Atticus Lish: Preparation for the Next Life

A grand white car pulled up and a big woman climbed out wearing a short red leather jacket. Five guys on the corner in ski hats were looking at her. Damn, one of them was saying. Skinner stopped and spoke to them for a minute. They told Skinner where the action was.

Forty-deuce.

Is that where the hotels are at?

That’s where the action at. Over here not really. It’s mad action down there. A hotel, I don’t know about. Beers, bitches, weed, good shit, I do know about, and they got it all downtown.

An SUV with halogen brights drove at them and Skinner flinched.

They got everything, yo. Mad shit. Hotels, motels, pussy, chicks with dicks…

Chicks without dicks…

I could go for some pussy maybe.

You got money, you can go for whatever you want.

He caught the train and rode it with his feet planted, watching the stops. People stepped around him when the doors opened. He got off and took the escalator up to the street, into a spectacle of silver stadium lights and monitors.

For half an hour, he went up and down Broadway, looking in the bars before going into one. He took one of the high tables in front where the drinking was going on. There was a flat-screen TV, a male server. Let me get you started with something to drink, get you started with some appetizers, get you started with some guac. He drank a series of shots. All right! He drank a margarita like he had something to celebrate. When he was done eating corn chips, the waiter took his bank card and electronically removed forty dollars from his account. He continued sitting, moving his eyes back and forth between the bar and the TV. Being drunk wore off. A blond came in, but she came in with two guys. They all had briefcases. Her voice carried. She said, You have to capitalize on that. They changed the channels on the flat-screen. Someone clapping. Someone pouring orange juice. The golf report. Skinner picked up his bags and went back outside.

Somewhere there was music pumping behind blacked-out windows. A pair of limos cruised by with laser ground effects, black lights, a Filipina with ultraviolet lipstick sitting in someone’s front seat, and he turned his head and watched them go around the corner, amid theaters.

After hunting through Times Square north-south, he tried east-west, stopping in front of bars or places that he thought were bars, backtracking, going on again, staring in the window of a porn store just for a minute, then moving on again, the weight strapped onto him, hanging off him, bouncing when he marched, the strap creaking like a saddle. He was smoking a cigarette, which occasionally he left in his mouth in order to use his hands to hold the duffel bag, which was getting heavier.

On 11th Avenue, he threw his butt away and went into a sandwich counter where the chairs were upside down and a Mexican was mopping. There was no sign of food. A young woman with ringlet hair and a green and blue uniform shirt and a gold chain and earrings was down under the counter going through the stock of cups and napkins.

Are you closed?

She stood up and finished jotting down what was out of stock on her clipboard before she spoke to Skinner. Her hair was worn pulled back giving her a high egg-like forehead and she had a hefty bosom and a narrow waist under her uniform shirt.

I can give you whatever’s out, she said, but we can’t make you nothing.

Do you know the hotels around here?

There’s a lot of them. Like which one?

Just like a basic motel.

She mentioned the Marriott.

Isn’t that like that super big one?

So, like, smaller than that.

Yeah.

She told him to wait and went to the back. The Mexican, who was broad-shouldered, stood aside for her and watched her going by.

Skinner sat down while she was gone, pulled off his watch cap and itched his head. The wall was mirrored and he could see his short wet dark hair, the tattoo on his neck, and sunken eyes looking back at him, multiplied a million times. He seemed not to recognize himself and looked at other things.

She returned carrying a page torn from a phone book.

This is them. Call them or you could go right over. She pointed to the address which she had circled in ballpoint pen. The penmanship was feminine. He could have imagined it signed Love with a drawing of a heart. So how do I get there?

Down and over, she made right angles with her hands.

Hey, thanks. That was going the extra mile.

No problem.

Yeah, look, I’m just thinking, he said. Why don’t you let me return the favor? He kept talking, trying to turn it into asking her out. Like when you get off or whatever. Just kickin it, he said. No attachments, you know? I’m basically a good person. He was watching her face with his sunken eyes to see how he was doing. I just got here, literally like an hour ago. Two hours ago. We could have a drink or something and you could tell me about yourself.

Thank you, no.

You sure? I just got out of the army yesterday. I literally just got here. All I want to do is buy you a drink to say thank you. Howbout it? I mean, you’re not talkin to a bad person.

I realize that.

So how can you say no? I’m just asking.

And I was just answering. Now you got what you need, go to this place.

Damn — he shook his head — I didn’t mean to sweat you. I’m not that kind of guy. I’m just confused. You know, like, there’s nothing bad there. What about if I could call you some time? Some other time, you know? We grab some drinks… I mean, life is short, you know?

That’s not going to happen. In the mirror, he saw the Mexican watching him.

Aw, come on, he laughed, revealing nicotine-stained teeth.

Thank you, no.

I just walked like ten miles with all this. I just fought for my country. Are you sure?

She did not smile.

Why not? Is there something wrong with me?

That’s something for you to ask yourself. That’s not my issue.

Wow. Ouch. I mean, like, a little harmless date.

That’s not my issue. I don’t go out.

All right.

You have your answer. You need to accept it.

All right. Roger that.

A sign above a bank said it was one a.m. and fifteen degrees Fahrenheit. He had been drinking and the bar was closing. He headed down Broadway with his eyes squinted shut. The wind was blowing the vapor off the manhole covers.

An all-night McDonald’s was operating beneath a neon theater marquis. He bumped through the door and flipped the duffel bag down. This’ll work. It was warm. The backs of his hands were flaming red. He dragged his duffel up to the counter and gazed up at the menu. A skinny female with ragged hair and narrowboned hips waited for him to order, jiggling her leg. She rolled her eyes up at the ceiling. Supersize? she asked. Yeah, he said and wiped his nose. She looked around him. He got out his bank card. The speakers were playing Cherry Baby. He slung his bags into a booth and went back for his tray, sat down and pigged out with dirty hands, stuck his feet out — he belched — he burned his tongue on the coffee. The fries were cold, he dipped them in the coffee, and ate them a handful at a time.

After he was finished eating, he pushed his tray away and sat there looking at his Ironman. His eyelids closed and he opened them again. He stood up. Taking his gear, he went down the line of homeless people at the tables to the restroom and urinated in the shitsmeared toilet.

The door banged. In a minute, he said.

He pulled off his jacket, hoodie, and polypro, and laid everything on his bags. Beneath his clothes, his skivvie shirt was stinking and sweat-soaked. He peeled the skivvie off, revealing his upper body, and wrung it out in the sink. A metallic smell came off him. He had a farmer’s tan. His torso was grayish white and there were zits on his skin. He started giving himself a canteen shower in the sink. He had vertical tattoos down his forearms. With a handful of paper towels, he washed his armpits. His face and hands were covered in half-healed cuts. Then he undid his jeans and wiped himself down. Lifting his scrotum, he held a hot towel between his legs, his eyes half-shut. Crotch rot. He winced. On his tricep, there were Chinese characters.