Victor Lavalle - Slapboxing with Jesus

On the bed, backed against the headboard, her thighs ache; she rubs them, tells Rob they hurt, but he wants to laugh because he’s still on his knees, afraid to stand; his body is assuring him it will not work. His mouth is a wound that should be left to heal, but there is her purse next to the bed, pregnant with bills rolled into a rock. He has four twenties, a ten and a five in his coat that she’d peeled off earlier and even in the way she tossed them to him there was the promise of much more.

He rises but his body has forgotten how to stand; he falls back against the wall and is lying there beside the door with his legs finally straight; blood is pumping and life is returning; his feet twitch as though they’re being resurrected. — Come here, she says, but his hand’s up, begging for some rest. Her face, for a few moments, betrays her, there is some warmth and sympathy, she does not wish Rob any pain. She does not have children. Waiting, she tries to imagine what she’d have served a baby for breakfast that morning, how she would have spoken to convey her love. You ever have a girl? she asks. That you liked, I mean.

— Why?

She shrugs. — Just wanted to know. Wanted to hear about it.

On the walk to the motel she had finally looked at him. — You are young, aren’t you?

He smiled. — As young as you want. Then he ran his hands across his chin and neck and all the places where he had, just that morning, run the razor and swept away all signs that he had aged past thirteen. Later, in the room, he moved his hands down his slight neck, over his stomach, under his balls, looked at her, saying, — Smooth.

— Like a little, little boy. She said this while touching her tummy.

She sat in that room alone with him and didn’t check the closet or push open the bathroom door (just in case) because she had trust packed tight in her purse next to the money and a.38. The first thing she said to him was, — I’ll give you ten dollars if you let me do this. Rob took the money, then she emptied the gun, slid the barrel into his mouth. For five more dollars he let her pull the trigger twice. The hollow clicks made him giggle.

Rob had had a girlfriend, two years before; he was fourteen and she was twelve. But when he and Inca got together he lost fascination quick because already her pussy was all used up. That was how he felt and when he asked her about it she laughed, said, — You’ll find out how when that asshole’s all fucked up.

And she was right.

Soon she had to leave because Rob was always trying to put fire to things — like her. She broke out finally when he set his own right foot to burning, just to make his friends laugh. She was saying, — If you’ll do that shit to yourself, I don’t know what the fuck you’ll do to me.

Healing was tough and peeling skin is ugly, but Rob’s girlfriend looked worse, had that face like she and a train had gone at it, does it really matter who won? He was dumb and thought he could do better so he drove her away on purpose, but who knew after that that nights and days would just be business, business, business?

Inca knew that even from a distance her young skin looked withered and loose on her bones and still she expected you to treat her nice. She demanded it. If not, she was gone, no question.

What he missed most, she could talk this talk, knew this language that was from somewhere before Spain landed ships and Spanish cut out more natural tongues; it was hard to hear her speak like that, Rob was jealous; when she spoke, it seemed as though she had her own good and wonderful time machine.

— Do you want to make more money? she asks Rob.

— Of course. What do you want to do?

She pulls the covers up around her like a robe. He wonders what her sheets look like at home. — Let me see your dick.

Everything is quiet while he pulls down his underwear, then quiet for longer. He looks down. — What’s wrong?

— Nothing. Nothing.

— Is there something wrong with it?

— No, it’s not that. I just haven’t seen many up close but my husband’s.

— He make his different?

— No. She scratches her stomach. No, no.

— Forty to fuck. Rob touches his legs, still not quite alive.

— Forty?

— Yeah.

— Forty?

— Come on. Do you want to or not?

— Hey! she snaps. Don’t forget who’s got the money.

He can’t. He says, — Sorry.

She is smiles again. — You remind me of a boy I used to like. He had a body like yours. Do you play sports?

— Yeah, he says, moves closer. I fuck.

— Okay, she sighs. Enough talk.

— Money first. Rob exposes his palm to her face. The four tens are smooth and new like the others had been; he can picture her at the ATM right before she got on the Long Island Rail Road, the honey-sweet sound of the money flipping out in bundles.

— I have to use a condom, he says and even her blood is glad he brought it up.

He wraps one around his dick. But what about the times when there was nothing latex available and he used cellophane bags and then Scotch tape and then — most often — nothing? It has been sore for weeks or maybe months and could it be longer than that?

When he gets to the bed he bumps the nightstand, moves the whole thing. It seems to her that lamp will spill over and singe; she moves her hands to catch it, but he does nothing because it’s nailed down, wouldn’t move if something divine came in and tried to displace it. His hands are around the base of his dick, trying to strangle it so the blood can’t escape. But it does.

— How long have you been doing this?

He wants to do something to her with his fists. — Long time, he promises. Wait, there it is. He comes toward her, but with each step air leaks out like an old balloon.

She says, — So is this like a cab? Even the time we’re sitting still the meter’s running?

He’s got nothing to say, he’s watching himself; keeping it stiff is like balancing a tray of dishes on one hand and walking them across a stage, a comedy act. — It’s gone. Rob does not complain, his mouth and body are mostly tired of the taste and shape and force of dicks and the men that own them. Being with a woman is a treat. Rob gets down on knees, prods tongue out with fingers, stays this way for the long hours ahead.

——

In the midmorning they say good-bye. Before she leaves there is a promise: that she will call Andre, ask for him. He nods. — Don’t forget my name.

— Rob, she says and it almost sounds nice.

All the money she’d paid is lodged in his underwear. As he walks away, the stiff bills cut against one leg; he walks with a hitch like some old cowboy. A two-hundred-dollar limp. But it’s all for Andre. When Rob gets back to the apartment that five people share, there will be no negotiation, only Andre’s underfed palm. Maybe if he’s fortunate he’ll be given twenty dollars, or forty, enough to buy some magazines or go to a movie, but only if the whole apartment is in a good mood; there, generosity is an occasion.

You will find ways to save yourself. This is relative: save.

Rob’s been at this long enough to have radar; a crowded hall has its interested and they can find one another. Those who weathered the Holocaust have been known to find a fellow fortunate survivor at the other end of a restaurant.

Because he’s tired, Rob feels bold; he is most ready for a change just before the trip home, the emptying of his coffers. The Port Authority pizza shop, on the subway level, has a court of white plastic seats and tables. Rob has spotted the man from four hundred feet; Rob has come closer to be more sure. Passes by, four times, slowing progressively, thinking: Notice, notice. But the man, he loves his pizza, soda too. So Rob passes by three more times, decreasing his pace more until, with his arms stretched forward, Rob could be Boris Karloff’s mummy chasing Abbott and Costello through a tomb.