William Vollmann - The Atlas

They smoked crack, and he lay in her amis staring up at the long lateral groove-lips of the moulding reflected in the mirror of the medicine cabinet, whose shelves had all been wrenched out, and he began to smile.

Look at that! he cried. Look at all those roaches running crazy across the ceiling! I guess they must really be enjoying themselves.

The woman cackled. — I s'pose they be gettin' a contact high from all the smoke up there. But it kinda pisses me off, 'cause they can't pay me no money!

They both laughed at that, and then they did another piece of rock in the best way; she approved of how he smoked crack now; the best way to smoke crack is to suck it from the tube of broken glass as gently as you'd suck the crack-smoke breath from the lips of the prostitute who's kissing you.

The john remembered the nights when he was still married and lay in the darkness of the guest bedroom watching golden hall-light, listening to the rush of his wife's high heels as she adjusted her dress and necklace in the main bedroom, his grief and anxiety hideous while his heart ticked with the clock. He had decided that if his wife asked him to come, he would say: Why should I? but then he thought that that did not sound sincere (and he was actually very sincere), so he decided that when his wife came in he would just say: Convince me and I'll go. His wife was almost ready now. It was cold and dark outside the window. He knew that he was missing his last hope by lying there while his wife put the penultimate touches of lipstick on. He was terrified that his wife might not even come and look for him. If she did not at least ask him, he could not volunteer to go with her. She went into the bathroom, where she must be checking herself in the mirror. Now she came out and turned off the bathroom light. He resolved that if his wife came in he'd say: I'll go if you want me to, honey. Now his wife was making the rounds of the upstairs, turning off lights. She paused. Perhaps she was wondering where he was. He could not move. He would not move. He heard her go downstairs. She was clicking her high heels rapidly through every darkened room, including the living room where the unlit Christmas tree slobbered its sticky shadows of shaggy foulness; she must be looking for him; she was back at the bottom of the stairs now, and he heard her picking up her keys. So she was going to leave without calling for him. He lay breathless with tension. She called his name.

Here I am, he said.

Where are you? It's all dark up there.

Here, he said with effort.

She came up the stairs and turned the hall light back on. He heard her going into each of the other rooms again. At last she entered the half-ajar door of the guest bedroom and stood peering to see if he was there. He could not say anything.

Are you sleeping? she said hesitantly.

No, he said.

She turned on the light and looked at him.

I'm going to go now, she said. I'll be back in an hour. Maybe an hour and a half.

I'll come with you if you want me to, honey, he said. He was surprised at how easily the words came to him. It was as if some grace of husbands, wives and desperate angels had helped him.

Oh, don't bother, said the wife. It would be too much work for you.

It's up to you.

You really wouldn't mind? said his wife. Don't worry about it. I know you don't want to.

She stood there waiting for him to encourage her hopes. He strained his every effort to say the words again that would make her happy, but even as his mouth opened he knew that he was going to fail.

You — you heard what I said, he gasped out.

Her face became resigned again. — Never mind, she said. She turned out the light. Tears had begun to gush out of his eyes just as she reached for the switch, and it is possible that if she had waited another three or four seconds (or if he had somehow been able to make her do so), she would have seen them.

She went down the stairs, opened the door and left him.

Again he ascended the stairs between the two gratings, and tall black men made way for him on the landing because if he was white he must be an undercover cop.

Who you lookin' for, officer? one of them said.

He said her name.

You a cop?

No.

You a paid informant?

No, officer, he said.

The black man laughed grimly.

He got to the top of the stairs where the second grating was, and the lobby man who had buzzed him was already standing on the other side of the grating with his arms folded.

She's not here, the man said. She just now went outside to do her business, so I reckon she'll be back before long.

They always said she wasn't there, and she was always there, so the john wasn't surprised. — Can I wait on your stairs? he said.

Help yourself.

He descended a stair or two to show his respect for the workings of the hotel, and waited, looking alertly through the grating like a zoo-barred jaguar waiting for meat, watching and waiting until just past midnight he saw her pass across the lobby on one of her constant errands. He was here to tell her how she made him feel. He called her name, and her face lit up and she came running to make the lobby man let him in.

Thank you kindly, he said to the lobby man.

The lobby man gazed expressionlessly away. At least he didn't charge the john five dollars to get in.

I was just thinkin' 'bout you! the prostitute said. I was afraid you'd quit me. Come on!

She ran ahead of him up the back stairs by the toilet, and there was the man who had laid out his or somebody else's possessions on the stairs, including pennies and nickels, and stood patiently waiting for them to make him rich. The prostitute had already run high into the smoky darkness above him as he picked his way past more loungers, and then he had caught up with her and she'd taken his hand. Soon now he could tell her. Men like salt-encrusted pillars of carven ebony walled them on both sides, looking on silently as she kissed his lips and thrust her tongue repeatedly into his mouth. He wondered if he was tasting other men's sperm. She slipped her arm around him and led him to the room where the two lesbian whores lived. The lesbian whores did very well in that hotel by renting out their room to strangers for five dollars for fifteen or twenty minutes. That was why they were so well furnished. They had a TV and even a single bed. The prostitute (who knew that the john would pay her back) gave the white whore some money, and the white whore slipped out. Inside the room, another white boy was sitting on the bed. He was smoking crack and he was very nervous.

Y'all make yourselves comfortable and I'll be right back, the prostitute said, as prostitutes so often say, and the john thought to himself: Why not? What do I care if she doesn't show? I have all night, and I haven't even paid.

The white boy offered him a piece of rock, and the john thought again: Why not? because the prostitute was still there and she was serving him so tenderly, holding the crack pipe to his mouth, lighting it, reminding him not to swallow the smoke or he'd get nauseated, and then the feeling hit, the good feeling, and the prostitute grinned and went out.

I don't like this, the other white boy said. I gave eighty dollars. Well, forty was just business, you know. But forty was to get me some more rock.

You'll see her again, the john said. You can trust her.

Usually I take her to my place and she stays the night, said the white boy. I don't like this place. This place is dangerous.

The john could not tell what exactly the prostitute meant to this other person. He wanted to find out. He wanted very much to find out.

How many times have you done her? he said.