Charles Bock - Beautiful Children

The rotations of a small desk fan kept blowing up the corners of the magazines and yellowed papers that sat within range of its oscillations. Ponyboy would have loved to raise the fan to his face, maybe air out his pits. He would have killed to grab a tall-boy from the miniature fridge, press the chilled aluminum against the back of his neck. Jabba grunted into the receiver, nodded at Ponyboy, his heavy lidded eyes radiating all the grace and warmth of a dock worker.

Ponyboy took his time in returning the gesture — even in front of Jabba the Hutt, Jedi knights knew to be cool. Beyond that, it was hard to figure what came next. Jabba could be on the phone for a while, but he also could hang up with a bang. He could chill or he could blow up like napalm. Ponyboy called him Jabba like the guy was all blubber, but even a cursory look showed a packed, huge mass, nothing any sane person wanted to fuck with. Meanwhile Ponyboy still had to straighten the desk and empty the trash. He had to separate the week's metered mail from the order catalogues. He had to weed out all the overdue bills, then make a special pile of the warrants and IRS notices. Ponyboy'd never seen anyone besides Jabba in here, and little about the place suggested anyone else ever came in.

“They're saying I WHAT?”

Jabba's voice was raspy with outrage, and Ponyboy knew better than to go near him when he was like this. So he ducked his head and started into the office. Footprints, cigarette butts, whiskey stains, and other unidentified mishaps had bludgeoned the shag's normal shade into puddle water. Different-colored videotapes — green, blue, red, yellow — were stacked at the same knee-high levels where Ponyboy'd finished stacking them last time. A few large cardboard boxes had been sliced open, with glossy magazine spreads unfolding onto the carpet, lying right where they'd been when Ponyboy'd last finished with them. Ponyboy cut a diagonal path toward the far wall, and a sofa sectional, this huge three-unit couch of impenetrable black leather — Jabba let him curl up on it whenever Cheri was pissed. Like, for a week after Cheri'd got her rack done, Ponyboy'd slept on that couch — including one wild night with this skank from the Olympic Garden, which wasn't cheating, technically, since Cheri'd been the one who'd thrown him out.

“A hundred and fifty-eight?”

Forcing himself not to check over his shoulder, Ponyboy made a quick turn into an open-air bathroom vestibule. He splashed cold water on his face and head, put his mouth below the tap, swallowing some water, letting the rest strike his neck and spray onto his ripped T. The carrying remnants of Jabba's voice were drowned out by the sound of the water, and Ponyboy dipped two fingers into the nearest jar of petroleum jelly. He took his time, re-spiked his damp and tangled hair, and stared at his body, all sunburned and glistening. His shoulder tatt majorly needed touching up.

“Come on. Ninety percent of the vice cops on the West Coast are breaking down my doors to get into the industry. And a community standards rap? It's VEGAS, for Christsakes.”

The trick here — any streeter knew — was to eavesdrop while looking like you weren't eavesdropping. Stay out of the way and at the same time stay right in sight. Look like the dumbest fucker in the world and learn whatever there is to learn. The trick is, was, and always would be to take whatever wasn't nailed down, and then it was to get a hammer and start yanking on them nails. Loyalty went as far as the end of your fucking nose ring, especially when some motherfucker was riding your ass around in volcano weather.

Ponyboy left the water running and reentered the suite's main area. He sat on the section of the couch farthest away from Jabba and felt the rush of a day of fighting and biking and fuck knew what…

“She signs a contract, ” Jabba said.

Ponyboy ducked his head low between his legs; sucking for air, deep breaths…

“Her driver's license says she's eighteen. ”

Ponyboy concentrated on Jabba's screams, returning to the world.

“Explain to me — her lie is MY fault?”

He kept his head low and his body poised on the edge of the couch, and deliberately used the top of his pupils to check across the room, watching Jabba: the big man starting to speak into the phone, then stopping, listening, his face dumb with concern. “Right,” Jabba said. “Maybe our lobbyists… I mean, a hundred and fifty-eight ?”

“Right.” Jabba sank into his chair. “Yeah. Okay. Get back to me.”

Less hanging up than simply letting go, Jabba stared out and into nothing. Ponyboy watched him pull invisible hairs from his skull by their imaginary roots. Watched him look up to the ceiling, rub the three-day beard on the underside of his neck.

“Lemme ask you.”

Fucker. How'd he know?

“Say a kid's… what, fourteen.” Jabba's hands made a rolling motion. “It's three in the afternoon. Zero on the tube. His older brother's at football practice. Bedroom's unlocked. Kid goes in. Looks around. It's natural, right?”

“I guess.”

“Okay. Right. He's not supposed to go in, he does. He has a chance, he takes it. A barrier goes up. You want to see behind it.”

Overhead a commercial airliner passed, shaking the matchstick walls. Jabba waited it out.

“Now, throw in the beauty and mysteries of the female form.”

The fat man paused, looking at the strongbox in front of him. He spent a moment with the docket. Another with his own thoughts. “Different example. Your girlfriend.”

Ponyboy's head rose.

“Let's say she likes making a scene.”

“Can you not say shit about Cheri.”

“What? I like her. She's a talented individual.”

Ponyboy popped his thumbs. He kept his eyes level and rocked slightly in place.

Jabba gave a quick grin. “Some generic girlfriend, then. A girlfriend that doesn't exist.”

“Just don't be saying shit about Cheri.”

Jabba's palms spread in front of him. “A make-believe girlfriend.” He smiled. “Let's see. Let's… how about… make believe she's an actress .”

Without waiting for a reaction, Jabba swiveled in his chair. He reached down. There was the muted sound of a door opening; a tiny, metallic popping sound; air releasing.

“So it's Friday night,” Jabba said, swiveled back toward Ponyboy, an aluminum can now in his fist. “Date night. You go to rent movies. She drags you to the adult section in back. Like I said she's an actress. One of them extroverts. She shouts out the dirtiest titles. Wants the whole video store to hear — it makes her hot or something.”

“Where you going with this, biggie?”

“Imaginary, remember?”

“Something you want maybe?”

“You rent a dirty movie with yer imaginary girlfriend .”

Jabba's tone let Ponyboy know the big man's patience had run out. Ponyboy felt violence simmering in his gaze. He thought of saying something, thought better of it.

“Back at her place. She wants to imitate all the positions. Fucks you till your eyes bleed. Tell me, tough guy — anything detrimental to the common good in that ?”

Jabba cackled, leaned forward, and slammed the opened can of beer down onto the desk. Foam came in rivers from the can, like a miniature volcano eruption. Jabba unleashed a shit-eating grin and shook his soaked hand, obviously pleased with himself.

“How about this?” He wiped his hand on his pants. “You're just out of a long-term deal, into the idea of meeting new people. You wish you were sexually active. But what can you do? You're just not in a place where you can put yourself at risk. Not yet.

“Could be you're an average guy who just finished a third date with a girl he's really into, the festivities having gone far, but not far enough.