Atticus Lish - Preparation for the Next Life

The men who slept out in the Park of the Americas had purple blackened faces. Their skin was puckered and quilted. They slept directly on the concrete, no shoes on, and urine running downhill from them, leaves and twigs in their hair.

A Mazda with silver rims spun around the corner and drove away under the long shadow of the elevated tracks. All down the block, Guatemalans were cooking a hash of gray brains, black sausage and corn on the cob at their generator-powered trucks, the women in aprons and ball caps holding tongs, arranging a ring of pig’s heads turned to leather masks by roasting, black holes where the eyes were or had been before they were cooked out. An inside-the-animal-smell.

They told her they had goat and she bought a taco and ate it, dripping hot grease over her fingers and licking up chips of onion and flakes of cilantro off her fingers, still tasting the rust on her hands.

While she waited in the park, he went to a barbershop that had a hundred photographs of Latin heads with fades in the window and got his hair cut in a military high and tight. You could get a cesa, mohawk, or skinfade for ten dollars. The barbershop was located on 85 thStreet next to Nathaly’s Bridal. The barber was a Hispanic youth, younger than Skinner, with a fat white face. He had a small spiked stud in his chin. Males in white snap-back hats lounged all around the shop, texting on their cell phones. The Spanish music was turned all the way up, so that the drumbeats popped your eardrums. Skinner tilted his head forward under the pressure of the clippers, and the kid pushed the clippers up the back of his head. When he was done, he flashed a hand mirror behind his head.

You want some alcohol on it, so you don’t catch no bumps?

Skinner said go ahead, and the kid sprayed his scalp with cold alcohol, which he slapped and rubbed into Skinner’s skin.

That shit’s gotta be mad burning.

I got my ears back. My girl’ll like it.

The barber asked if his girl was Mexican.

No.

You’re white though, right?

Yeah.

What’s your girl? She white too?

She’s Chinese.

Word? How come you ain’t goin out with a black girl? Don’t wanna jump in the mud?

The barber made one of his boys laugh and they slapped hands.

He turned back to Skinner. Ten, yo, he said. Skinner checked that his hair was even, then took his wallet out and paid him.

When she saw him, she called him shuaige! handsome boy! and rubbed the back of his scalp in the same place the barber had done.

They were so tired it was hard to climb the stairs up to the train. The seven came and they got on, and newspapers and dirt were all over the floor. She sat down and he sat sideways and put his boots up on the seat and lay back with his head in her lap and closed his eyes. She held his head and stroked his forehead. They spoke to each other under the roar of the train. What? she asked. She bent down to hear him and breathed the rubbing alcohol on his scalp.

Come home with me.

She stroked his now-cropped hair.

Will you?

She nodded, gazing down at him.

People got on all around them as the train went down the line. They got on carrying their food, a bundle of parchment cornhusks like dried rattlesnake skins. Through their bags you could read the words Aztec Maize. Everyone sat all together around them, pressed against her side, wedged in at the end of Skinner’s feet. He moved his feet for them, to not step on them. Zou Lei rubbed his ears between her fingers. They rocked with the train. Both of them dozed, people’s legs bumping against their legs. Other people dozed as well, tattoos of crosses on their knuckles, the word Serena in italic script on the inside of a pregnant woman’s wrist.

They went back to his room, he was very nice, and she fell asleep on him while he smoked a Marlboro and when the night came she didn’t want to leave.

She was lying half on him with her leg on top of his leg. His arm was around her and her face was fitted like a jigsaw piece into the crook of his neck. When he tightened his arm around her, her back yielded supplely and she arched against him and her breasts pressed his chest. When he looked down, he could see the solid muscle of her rear divided by the triangle of her pink boy shorts.

She asked him if it was okay if she stayed the night and, stubbing out his cigarette, he told her of course. He even joked about it, saying he wondered if this meant he was a pimp.

She thanked him.

You liked the gym?

I love it. We had a good day today. You are so good today.

Today was the way it should be.

She agreed it was.

We’re going to do that every day from now on.

I want it to be. Imagine, she thought, how great it would be if they did.

He had taken his pills and she could feel him going into a different state of consciousness beneath her.

Every single day, he said.

The house was quiet, the bedside lamp was on, it was a night in late winter.

She felt the whole earth traveling across the cosmos. The cosmos was something like the Siberian steppe and the earth was a rider traveling across it. It came south out of the larch forest where the dead of her ancestors lived and hunted reindeer. The rider continued south on horseback to the endless grassland. She was riding behind him, and as they rode she saw little flowers coming out in bloom in the oatmeal-colored land. He wore a wooden mask with a heavy beak, so he could become a hawk and find the way. They were on the verge of descending into a valley. They would have ripe green pastures, apple trees to which birds flocked, singing.

Something woke her in the night. She opened her eyes. She was looking at the speckled acoustic ceiling. The house was silent, but she believed that a sound had waked her. She moved her eyes. The yellow bedside lamp was dim through the parchment-colored lampshade. The far wall looked grainy in the shadow. She looked to see if the door was closed, the lock button pushed in. The closet door was open and the boiler visible.

Something made her turn her head and look at Skinner. She put her hand out to touch him and his whole back was wet. The cotton stuck to him. Wherever she touched him, he was cold and wet. The poncholiner under them was wet too.

A sense of strangeness came from his body, as if he did not know her. When she spoke, he answered her, but she could hear he was not there. She asked: Skinner, do you know where you are? and he said, Yeah, I’m fine. But the way he said it, she knew he was not awake and she was afraid to say anything else.

He began making choking sounds in his sleep. She realized he was sobbing. She watched him with astonishment.

What happened? he begged. Oh, what happened? Oh my God, why did this happen?

She wanted to comfort him, but she had a premonition that he would spin around and strike her if she touched him.

It’s okay, nothing’s happen, she told him.

He nodded with his eyes shut, and she believed he was conscious and had heard her. She got him to release the poncholiner from his fists and put it over him again. She curled up behind him, her own heart beating, and stared at his back. Gradually she calmed down because she felt him calming down and she fell asleep again.

She woke up again and the room looked the same as it had looked all night. The light was still on, but when she looked up at the window, she could see blue-gray dawn coming in.

She crawled over him and got out of bed, making an effort not to wake him, and looked back at him. His cropped brown hair, the white walls above his ears, pimples in his scalp. The faded green tattoo on his seamed neck. Bad skin on his forehead. Stubbled face. His mouth open against the pillow. He had taken another pill, and now he looked like someone drugged and dumped on the roadside, lying on a hill outside the mosque in Kashgar.