William Vollmann - The Royal Family

A cold mist stung his nose. The back of his neck was stiff and his legs ached. He went into the liquor store in Laurel Heights where adjoining the twenty-year-old, sixty-dollar Ardbeg which was so to John’s taste they also kept the thirty-year-old, equally or almost equally amber, for a hundred and fifty-five dollars. Perhaps John had not seen that yet. It gave Tyler malicious pleasure to assert to himself that John maintained his relatedness to the world through stubborn and jealous possession of fine commodities which could always be vanquished through the primeval domination of ingestion. When the Ardbeg had been drunk, and John had won, he found himself immediately adrift again, like those storybook concubines on their lifelong journey through that desert of destroyed and not-yet-destroyed cities. Certainly Tyler himself, as he fully confessed, had sought the same relatedness by employing first Irene, then the Queen, to be his friendly viands. Perhaps there’d been no harm in it; perhaps he was a criminal. And what if he could give all that up, in order to walk naked into the desert, searching for nothing save self-divestiture? Well, he’d die of thirst, naturally. Strawberry was always complaining of a dry mouth. She would have hopped up and down with excitement to see him here. He smiled sourly. The salesman, big and bald, sat reading a newspaper. — Even you, Henry, the Queen had said. He remembered, and was ashamed of his unbelief. — Next to the Ardbeg, amidst the other glories, thrones and authorities, there stood a bottle of cask-strength Glenfarclas, priced at sixty-five dollars, which was Domino’s minumum price for allowing herself to get sodomized. John and Irene had given him a bottle the Christmas before last, perhaps because the rather sulphurous flavor accorded with John’s supposition of his vulgarity. As he recalled, John had preferred to keep for his own stock eighteen-year-old Glen Morangie with the dullish steel engraving or watercolor or whatever it was, shrunk down and offset, of the distillery buildings, most of which were long and low and abutted what Tyler supposed must be a Scottish firth, with more coast across the water. John, probably trying to do the brotherly thing, had slit the lead foil from around the cork and pulled the cap out with a cheery, squishy, echoey pop. The whiskey had been very mild, pale, pale gold like his supposition of Irene’s urine. But the pressure of the absent Irene upon their fraternal conviviality had been light — not on account of the absence — why, it was heavier than ever now that Irene lay in her grave! but simply because the conversation had that day actually been of interest. John was feeling rather sleek (in retrospect, it occurred to Tyler that the affair with Celia might have entered into its most luxuriant blossoming just about then) and Tyler himself had just gotten paid for a highly succesful skip-tracing job. Indeed, when he thought back on how easy and lucrative life had been in those days, he could almost weep with self-pity, forgetting his immense anguish over Irene, whose face, body, soul, breath and life had tormented him so. Where had she been that day? Christmas shopping for Pammy, Steven and her parents, most likely. And what was her nephew’s name? John, taking the initiative as always, was showing off his liquor cabinet. It was before cigarette smoking had been stigmatized and pipe smoking had come into fashion, so John couldn’t have owned his three mahogany humidors yet. That year he collected mainly single malts. Mr. Rapp had provided initial instruction at the office, and John learned the rest on his own. He poured his brother a learned sip of this, a celestial dram of that — smoky Laguvulin, jet-black Loch Dhu which stained one’s tongue with its rummy sweetness, sherry-flavored Balvenie Double Wood, Highland Park, whose taste he could no longer remember, Ardbeg, of course, with its iodine-peppermint taste, then finally Johnnie Walker Blue, bland and expensive, like John’s ideals — the Blue was not a single malt, actually, but such a delicious and above all prestigious blend at two hundred dollars per bottle that it well deserved its place on John’s glass shelves. John had a book on Scotches and was explaining it all. Tyler let himself be instructed in peatiness and the Speyside virtues.

The liquor salesman looked up and said: I’m closed.

Oh, how does that feel? replied Tyler, going out into the mist. A block or two higher, at the ice cream parlor, the music was loud and young. He went in and sat down with a groan, licking his moustache.

Sir, you’ll have to come to counter for service, said the kid behind the counter.

Well, let me just walk around the block and think about that, said Tyler. Let me get my goddamned courage up.

He went out and began to retrace his way. His throat felt scratchy. A lesbian-looking type in heavy-heeled boots clopped hollowly by, the chain links jingling from her ears. In a store window, pink and green irridescent bows hung upon twisted branches, accompanied by necklaces, bracelets and brooches of colored glass. A ceramic dog gazed benevolently into the rain.

Do you fetch newspapers? Tyler asked the dog. The dog didn’t answer. Had it been capable of movement, its gait would have duplicated that of some fat whore waddling into the pharmacy to buy more condoms.

Walgreens was still open, as he thought, but just before he reached the entrance, anxious to buy more itching cream, the security guard locked him out, turned his back, and strode over to crack jokes with the last cashier, who was now closing out her register.

The liquor store man gave him an unexpectedly friendly nod as he locked up. Tyler grinned and waved.

In the spacious coffee shop on Noe Street, two women in what looked like Catholic high school uniforms sat rapidly nodding, each girl’s hands tucked in her lap. The world was windy, clean and empty. — A woman on the steps of a Victorian was calling to a little boy who was getting into a car: Nicky, come here! Give me a big old hug! For a whole year Auntie won’t see you! Good boy! — But the child didn’t come back. He sat in the back seat, and a lady came around from the driver’s side and gently closed the door. Then she got in and slowly drove away.

He entered the Wonderbar and saw Domino, whose face now wore a profusion of sores like the red bulbs on the metal dance floor in Mexicali.

How are you doing tonight, sweetheart? said Tyler, squeezing the girl’s hand.

Oh, not too good, she said listlessly.

What’s wrong?

Just about everything.

Same here, he said, but she, wandering through her own maze of misery, could hardly begin to find his.

You know I care for you? You know the Queen loves you?

Fuck off. I don’t know that and neither do you.

A man came out from the urinal and slipped his arm around Domino. Tyler nodded pleasantly. The man glared and elbowed Tyler in the ribs.

See you, Domino, said Tyler.

Domino, her head hanging down, didn’t say anything.

He awoke with the taste of Irene’s cunt in his mouth.

I want a drink, said Domino, drunk.

You see that man over there? inquired Loreena. He paid for his drink. And you see that man over there? He paid for his drink. That’s how it works.

I don’t give a fuck. I want a drink.

Loreena thrust out her chin and said: Would you stop that, please? It’s not getting you anywhere except onto my shit list. You know what I tell people like you?

Bitch, I could smash your head right in.

So you didn’t like the beginning of my little speech? Well then. I bet you won’t like the rest!

But just then a john came to rescue Domino. He bought her three tequila sunrises all in a row. Then he placed a twenty-dollar bill on the counter in front of Domino.