William Vollmann - The Royal Family

Again he drove to Sacramento with its black parking lots given meaning by cars, its malls so thoroughly placed and identical in composition that every three or four miles one thought to be back at the same retail outlets no better or worse than the cigarette-burned pillowcases of San Francisco’s whore hotels; and the night was hot and still. His mother slept. Dan Smooth sat out on his back porch on Q Street, drinking rum.

Right on time, said Smooth, or at least I presume you’re on time, because I can’t see my watch. It’s been a bad summer for gnats, I’m sorry to say.

Well, maybe the next one will be better.

Spoken like an optimist — hee, hee! And I’m just the opposite. I know I’m not your type, but you can’t do without me, can you?

I’ll hold judgment on that, Dan.

And did you decide anything?

Yes, I did.

Well, tell me about it later. She moves around a bit, you see, Smooth explained. Hops around, like a lap dancer. You can’t always say where she is, but you can find where she is, if you see the distinction.

Yeah, I get it, said Tyler, longing to look at his watch. He thought of the old criticism of Wagner: great moments and horrible half-hours. With Smooth the moments were horrible, too.

You plan to fuck her?

Well, your photo didn’t really turn me on, Dan. No offense. I’m sure she’s a nice Queen, though. I guess I’d just as soon keep it all business.

What does turn you on, Henry? queried Smooth, something moving in his face like the crawling silver shadows on a barmaid’s chin of the change which she is counting behind her half-wall.

As I said, I’d rather keep this thing professional.

Oh, get off your high horse! What are you afraid of? Don’t you realize that you have the look in your eyes of a man who has sexual relations with prostitutes, and don’t you know that other men who do the same can always pick you out? You bear the Mark of Cain, brother!

Tyler grimaced.

Have a shot, Henry?

All right.

There. Now what turns you on?

What turns you on, Dan? Child molesting?

I want to tell you something. I can tell a great deal about a man by his face. Not just his eyes, but his entire face. His mouth, for instance. I like to inspect a man’s mouth. I can see from your mouth that you like to go down on women. I can see all their itty-bitty pubic hairs stuck between your teeth! (Oh, I could talk endlessly about textures. Maybe I don’t have a moral sense, but that’s normal. Maybe I do have one, but if so where did I put it?) I see I forgot to offer you a shot. Help yourself. Well, as I was saying, how do I know you don’t suck guys? Well, because you never did come on to me, and I know I’m quite attractive. Elementary, as Sherlock used to say. You don’t like me, do you, Henry? I can tell that from the color of your nose. You see, most other men, if they want something from me, they brown-nose me a little. Why else do you think my asshole’s so clean and shiny? They pretend not to mind — oh, they just have to pretend. Grin and bear it when I talk about what I talk about. But your nose is a good honest pink drinker’s nose, and not a bit of shit on it. Now, as for your ears, Henry, I regret to tell you this, but you have envious ears. I’m not going to tell you how I know that, though, because old Dan Smooth’s got to have a few secrets in this world, just to keep the ears of his fellow man envious. And as for children, to answer your question, no, I can’t tear myself away from them. If I were going to be marooned on a desert island and I could take only one food with me, you know what it would be? The earwax of a ten-year-old child.

What if it came out of envious ears? said Tyler.

Interesting case! But you still haven’t answered my question.

That’s just how Brady used to talk to me.

Maybe because we each have something you need. Maybe my ageing eyesight’s not so good. Maybe there’s brown on your schnozz after all, brother. Maybe there’s brown stuff packed way up between your nostrils—

All right, Dan. What turns me on is a sincere woman. That’s all.

And what does she smell like?

You know, Dan, a lot of people on this earth fall in love with each other first and then have sex afterward.

But not you, Henry — ha, ha, not you! Remember, I can see your Mark of Cain glowing right now in this darkness! It’s brighter than my bug-zapper light! So don’t lie to me, buddy, because we’re both children of the same wicked God. Are you trying to deny that you care what they smell like?

That’s right.

How about a high-grade armpit? Like roast coffee, almost — well, it depends on the—

Usually I shake hands instead of sniffing armpits, Dan.

Oh, then he likes mannish women. Office types, in executive blazers. But they use deodorant. Old Dan doesn’t like that one bit. And you say it doesn’t matter?

It’s not my number one concern.

So you’d do it with anyone then. You’d fuck anybody no matter how she smells. Talk about perversion. Talk about obscenity. This man dares to get sarcastic with me because I have certain fantasies regarding children, when he himself is nothing but a — I have no words — a mere functionary! There’s something inconsistent about you — yeah, yeah, something brutally untrue. And you deny it; you deny your own animal nature. I disgust you, but what’s inside your guts? Children of the same God, I said! And the Queen, she can see your Mark of Cain! That’s why she stayed away from you, because she’s good. Whatever she does, she — oh, what’s the use of explaining it to you? You don’t see me as a human being; I’m just your way station. So. Where’s my reward?

Right here, Dan. These Swedish postcards.

Well. Well! That was thoughtful. Are they illegal?

Probably. I didn’t flash them at any cops—

Where did you get them?

From a friend.

How nice of him. Or her. Let me go inside and look at them. You wait here.

Give her this, said Smooth, returning a quarter-hour later. It’s just glass, but she’ll know what it is. Give it to some whore, and make up a good line, so the whore’ll think it’s something important, you see…

The sheets smelled of body odor. The closet door yawned and creaked. He turned on the television at once and kept it loudly going at all times, so no one would know whether he was there or not — better that they assume he was there, so they didn’t break in. The door was barely held together by a pair of angle-nailed planks, and the bolt came out of the lock with a single tug.

He hadn’t stayed at the Karma Hotel in a couple of years. He was ready to essay it again after his less than sleep-filled night at the Rama. The Karma had once been filled with the scents of fresh Indian cooking, but it didn’t smell like curry anymore, and the old lady wasn’t stirring her pot of beans, and her daughter no longer wore a sari, nor did she bear the round red caste-dot on her forehead. America the melting-pot, thought Tyler to himself. The daughter looked older, dirtier, and angrier.

Can I help you? she said, neither recognizing him nor wanting to help him.

You have any rooms?

I.D., she said.

(That was new. They never used to ask for identification.)

He passed her his driver’s license and she wrote the number down, after which at her curt demand he surrendered twenty-five dollars. Last time it had been eighteen.