William Vollmann - The Royal Family

And Tyler himself, he hung suspended above his own future, just as he had throughout that instant longer and more barren than infinity when he had watched his twitching fingers begin, in utter disobedience to his will, to strain toward Irene’s thigh for the very first time; just as he had when, learning from his mother that Irene was dead, he’d resolved to be faithful to her forever; just as he had when the tall man had led him down that dark and dripping tunnel to the Queen and he had allowed himself to believe in her, giving up his gun and kneeling to receive her saliva; just as he had when she’d offered him the false Irene to love and he’d accepted; just as he had when he’d known that he could not love the false Irene anymore; just as he had when he’d accepted the Mark of Cain as his own emblem of damnation and integrity forever; just as he had when the Queen had offered him her soul, her magic, her heart and her cunt; just as he had when he’d realized that she was doomed; just as he had when she’d left this earth and he’d searched ever more unavailingly; just as he had when Dan Smooth had turned to him in need; just as he had when Irene’s ghost rushed back into his arms to love and hate and smother him; just as he had when, understanding that the Queen, Sunflower and Sapphire were all holy by virtue of being degraded unto the very death, he’d resolved likewise to go in the highest, lowest direction he could, determined at the eleventh hour to make something of himself, to become “authentic” or honest or purified or more like one of those three prostitutes, no matter what it cost him; and now the next thing was about to occur. He knew that it was a trivial thing, but still it was the next thing.

He did not feel present anywhere anymore. Did this constitute a failure spiritual or otherwise? Sapphire had been present only in the most unearthly way. Sunflower had died sleepy and confused. Only the Queen had continued ever aware.

He did not understand what he should do now. He needed his Queen — oh, how he needed her! If only he’d thought to ask her more questions, or—

Summoned, Tyler and his creditor approached their respective lecterns. Tyler felt shabby. Erect, his creditor proved more resplendent yet from the waist down — wool slacks, shiny shoes. He required no Mark!

And suddenly I get served with these papers, Tyler explained, hardly listening to himself. So I actually got so upset that I just stopped payment. You know how it is, your honor.

Knees apart, his creditor nodded sympathetically, gazing into Tyler’s eyes. Tyler admired him more and more.

So, uh, the way I see it, your collections people violated the law, Tyler concluded. For an instant he felt awed by his own righteousness, but then his creditor’s shining eyes made him sleepy, submissive, ready to settle on any terms.

His new friend said: Mr. Tyler, we can either request a continuance to find out what they promised on the phone, or we can resolve this matter right now…

Tyler discovered a sign which read: DO NOT ARGUE, QUESTION OR INTERRUPT EACH OTHER. When his turn came round again, he tried to respect the sign, and said: Look, I don’t want to be a jerk or anything. Just tell me what you think we should do.

If you want to compromise with me, replied his friend in a tone of the utmost kindness. I can certainly take a down payment. Meanwhile, what I’m gonna do is request a continuance. But my question is, we called you several times and—

Well, I don’t know about the several times, Tyler lied, hanging his head.

Mr. Tyler, you’re not to interrupt.

Sorry, Your Honor, I just…

Yeah, Mr. Tyler, I understand, his friend told him sympathetically. But all you had to do was call us. V. T. & R. is always just a phone call away. Anyway, that’s history. Here’s the balance you owe, and I’m gonna…

Tyler stopped listening. He longed for the moment when all the muffled underwater voices would cease, and his creditor would sit down next to him again in the front row, drooping his wrists between his thighs, gazing lovingly into space. Or maybe they’d meet in the corridor and go out afterward for a drink at the Wonderbar. His creditor wanted to help him; his creditor would save him—

Past the body-piercing shop Haight Street begins to steepen, and at Baker commences the plateau called Upper Haight, with Buena Vista Park a slanted wall of green on the left, bearing its loungers, panhandlers, sleepers, tourists, map-readers, and bus-watchers; here it was on an afternoon of sweetness infused with the perfectly pitched almost painful bugling of bus brakes and the smell of just-cut grass that Tyler, paying homage to a compulsion he could not control, went into the bead store and bought some pewter and bone beads. An hour swirled by like the new Queen slowly unwinding the chain from her wrist as the latest bitch in trouble knelt, not daring to gaze upon her tattooed glitter-frescoes. He sat on the grass and strung unhappiness on a piece of silver wire.

A boy with long blond hair and eyes whose lids resembled Tyler’s tattered leather wallet sat beside him and said: Where are you staying?

Capp Street.

Oh. Oh.

And what are you about? sighed Tyler, stringing beads.

Meeting you! — and with this the boy thrust out his hand and left it hanging weirdly in midair until Tyler took it. It felt like white bread soaked in milk.

I like how your hand feels, said the boy yearningly.

Well, glad you enjoyed it, said Tyler. You have anything to tell me before I go?

You’re going? You’re going?

Yep.

Where?

To pick up some prostitutes.

Boys or girls?

Girls.

Girls! said the boy, stunned.

See you, said Tyler, but the boy didn’t answer.

Nodding at the blonde stubble-headed girl whose skull was tattooed or dyed with sky-blue stars, at the cat-quick skinny runaways who giggled and then suddenly spilled out shrill obscenities like blowfishes puffing themselves menacingly against some threat; bowing to black girls whose dreadlocks were chased in gold — not as many tie-dyed people as ten or twenty years ago; the thing now seemed to be short hair and T-shirts — Tyler strolled, playing with his beads.

At Shrader Street he noticed two Brady’s Boys excitedly pacing, one saying to the other: See that guy in the trenchcoat? He’s a pickpocket. He used to work for the Queen. Let’s bust his ass! — Sutro Tower’s red and white backbone rose headlessly above the Victorian houses, its hollow vertebrae blue with sky. At the end of Haight Street, Golden Gate Park drew its green line against the evil world. More people stationed themselves on the grass than he remembered, cigarette smoke rising at a slow slant between coughing and spitting heads and greasy little backpacks and ball caps pointed backward. They shared cartons of french fries. Sometimes a man would stride across the grass, his shirt opened to the tanned or tainted flesh, and another shirt tied around his waist, and pigeons would flock around his head. In a year or so, just as Strawberry had prophesied on that day when the tall man came home from the hospital, our local government would build a fence here to keep them out. A boy in a cap, a hooded sweatshirt and tall rubber rainboots which came up to his knees struggled in the hot sun, dragging his pack behind him; sighing, he threw it down and lay on it. A girl dressed in blue denim from head to toe wandered past him, sipping from a paper cup.

Why don’t you sleep in the park? said the hooded boy to the girl.

Tried that once but it’s too cold.

It’s not so bad. Anyone can do it.

Tyler listened, strangely excited and encouraged, he didn’t know why.

It’s a secret, the boy went on. The manager he don’t know I sleep here.