Jeff Jackson - Mira Corpora

Gert-Jan announces the opening of an auction. Someone shouts out a price. Another person counters with a higher offer. The middle-aged woman remains silent, seated on the leather couch with her back to the others. Another bid. Gert-Jan announces that none of them is satisfactory. Goddamn insulting, really. He reminds everyone of the body’s tender age, the distinct opportunities afforded by such barely corrupted flesh, et cetera. His accent ices the words with a superfluous layer of innuendo.

The final round of offers. While others volley a sequence of escalating digits, the body clandestinely focuses its attention in the direction of the middle-aged woman. Something sets her apart from the usual clientele. Her matronly wool sweater, stud earrings, and plaid skirt are hopelessly conservative. Her permed curls are decades out of fashion. But those aren’t the real aberrations. It’s how she acts so sober. Or maybe so nervous. She keeps straightening her skirt, smoothing the tight pleats with her palms then tugging primly at the hem. The body registers all this somewhere at the tingling cortex level. Call it a vague feeling of unease. If that’s even close to the right emotion.

We’ve got a winner. An emaciated grandfather in cowboy boots jabs two fingers into the air. It’s either a sardonic gesture of victory or an aggressive fuck you. At another time this detail would be a clue, but for now the body can only register the reliable drone of Gert-Jan counting out the old man’s money. Gert-Jan briefly fans the bills before the body. “Business is good tonight, partner,” he says, then slips the cash into his front pocket.

In a tinny voice, the body says, “Thank you.” Its vocabulary has been distilled to two phrases. For its own good, really. Anything other than “Thank you” or “I’m sorry” inevitably leads to savage misunderstandings or agonizing guilt. Trust me: It’s much happier this way. You’d be amazed how these four words ably express the full range of its emotions. Or rather, whatever emotional residue still remains inside the body, clinging like washed-out pigment to the walls of some long-forgotten cave.

Back to work. The old man fastens his bony fingers to the body’s shoulder and guides it toward the staircase. The hazy fluorescent gleam of the open bedroom beckons at the top of the landing. The body can feel the middle-aged woman’s gaze trailing its wobbly gait as it navigates the stairs. It catches a glimpse of her slowly rising to her feet. There appears to be something she wants to say, but the bedroom door slams shut and no words get spoken.

This next part’s a blur. There’s a plastic baggie full of pale green powder. There’s a whinnying nasal voice scolding, “You weren’t supposed to snort it all .” There’s the grandfather guy who’s just now switching off the overhead light in the bedroom and trying in vain to kick off his cowboy boots. They’re like snakes whose skins refuse to be shed. Now the light is back on. In the background, the desiccated figure of the old man has been replaced by a stocky construction worker. The body lies on the rim of a saggy black mattress and whispers, “I’m sorry.” But it’s in response to something someone said hours ago.

Now a chorus of voices murmurs over the body. The bedroom lights strobe off and on in slow motion. Unclassifiable sensations spread and dissolve through the body. There’s a peculiar throb, reminiscent of a finger plucking the granule of hard pit from the center of a peeled grape. Behind the reddish darkness of its eyelids, warm and stinging colors bloom like fireworks against a flat night sky. Its toes curl, its back spasms and flexes, its fingers coil into tiny fists. Its jaw lowers like a drawbridge but there’s no sound, no indication of either pain or pleasure.

Later the body finds itself seated on the leather couch in the living room. The party is in full swing. A hiccupping electronic beat blares over the speakers. There’s a jumble of hands thumping out conversational points to the manic rhythm. A number of guests have donned festive masks. Black masks with sequins, white masks with feathers, red masks with long crooked noses. The body suspects it may be wearing a mask too. If so, that’s its only item of clothing. It’s stark naked except for being wrapped in a strand of red and green Christmas lights.

The middle-aged woman sits nearby, fingering one of the blinking threads of lights. Her brown curls appear more unruly. Her lips tremble and her chest heaves, as if she’s trying to suppress some erupting emotion. “We need to talk,” she whispers. At least the body thinks that’s what she says. The woman reaches for a tall glass of what’s probably vodka. The drink sloshes violently, half the contents landing with a splash on her plaid skirt. The body realizes she’s no longer so sober. If she ever was.

A young blonde bursts into the brownstone. The front door swings open and she tumbles inside with a gasp. Maybe she was one of the partygoers earlier this evening. Or some other time. A column of cold air and snowflakes squalls into the room after her. Car horns and ambulance sirens blare in the distance. The blonde’s pupils are glazed over with excitement. “There’s been a terrible accident,” she announces. “Tractor-trailer jackknife. Cars piled up everywhere. Bleeding people wandering the street.”

The partygoers exchange muddled looks. Several remove their masks. At this late juncture, their ragged minds are unsure whether to treat the announcement as fresh fodder for conversation or a distant tragedy to be ignored. Even Gert-Jan seems baffled. The blonde shakes the snow off her jacket. She claps her hands together and clarifies the meaning of her message. “It’s totally awesome,” she says.

Gert-Jan instructs the partygoers to grab flashlights from the closet. They’ll tramp out to the street to check out the smash-up. What the fuck. The party was getting predictable anyhow. Nobody bothers to give the body instructions, so it remains seated, brilliantly lit and slightly shivery. It watches the blonde lead a single-file line of unsteady souls into the night, masks resting atop their heads, clutching half-full bottles and tripping over half-laced boots.

The middle-aged woman lingers in the doorway. She’s the last one left. But instead of chasing the roving flashlight beams, she shuts the door. She stands directly in front of the body. “I’m Naomi,” she says loudly, as if afraid it might be hearing impaired. Her breath reeks of grain alcohol and chewed cashews. Her mouth gleams sensuously from a fresh coat of lip gloss that only partly camouflages the fuzz of a menopausal mustache. “I want to help you,” she says. “But there isn’t much time.”

The body nods. It has no idea what she’s talking about. She snatches an unfinished glass of emerald liqueur off the coffee table and polishes it off in a single surging swallow, oblivious to the liquid dribbling down her chin. Without further preamble, she yanks the plug for the Christmas lights from the wall. All the dazzling colors encircling the body go dark. As if someone has extinguished its halo. The dead strands of lights sag and flutter around its limbs as she pulls the body toward the upstairs bedroom, the limp cord and exposed plug dragging a few paces behind.

The woman shuts the door behind them. She removes the mask from the body’s face, then begins to unravel the string of lights. “We better do this quickly,” she says. “The others will be back soon.” The body remains motionless as her woozy fingers untangle the strands, slurring together the interwoven wires on its hairless chest, slender arms, shakily bowed legs. Once she’s done, the woman heaves open the bedroom window and ducks her head into the night. The curtains billow and deflate behind her. A few lost snowflakes filter into the room. No idea what she spies out there. “The monsters,” she says. “The things they’ve made you do.”