A. Homes - Music for Torching

"That was incredible," the date says as Paul comes out of the room.

Paul walks down the stairs, slowly, weak, wrung out. He wishes he could lie down. He wishes he could just rest somewhere.

"I came," she says. "I got so into it. While he was doing it to you, I did it to myself. Did you hear me? I came. You were so incredible."

"Do you live near here?" he asks her.

"Why?"

"Could we go to your apartment?" he says. "Just for a little bit."

"Oh, yeah, sure. I guess," she says. "I wasn't planning on it, but, yeah, let's do it. Right now, I'm so into you, I would do anything."

Paul checks his watch, two-thirty-he should be back at the office. He will rest until three.

They walk up four flights; she uses lots of keys to open various locks. The decor is something that can only be described as demented Gypsy.

"Nothing in this apartment was paid for," she says proudly. "Either people gave me or I found it on the street."

He lies down on her bed, hoping this is one of the things someone gave her. He undoes his pants-it's hurting. A lot. "Do you have some aspirin? And some juice." She gives him a couple of Advil and some sort of herbal ginseng drink. She wants to fuck him.

"I don't think so," he says. "I don't think I should rub against anything." She starts to give him a blow job-nothing happens. He is impotent.

"This doesn't happen to me," he says, propping himself up, looking down at the limp lion. And he's telling the truth. Of all the things that happen to Paul, this isn't one of them.

She rolls her eyes-that's what they all say.

It's all about his blood, the recirculation of blood. It is pooling in the pinhead punctures that now decorate his upper deck, instead of collecting in his cock.

She pouts.

He reaches for her. "Squat over me," he says. "Sit on my face." She tries. He buries himself in the salve of her excitement, working her with his tongue, with his teeth-committed to making her come.

She is bored. She wiggles back and forth. She bounces on his nose. Finally she slides off. This is not what she wants. His face is slick, shiny with her transmission fluid, her motor oil.

"Come back," he says.

"Just stop," she says.

He is left lying there, embarrassed, ashamed. Both Elaine and Mrs. Apple adore him no matter what, sunrise or sunset, but the date seems genuinely annoyed. He pulls up his pants. "I'd better go," he says.

Elaine is working at home. She's met with the deck guy, fixed the running toilet in the upstairs bathroom, and removed the drink rings from the coffee table-using the book Pat gave her-and now, while she's waiting for the cleaning crew to come, she and Mrs. Hansen are chopping up what's left of the dining room table, using an ax they found in the basement.

"What fun," Mrs. Hansen says, taking a solid swing.

Elaine smiles, watching the wood chips spray across the room.

Mrs. Hansen hacks at it again, and a huge section of the table breaks free.

"I could do this forever," she says, raising the ax up high. "Anything else need the old chop-chop?"

"I think that pretty well does it," Elaine says.

Mrs. Hansen rests the ax on the floor and looks out the window at her own yard. "I wonder if that tree out front is alive or dead. I wouldn't mind taking a crack at it."

"It seems to have little green leaves," Elaine says.

"Too bad," Mrs. Hansen says.

Together Elaine and Mrs. Hansen haul the remains of the table out to the Dumpster, and Elaine hurls them over the top.

It is impossibly hot, all day the heat has been mounting, and the weather service has issued some sort of a warning.

"How 'bout a nice cold drink?" They are dripping with sweat. Mrs. Hansen is breathing hard.

"Let me do the mixing," Mrs. Hansen says, offering to

make a pitcher of her "special" iced tea-Lemon Zinger, vodka, and a dozen drops of something called Rescue Remedy. "My secret potion," Mrs. Hansen says. "A friend gave it me. It's holistic."

Paul is lost, he is turned around, he can't tell east from west, up from down. Out of the date's building he takes a right turn, figuring he'll walk down the block, he'll walk until he comes to an avenue, and then he'll be back on track. From there, he'll make his way uptown.

Conflict, confusion, weakness, nausea-his body is demanding attention. He has to pee. He can't wait. He tucks himself into the corner of a building and urinates. Pee splashes off the wall and onto his suit. He steps back.

He is walking. And walking. All the cabs have their off-duty lights on. It is that odd hour of the day, between three and four, when the taxi drivers are changing shifts, and it's impossible to get someone to stop.

Without warning, near the corner of Bleecker and Bowery, Paul vomits, hurling a pink, chunky mess, a pile of whole baby shrimp, into the street. He vomits violently, uncontrollably, again and again. No one stops. No one notices. No one does anything.

He walks on, thinking he might faint. He's panicked, wondering if something went wrong, maybe you're not supposed to have a tattoo done down there, maybe Gary hit something, punctured something significant-a vein, his intestines.

The air is thick, oxygenless; later there will be storms.

Paul looks for a pay phone. He calls his office. "I just got out of lunch," he blurts to his secretary. "I'm not well at all. I must have eaten something bad."

"You sound awful," she says. "Where are you?"

"I'm downtown. In the street. I just threw up."

"Poor guy," she says.

He wants someone to be informed, in case it gets worse, in case something else happens, in case something has to be done-he's afraid to call Elaine.

"I thought I could make it back to the office."

"Go home," she says. "Don't come back here."

There is a pause. A big truck passes.

"Any messages?" he asks, recovering himself temporarily.

"Nothing urgent."

"Oh," he says. "Oh, I'd better go, it's happening again." He hangs up and vomits once more, dragging the dregs of his stomach, the foamy bile that comes when there's nothing left.

Paul takes the subway from Astor Place to Grand Central. He buys a bottle of water for three dollars, rinses his mouth, and spits on the platform. He's on the 3:43 heading home. He is falling further behind. He should be at the office. Herskovitz is probably already making a plan, trying out Paul's desk chair, flipping through his files.

Paul falls into a brackish sleep on the train. His sleep is timed; an automatic alarm goes off thirty-five minutes later. When he wakes up, the train is cold, like a refrigerated compartment. He tucks his hands into his armpits and remembers that his briefcase is still at the office. He recalls the trash can-sweeping everything off the desk into the trash and then sliding it back under his desk. Shit!

From the station he will call his secretary again, he will ask her to rescue the trash before the cleaning crew comes. Notes, plans, files. Frantic, he rummages through his pocket looking for phone change.