. Or was. I don’t have any favorites anymore.

P: Why not?

K: Dude, get a clue! On account of I can’t watch porn anymore! I’d get busted. Back then though, like all the guys in my outfit, I watched porn all the time on my computer, and I really wanted to meet Willow, so I hitched up to Ottawa on a two-day pass. I had to hitch because none of the guys who had cars wanted to take me where they went on passes and hung out, and none of them gave a shit about Willow, and to tell the truth I wasn’t tight enough with anyone to ask any favors, let alone borrow their car. Besides, I didn’t have a driver’s license. I pretty much kept to myself most of the time because from the first day of basic guys gave me a lot of shit. Not just the sergeants and officers. Every outfit has somebody who gets shit on by everyone else, and I guess I ended up being that somebody. You know what I’m saying?