A. Homes - The End of Alice

To is a preposition. Come is a verb. See Lenny Bruce for the rest of this routine.

To cum and then be disgusted, wholly horrified, is nothing to worry about — it happens to me all the time. That my speech makes your Suzie go silly and slick, your Walter whine, doesn’t mean you will turn into something as twisted as me — we all have our fantasies. But if I’ve struck a deeper cord and caused your randy raper to be reborn, to twitch and tingle, I would advise that as much as possible you avoid stress. And should great upheaval visit your life — it is in those moments a man might react and unwittingly take his daughter onto his lap — I suggest that to diffuse your imprudent impulses, you discuss as much as possible with your wife, and perhaps when you sleep, leave on the light.

Just be sure when settling down to go to bed that you leave the book open to these pages and let the ghostly air of eve draw the moisture from the paper magically, taking what’s damp and smutty and making it fresh, clean, and crispy for when we pick up again.

Some might believe that I blither just to shock, but what is shock if not some ancient identification, meaning that I have touched a sore spot, hit a nerve — think on it, will you — and some might believe that I blither to get a rise, and admittedly I’ve done that, too, but it is hardly my goal. True, I get trapped in my tirade, but would assume, would trust, that you — being who you are, where you are, out there and not in here — have sense enough not to get caught up in it. I would assume that you are bright enough not to buy the surface of my grotesque but know how to push it aside in order to see what’s really there. Me. I am here. Buried beneath these unspeakable things. A boy, a man, a person quite like yourself. Even if that makes it worse, even if it makes it harder, don’t forget: I am no better or worse than you. A conspiracy, a social construct supported by judge, jury, and tattletales, has put me away because I threaten them. I implore you not to be such a scaredy-cat.

You see me like this, so desperate — how do you think I feel, so permanently undressed?

Prison. Bells. Commotion in the corridor. I think they’re coming for me, but instead it’s an emergency house call for my neighbor. Frazier has attempted to kill himself. He has swallowed his harmonica. The doctor is with him now, working on it. It’s stuck, lodged in his throat. When he inhales, he blows a note, a sharp, squawky E. Exhaling, it’s flat B.

Prison, here, now, this is the moment I’ve been waiting for. After things have moved so slowly for so long, they happen quick, quickly now. Beside myself with joy, I bounce up and down on my bed, accidentally knocking my head against the wall. Momentarily I will be released. How will it go? What will be the protocol?

Am I to be taken to the door and unceremoniously turned out? Or perhaps they’ll want me to stick around and sign some autographs? My stomach gurgles and growls. Asparagus. The first thing I’ll eat will be asparagus. I haven’t had any in years.

Henry, my private pharmacist, has left me a few tablets, something he made himself, hand-pressed. I take two, hoping they’ll head off a soon-to-be headache.

I begin to prepare, ripping open my pillow, pulling out the archive. Same with the mattress, I take it entirely apart. The room is strewn with material debris, the aged tick, ticking of my bedding, cotton pad turned to cotton balls. Suddenly, my cell, my cage, is every bit the chicken coop, feathers flying.

My archive, my autobiography, is in hand.

It comes as no surprise that I haven’t got a carrying case, no nice leather luggage for my loot. I empty my shelves, my wanna-be drawers, wrapping everything in a sheet. On top of it all I carefully place the last of her six Schmitt boxes— the butterflies I have so carefully saved to preserve a piece of history, no small memory.

I ponder my parts, asking myself, How should I go? What should they see?

My costume, classic criminal couturier. For my exit, I will wear the very outfit I entered in: the white shirt and mouse gray suit that has been lying in wait all of these years, permanently pressed under the weight of my library books, awaiting my triumphant return to society. Dry with disuse, the shirt cracks as I unfold it, comes apart at the seams — it’s not what you wear, but the way you wear it, I tell myself. All too easily, I can justify anything. Though it is early, the temperature is up. A layer of sweat coats my skin, making me a little greasy. When was the last time I bathed? The pants, winter wool, are too tight — the jacket, I remember, was traded away years ago for an extra blanket. A thin roll of flesh seeps over the waistband, I try to suck it in, it doesn’t respond.

Underwear or not? I try it both ways. With, it bunches up, looking like a diaper. Without, everything is obvious, perfectly clear. I go without. The anxiety of anticipation.

Before I zip, I piss a bit — a single squirt — into my hands and run my fingers through my hair, slicking back what few threads I’ve still got. The high mineral content of first morning urine gives this homemade hairspray extra hold. Inhaling the sweet stink of my own perfume, I comb everything into place, including the pubes.

My shoes are impossibly tight and with broken, knotted laces.

Checking myself in the mirror, I am dapper if dilapidated, the effects of time are evident.

There’s something else; another thing I’ve not said — for days I’ve had an erection, or part of an erection. I’ve been pulling at myself, whacking and waxing it with spittle, with Chap Stick, with anything I can find. I’ve not been able to get it to go off or just go away. Permanently demanding and yet will only get a little stiff. And now it hurts, actually aches, is rubbed raw as though I’ve taken it back and forth over a cheese grater. Regardless of the level of my injury, I cannot let it alone. I take to leaving it out. The last three buttons of my fly are undone. I fish it out, balls and all, and let it sit, plumped and promising in the air.

I want only that it should rise again and shoot off once more. I cannot leave myself like this; tail between my legs, hangdog, limp dick. My mind goes everywhere trying to find something that would appeal. Butter. I squeeze the pats of the oleo they brought me with my supper and stroke myself, creaming my corn, making the mighty man into a lightly salted sweet thing. I butter up and still it hangs only at half, a greased and shiny rod, looking as if it’s already been dipped, pulled fresh from the hole, and is now settling down, going back to sleep. Again, I try and imagine the graciousness of a girl, her spacious slit, the womanly wound that can swallow me whole. How odd it must be to have at your center a great gap, a poisonous pit.

Nothing works. It lies limp. No longer fascinated.

Henry arrives on his morning rounds. “I have your shot,” he whispers through the slot in the door. The metal door frame acts like a microphone and amplifies his voice. “It’s cooked and ready to go. Open up.”

The door is locked. I am in prison, in jail, and my door is locked! Panic upon panic. Ordinarily we are unlocked from 8 A.M. until 9 P.M.; unlocked and encouraged to circulate.

“Open the door,” Henry says.

I have fast developed a voracious appetite for Henry’s potions, although I’ve no idea what exactly the elements of his elixirs are. Regardless, the poison is perfect. Not surprisingly now, I need that shot more than anything.

“Open the door,” Henry says.

My heart beats fast. It is frightening to feel you can’t get out. “It’s locked,” I say breathlessly. All morning. I didn’t know it until now — how could I have been such a fool? It never occurred to me. “It’s locked,” I scream, suddenly scared out of my wits. What are they planning for me?