Charles Bock - Beautiful Children

He believed he was wasting his time, that his kid was already home. He imagined Newell inching the front door open, relieved that his parents had left it unlocked. Newell had to have liquor on his breath, Lincoln figured, and the stench would be masked in a cursory way, grape bubble gum was what he'd used, back in the day. Lincoln imagined Newell's eyes were dilated, too, red from a little weed, maybe some eye-drops. The instant that front door budged, Lorraine would pounce, rushing over from the kitchen, where she'd been in her bathrobe, on the phone with her mom, probably brewing a pot of that green tea crap. Or maybe she'd give the kid a break, let him make it upstairs on the balls of his feet. Could be that she'd wait until the boy had changed into his pajamas and tucked himself underneath the sheets, until he was thinking that maybe he'd gotten away with it.

The streets all looked the same at this time of night, and as Lincoln made a turn, he was unable to come up with a reasonable explanation for the voice screaming obscenities that had come from the other end of Newell's cell phone. Lincoln was wearing one of his suit jackets and a pair of old sweatpants. His feet were smashed into an ancient pair of dock sneakers, their backs crushed down by the weight. He'd staggered out to the car in this haphazard outfit and Lorraine had followed, gripping her bathrobe tightly around the waist and nagging him, complaining about driving safety and the kind of people who were out on the road at this time of night. She'd double-checked to make sure he had his wireless, then worried because he did not know what kind of car Newell was in, did not even know where to begin looking. Lorraine had made him promise to check in, and she'd assured Lincoln that she would call if there were any updates, and if she had not kissed him before he got into the car, Lincoln nonetheless felt she was back on his side, that their dinner and evening together, and yes even this little mini-crisis, had thawed her frost for him.

Kids were going to be kids, Lincoln knew that much. They were going to inhale substances that by all rights no sensible person would imagine inhaling. They were going to put their private parts in all sorts of bizarre places. And they were going to lie, telling you they were going to be home by a certain time and then showing up a lot later. Newell's lie was just another link in the chain, part of the nature of being a son, just like fathers had to look into their children's eyes, sometimes, and tell them untruths right back.

In Newell's case, the time had come to take control. Get the kid some discipline. Some therapy. Some shit. Lincoln thought of his son in platitudes. The boy just needed a little straightening, was all. If he and Lorraine handled it all the right way, this was a chance to really do something, help the kid and get him on track. A deep sense of satisfaction took Lincoln with this admission, and it was as if he'd taken care of one of the important steps in a long, detailed project, a step that didn't necessarily ensure the project's success, but ensured that the project could be completed. Lincoln felt glad to be at this point in his life, happy to have his wife and son, his family, even with all their problems and bitching. He even was okay with driving around in circles at one in the morning, bleary-eyed, waiting for the phone to bleat and inform him he should come home, all was right in the world. He thought about stopping for some coffee and a doughnut, reminded himself about calorie intake.

Hell, pretty soon it was going to be time to tell the kid about the birds and the bees.

The roar of an overhead plane shook the office to its structurally flimsy foundations. The crew was huddled, Rod Erectile swabbing his dick with a cotton ball; Jabba and the camera guy going back and forth about which lighting angle would best hide the injection mark.

On the far end of the couch, Cheri sat, quietly still in shock. Beside her, Ponyboy had his hands in his pockets, and was looking sheepish. “Apparently,” he started, “there's been, I guess, this backlash against fake breasts.”

He looked down at the carpet as he spoke. “Yeah. Looks like they only want all natural girls now.”

His hand left his pocket, scratched his ear; he still couldn't meet her eyes. “I had to cut a deal,” he said.

Silence.

“It's the only way they'd do it, baby.”

Cheri forced herself to her feet. Nothing about one second of what was happening felt unusual to her, the events unfolding as they did during any other day: Ponyboy calling her baby and reaching out; Jabba's voice directed her way as well now, asking if there was some sort of problem, which Ponyboy answered by saying he was handling it.

Cheri continued toward the little alcove outside the bathroom.

“He told me you'd gone over the details,” Jabba said.

“I'm handling it, Jabba—”

“I DO NOT WANT TO FUCK ANOTHER GUY.”

Her words echoed, faded, were replaced by the sounds of moths and flies circling the light fixture. Cheri remained rooted in place. Jabba waited, then matter-of-factly said, “It's the standard deal. We supply the cock. All the regulars: Oral. Vag. Anal—”

Cheri's mouth parted. She crossed her arms, felt her skin cold against her hand.

Jabba was still talking: “—then the money shot and good night.”

Now Ponyboy was back, out from whatever rock. “See, um, that's the other thing.”

Cheri could not look at him, could not bear what she knew would be in his face, the shame and helplessness, his apology smoothly mixing in with whatever the next thing was that he had in mind for her. She held back. Did not call him a jackoff, an asshole, a betrayer, or a Judas. She could not do these things. She was too busy letting the back wall of the vestibule support her, was too busy shutting her eyes, leaning back, resting against the wall.

“Any schlub with a video camera and a website can screw in front of the world nowadays,” Jabba continued.

“It's the only way they do tryouts anymore,” Ponyboy added, as if this were helpful.

And if her life had been a movie — not this kind of movie, but a real film, with creative, artistic and even moral value — then at this point the voices would turn garbled and fade.

On the silver screen, Cheri would not be paying attention to the Asian photographer's venom. (It's called being a professional, you fucking twat.) Instead, she would be opening her eyes. The bathroom vestibule would have a mirror on the wall and Cheri would be looking past all of the men who also had jammed themselves into this alcove. She would be looking at the mirror, noticing herself: a woman who at once looked stunning, and sexy, and — in this outfit and makeup — ridiculous.

Now a voice-over would begin, the disembodied voice of Cheri's mind, calm and smart, saying this was the last place in the world that she wanted to be.

INTERIOR. LARGE CLASSROOM OF CATHOLIC SCHOOL.

The classroom alive with laughter and jeers. Wimpled NUN stands over the child version of CHERI BLOSSOM. NUN curls lip, removes glasses. Her eyes are soft and liquidy.

NUN

To be human is to sin, my children. Perhaps you cannot understand because you are small and your lives are not hard, and perhaps you can understand because you are small and blessed are the children.

But you do need to know that Jesus or Buddha or Muhammad or Vishnu or Jehovah or the Hebrew God Yahweh, all forms of God love all forms of his children.

It is important to know this.

And so I say it again. My children, you are

human for your sins and God loves you for your humanity.

It is your sins that make you beautiful.

But this does not necessarily give us license

to do whatever we wish.