Jaimy Gordon - Bogeywoman

“So what you say, Chug? This all I got today-a nucka-note to you, brother, she-e-e-e, she-e-e-e, she-e-e-e ,” Tuney pointed down at me, and Chug joined right in, a long, slow, sticky “Ho ho ho ho. This lamb? Where her mother? I don’t know if I can trim a gal that skinny. She go long with it?” “Sho is, sho is. She want to see old Cowpea greasing, don’t you, young woman? Her mama far far away,” Tuney said, “in Californ-eye-ay.” “My mother’s dead,” I corrected, “I’m… without funds at the moment.” “Cheap,” Tuney pointed out, “fi dolla to you and she can have these dry goods here, she owe me a Abe for the lot.”

“Are you two ayrabbers?” I asked Chug. Compared to Tuney, he seemed like an honest sort. “We junkers,” Chug replied. “We junk.”

But then he was looking hard at me, blinking his heavy-lidded honey-yellow eyes. “Say, this a he-she?” he asked suddenly. “Aw who can say with these june-eye delinquents, all them got that greasy straight hair in a ponytail and no chest up front. She ain’t far long enough yet to tell. What difference do it make?” “You sho this down with you, young lady?” “I’m ready,” I said. “Ima give you fi dolla, you hear?” Chug said kindly, “you do what you want with it, pay this fool or not, don’t make me no nemmind.” “It’s a old mattress over they in stall nine,” Tuney assisted discreetly. I closed my eyes and followed Chug’s slow scraping step through the straw.

I was ready to swap guessing for knowing and to join O in the pot where teenage girls get hard-boiled, to expose my flesh on that cold Alp where Heidi herself grows hard as a year-old kaiser roll and learns to think of all men, even her dear old fuddy Opa, in that way . I deserved it for burning Emily, I’d have said yes to anything, even five cents. But I didn’t want to look around, for fear of busting out in hives and puking. After I stumbled over a concrete block and like to busted my shin I opened my eyes a crack and then it wasn’t so bad: a bum’s hideout, the mattress an old navigational map of stains, seasick archipelagos of bodily effluvia on blue-ticking latitudes and longitudes, a pink plastic portable radio with chipped case in the straw, a bucket in the corner to pee in, haybales for a living room suite.

After four or five minutes Tuney piped up: “Well, bro? What’s going on?” “Not much,” Chug growled. “What’s wrong? Your wagon done broke down?” “Can’t get in her.” “Aw go on, Chug, she ugly but she ain’t that ugly. I guarantee it, under them stank clothes it’s as good a thang as ever said good morning to a slop jar.” “She froze up like a bad drain, that’s what.” “ She-e-e-e, she-e-e-e, she-e-e-e , you not the man you was, Chug, they it is.”

“You inex-spare-inced?” Chug whispered to me, “you got your cherry?” “Never mind, it’s just in the way,” I hissed back. I had thought this would be easy, all I had to do was hold my nose and jump, gravity or sumpm would do the rest and tomorrow or next week I could tell O I was as lost as she was. “That’s okay, baby, I don’t want it,” Chug said, rearing back so his wide gingerdough belly rose over me like a moon and his open brown work pants made like a bread-basket in his lap. “Wait, gimme a chance,” I started to protest, when I felt his big, dry, warm hand at the back of my neck. And next I knew my eye was going down and that thing was coming up, that thing sticking out of the bottom of his belly like a cute-ugly valve, or not so much cute-ugly as an eighth world wonder of ugliness, and I opened my mouth and resolved to be Marie Splendini walking over Niagara Falls on a tightrope and not lose my nerve or gag.

Well-that’s what I was worth, now that I had burned up Emily. Back in Rohring Rohring I had cost a hundred dollars a day-anyhow that’s what Merlin had to pay the dreambox mechanics to keep me there, and I got my candy and coddy allowance on top of that. Out here I was worth five bucks, and I’d have taken five cents and a bucket of oats for Cowpea. I was low as a cockroach now, as a cockroach I saw the world as food, and I was food myself. Five bucks’ worth-a cockroach doesn’t finick. I ate what I saw, what saw me ate me. Where the tablecloth never relents, you eat till you die. I ate. I gagged. I ate.

Chug pulled his pants up and at the sound of the zipper, Tuney called out from his loft: “How you like that?” “She all right,” Chug said gallantly, “onliest thing I can’t figga what she want with a mean old ugly old mose like you.” “She-e-e-e, she-e-e-e, she-e-e-e…” Tuney liked that. My new clothes came flying over the top of the stall: like-new green work pants, just that one egg-sized bloodstain near the fly, and the torn purple satin warmup jacket from the burned-down old ice rink at Carlin’s Park, whose red lining hung out of the armpit like a tongue. Chug was counting dollars off a frayed roll. “Don’t give that slicka more’n a dolla for that mess, y’hear?” Chug whispered. “You find this here young lady sumpm better than them old rags.” “I got better,” Tuney squeaked, “I got better for her right here, yessir”-a plastic bag came lofting over the stall wall. “It’s a pink party dress in they and high-heel stomps, but if I’s yall I wait till yall’s quit of them crabs yall taking home from that mattress, she-e-e-e, she-e-e-e, she-e-e-e , praise jesus! How you like your friend Turpentine? I done turn out the mayor’s daughter and give old Chug the crabs too,” and he exploded in phlegmy snorts of mirth. “You best be jiving bout them crabs,” Chug said without smiling. “Tomorrow will tell, yes it will, yes it will,” Tuney hissed joyously. “I hope you only jiving, nigger, I know way you live at if I pass my old lady crabs.” “Just what exactly are crabs?” I asked, a diadem of cold sweat tightening on my forehead. “You find out,” Tuney promised, “tomorrow will tell.”

“That’s about enough of that,” Chug said, getting to his feet and pulling me to mine with his warm heavy hand. “Whatever home you got, young lady, you best get on home to it. I be sorry for you but now I tell you. You in the wrong line of work. You the sorriest-looking raggedy-ass girl-boy ho I ever see and that white fuzz on you arms scare a hound dog off a gut wagon. Now gone home. Get.”

I waded into those green work pants, rolled the trouser bottoms over four times. Zipped up the jacket. I wasn’t talking to either of these fuddies one word more. It was too hot out for a jacket but at least the sleeves hid my bloody arms and their coating of lint, arms so ugly they had offended these ayrabbers who did not even ayrab-they junked . I was too disgusting for the rubbish dealers of the city themselves. I took up my plastic bag and prepared to depart.

Where was I going? Now I had five bucks and it worried me that Tuney didn’t try to nail down a single dollar of it, just perched up in his loft spluttering those gumfarts that were his toothless laughter. Probably I was going to get a social disease like he said. I put hardly any stock in doctors or dreambox mechanics anymore, but now there went my faith in brochures out the window right after them-brochures like WHO SHOULD I TELL ABOUT MY SEXUALLY TRANSMITTED DISEASE, and VAGINITIS-WHY ME????-that you found in the office at Girls’ Classical and the lobby at Rohring Rohring and on a rack in Emergency at the hospital next door. How many times had I read in brochures that you couldn’t get a social disease from stuff , no matter how disgusting, not even from waiting-room chairs that were vomiting their batting or pee-sprinkled toilet seats in bus stations-and now suddenly an old mattress was enough to give you crabs . And what the hump was crabs ? It sounded worse than a germ, sumpm alive and malevolently aware of you and walking at you sideways, in armies, from city sewers or the junk-choked tidal swamps beyond the harbor.