CAR. Cakers said he had no idea where he was taking me, but assured that I was safe in his refurbished Delorean. The directions to our destination were coming to him sporadically via The Universe. I pretended I was Marty Mcfly and Cakers was Doc. It made sense to me. But did it make dollars? Only time would tell…and right now, it was telling us to go to Kaimuki to meet someone potent who went by the name Miss Pro Amm.
I asked if he was Russian.
“I’m going as fast as I can!” he said. “Now shut up or I’ll turn this Delorean right around and drop you off at the nearest bus stop in Pearlridge.”
“NO! Anything but that!” I begged, obviously. “Anything.”
He waved me away, explaining that I was breaking his concentration. I was beginning to understand his odd anger. Here was a specimen who lusted for control. Had his fledgling psychic business been so God-awful? His alcohol stylings connected with me, but these flashes of anger turned me a real sour one. I closed my eyes as we drove past Gecko Books and Toys N Joys, giving a silent prayer that Cakers would make a lot of money very soon and live happily ever after with the love of this life. What would happen if Cakers lost it? What would happen to me? The very thought raised the hairs on the back of my neck and the front of my neck.
My old school of youth exploded past—Queen Liliuokalani—and the standing hairs eased down. Shotgun blast of memories exploded through my brain like a fat bullet: Ulcers, bugs in hair, stealing RoboCop 2 The Comic Book from a store, etc.
People were already prepping their houses for Christmas aka Christ’s Mass. Many of the two-story houses running up the spines of the obese mountains were designed with large cut-outs of Santa and reindeer on their rooftops. A sudden joy slapped me and I smiled…then I thought, Were these homeowners challenging each other on who could get the most attention? And then I was sad.
That wasn’t the spirit of Christmas; that was the spirit of shit.
We made a turn toward a mountain, and I asked Cakers what he had spread on the bread. He said it was concentrated beer, and that I should not worry.
“I’m sorry I angered you earlier, Cakers,” I said. “I sometimes don’t know the power of words.”
“And I’m sorry for screaming at you about the bus stop. Sometimes I forget the power of faces. I’ve had a bad day. You know—you were there. And I thank God you were, too. Some days can get so damn lonely. Maybe my body has been so accustomed to loneliness that company is like a threatening disease. Forcing me to be mad, against my will.”
“Do you have a little lady?”
“Yes. But she’s ill.”
“You have a lover…yet you feel lonely? Sad.”
“Ever since she came home late that Monday night, months ago, she’s been a different woman. I arrive to spot her in bed, already asleep. One time I was being erotic and sucked on her fingers…and you know what? It tasted like rusty pennies. Yes. Blood. Is she pleasuring herself? Is she pleasuring someone else? Where does she go at night? Oh, no. And nothing wakes her up. I’ve tried talking to her, but she only spits. The eyes never open. I never see her awake. I go to work, come home, and she’s asleep: Clothes dirty and torn, shoes wet, fingernails bloody. It hurts me. My emotions, even now, are tangled.” He thought for a moment. “Did you say earlier that you wanted children?”
“The question is: Do they want me?”
“Understood.”
“Does she work?”
“When we met, she said she cleaned hotel rooms at night. She travels a lot. Speaking of which, maybe I’ve gotten worse in bed due to my huge penis. Sometimes they don’t like it. They say it hurts,” and now whiney, “That it bruises their internal organs. What DOES a man have to do nowadays? I ask you.”
“I’m sorry. I’m a single male.”
“Don’t beat yourself up. BUILD yourself up. Confidence, my friend. The miracles of plastic surgery. Or in my case—a curse.” He shrugged, held it for 5 seconds, then released. “Maybe you’ll fare better.”
He stopped the car in the middle of the empty street and his face lit up. His mouth opened, the tongue doing back flips. I cupped my cleaned ears as he shrieked: “Directions! Directions! Look! Look!”
He then speed up at such a high speed that my nails were digging into my thighs. The car turned into a driveway. My head hit the dashboard.
Cakers looked at me, breathing heavily with an open mouth, hands still on the wheel, chest rising up and down so confused.
Someone in the house was peeking out from behind a curtain. I nodded to the vagueness-person.
We had arrived.
“YOU’VE got a big heart, coming down here,” the old woman said, walking out from the kitchen with a skinny, arm-shaped glass of alabaster drink. We told her about our issue, and that was her response.
She was sipping from the glass thumb, ever-looking at us with those mature eyes, hotly. She was attractive. She looked like an aged movie star. I've always had a thing for older women. Maybe it was because they were so full of vital nutrients.
“You know, most sane people take one look at my face-scar and scurry off. Thank you for not being disgusted.”
Strange. There was nothing repulsive about her face. Cakers raised his hand.
“Question. What scar?”
“On my face. You don't see it?”
Cakers squinted at her. “No. Are you sure it's on your face?”
“Aye!” She pointed to her eye. “Ayyyyyyye.”
I raised my hand.
“Miss Pro Amm…”
“Call me Queen.”
“Queen, we're two normal people that have no idea what you're talking about. Is this some kind of trust test? There's nothing on your face, gentlewoman.”
“Liar! This damn scar is pulsating. I can feel it; smell it; hearrrrr it whispering to me: They are laughing at you. You're ugly, and you have osteoporosis. You're doomed. No amount of milk will save your bones. This damn scar has ruined my life. I have lost many friends. My scar grows. I have named it Queen. See it now? See my ugliness?”
Cakers rolled his eyes and grunted. He had something insulting to say.
“My adult female, you have inspired me! I have a bewitching scar on the elongated section of my life-giving bits. Maybe I should name it King.”
Queen stood up, fist pumping.
“SHIT HAIR! DO YOU MOCK?”
“I'm just trying to lighten the mood…Queen.” Cakers did a Japanese bow. We weren't sure what to expect, but I was ever so ready for sudden action: My hands digging red gold from my weeping palms.
Queen sat back down, squinting at us as a preacher would.
“Aye. You are wise. And at least you addressed me by my guilt-name. Oh, if you only knew the guilt-pain I feel throughout my guilt-morning hours, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.”
I put my hands over my mouth and leaned over to Cakers.
“Please. Let us be ever so sensitive toward this woman’s crazy ways—her nuts & bolts. We have to get her to help us. I would hate to use force. I have feelings.”
“Not my fault she’s a loon. I was just testing her. She’s passable. Trrrruuusst meeeeee.”
We looked. Queen was now up and about—performing a waltz with an invisible stranger, glass of milk spilling here and there to my horror and disgust. I turned to Cakers again: “I thirst. Should I ask her for some milk? I love milk so much.”
“This is yo life.”
I smiled and spoke as I turned.
“Dear Queen—”
She was sprawled on the table, eyes closed, mouth agape, milk spilt. Cakers pushed back his loud chair and stood up. The milk had soiled a newspaper that was on the table. The headline read: Police on trail of cattle murderer?
The huge font of MURDERER filled half the page. There was the strong scent of vodka.
Things were getting worse.
QUEEN woke up and leapt from her bed, striking a karate stance. We had been staring down at her, trying to think of a way to explain our situation. Her sudden awareness shocked us an
d made us stumble back and fall onto the floor. We screamed at each other—slicing the air with karate chops in defense.
She stopped, breathless, fixing her hair.
“I’m an old woman. I’m so old. Please, no more surprises.”
I stood up, keeping a watchful eye on this quick geriatric, and said: “We meant nothing by it. We were curious, is all. Forgive and forget?”
“WHAT! Where am I? What’s happening?”
She smiled and held out her shaking palms.
“Oh, I remember. These bones. Please sit me down on the bed.”
Cakers and I looked at each other, and I could tell that this was the definition of teamwork.
As we sat her down, she said: “Oooooh. Ooooh, yes. That’s good. Ahhhhh, my bones. My old bones. I have so much meat. How can these bones handle?”
Just then, a cat came into the room, swaggering like it owned the joint.
The old woman rejoiced.
“Ah! Wanton! She has awoken from her coma? How wonderful.” She clapped her hands and her cat jumped onto the bed. “Miracle! Is this an omen? I thought I had lost you to sleep for ever and ever. Amen.”
Cakers put his hands on his hips.
“Maybe it was our loud screamings that brought this miniature beast back from the dimness.”
He then proceeded to clap in approval of the merry situation. I was smiling at first, but then I realized that something was weird about this feline. I pointed.
“The hind legs.”
Queen’s face raised.
“Hrmm? Oh! Oh yes, allow me to explain. Wanton was involved in a horrible accident involving a dog, a street, and a little Samoan girl. Wanton then lost her legs.” She was crying now shockingly, cradling her cat almost to a threatening shake. “No! Wanton, I thought I had lost you and your ways. I’m so glad I saved you. I had to give you baby-human legs…I had to so much. Please don’t hate me for it.”
The cat remained mute.
I had a soft spot in my heart for weeping women—young or old. “Shhh…I’m sure Wanton enjoys her back legs. She most likely doesn’t even know that they’re an infant’s limbs.” I pushed my hands in and out before her, to sooth. Cakers did the same.
“Oh yes…why…they do look like shaved cat legs! Maybe you have discovered a new style? Have you ever considered entering this beast into a feline contest of beauty?”
“Actually…no. But now that you say such fine things with that mouth, I’m thinking yes.” She smiled at him. “Oh, such fine things, indeed, that spill free from that flapping tongue.” Then to her cat, “Would you like that, my furry baby? Or fury baby? Would you like to win a contest, you Goddamned beast?”
There was an unseen language between the two—between woman and beast. It was beautiful. It felt forbidden, and I was impressed.
The cat had sleepy eyes, and it was normal.
CAT: “Meow.”
QUEEN: “Oh, cat. How I love you so.”
Cakers put up a smiling finger. “About the baby legs—”
A shriek exploded inside of my throat and I pulled him aside, into the hallway.
“Dung-eating fool! Do NOT ask about THAT. Are you so very off?”
“I had a simple question. Where’s the harm? She seems open about it. I’m interested.”
“We can’t take the chance of her being more unstable. These two have a powerful link.” I looked over my shoulder. “One that we can never understand.”
“I just want to know what happened to the little Samoan child. Is she dead? Did the parents donate her legs? What’s going on?”
“Just as I feared.” I took him by the shoulders, to seem serious. “Listen, you. Does it matter? Really? It’s none of our business. Leave the cat alone.”
“I hate mysteries.”
He was staring into the room.
“She’s kissing that cat now.”
“You are a liar.” I looked into the room. “Yes, so she is—and what of it? I’ve kissed a toddler. It’s the same. Now let’s get back in there and soothe her some more. Then—and only then—do we get her to work her magic. Deal?”
He was silent for a bit, and I became the embodiment of nervousness.
“Come now,” I said. “Don’t be no sucka.”
“Hrmm? Sorry. I was staring at that damn cat…but to you, I say: Deal. I’ll ask nothing of the cat. I won’t be a sucka.”
I watched him, suspiciously, as he walked back into the room. He sat on the bed and the cat leapt onto his lap. Queen cheered.
“Hurray! And all was right in the heavens.”
This was a good sign. She was jolly. If Cakers did anything to upset her, I’d hang him up by his buster browns. The sooner this was over with, the sooner I could have another wonderful, erotic, lucid dream—a dream which I am consciously aware of my surroundings: Morphing a tree into a fine woman, or taking flight to Mars like a mighty ghost. The thought excited me as I stood there, leaning against the doorway.
Queen Pro Amm made her back rigid. Not bad for an old woman, I thought, allowing a tiny smile to rise from the left crack of my opening. She stomped her foot, mastering our attention. She was serious now.
“This problem of yours?”
“Yes,” we said.
“I will aid you.”
Cakers and I let out a sigh of relief and grumbled sounds of joy and shook each other’s hands. We made to shake her hands too, but she raised a silencing pinky. I had much respect for her then. She massaged the underbelly of her cat.
“You must know, I haven’t been in business since that late 70’s, hence my awkward state of mind, and rigid back. People who don’t have much to do start to ‘lose it’, as you young whippersnappers say nowadays. But it was for a good reason, and that reason was or still is…love?” She smiled at us. “Yes. Love. I loved a man once. We had loved each other hard all over. If only he loved my profession and not called me a bitch witch of Satan. Yikes! Yucrain…Yucrain, Yucrain…why did you make me choose?”
Cakers raised his hand.
“Question.”
I pulled his hand down. Queen didn’t notice—her eyes closed and building up that familiar fluid of sadness.
TEARS. As in the stuff that comes out of your eyes, and not what you do to your bills.
“I chose my husband’s love over my career. I promised him that I’d never do it again.” She looked around, mad. “What good is it NOW? Now that you are so dead!” She pulled her cat’s face close to hers. “Oh…Yucrain, Yucrain, Yucrain.” She whipped her head to us—and I saw it all in slow motion, her sweaty hairs slinging blades of cold at my face.
“Use love well. Be friends with it. Respect it. When one does not, it turns on them. It can be one way or the other: Friend or foe. It all depends on how well you practice the instrument. If you remember one thing in life,” she went on, “it be that Love spelt backwards is Evol.”
To my dismay, Cakers opened his mouth. He did it fast, as if knowing I would burst.
“Queen, allow me to guess. Wanton’s full name is Yucrain Wanton. Correct?”
“Yes, in the man’s honor.” She stiffened her elbows and said, “Hey, this was his cat, okay? And I believe that some of my husband’s spirit be riding this cat’s back, watching over me…guiding me, wanting me. I can feel it. It can’t be helped. You are a smart man, Cakers.”
HIM? That bar steward? If it wasn’t for me—keeping him from asking stupid questions—she’d be pissing parasites. I made sure to ask the next question to remain on top of the power pole.
“Does your husband find it right that you help us?”
She looked into the cat’s eyes.
“That’s a no. He still thinks I’m a stinky witch.”
I shook my head.
“I’m sorry. That’s nasty.”
“Don’t be sorry. Same old rules, right? All open holes?”
“You mean the future?”
“Yes, boy…it’s open in so many areas. You just have to choose the one that is right fo
r you—the one that feels good.” She stared at her cat. “So many years, and I’m still a glutton for guilt. Always lousing around….”
I nodded and held out my hand.
“Thank you for helping us. I feel that the strength in you is strong this time.”
She shook my hand.
“I have piles.”
The cat moaned and Queen scolded it.
“See this fist? You won’t be comfortable, I guess.”
She stood and went to the closet…opened it…searched through some boxes…took out a pickaxe…crawled onto her bed…struck the wall and made a mess of a hole…reached in with a furrowed brow…and pulled out a tiny yellow box. Through all of this, Wanton whined and whined.
Queen wiped the white dust from the box, and the excitement within all of us became erect.
I was reminded of a poem.
THREE