Ghosted - A Novel Part 27

Oh they smile so shy And they flirt so well And they lay you down so fast Till you look straight up and say Oh Lord, am I really here at last?

THE SIXTH.

NO MORE INTRODUCTIONS.

59.

THE B BOOK OF H HANDYMANAt the hospital I learned a satisfying acronym:Skin Connective tissue Aponeurosis Loose areolar tissue PericraniumThe doctors didn't even try to save mine. They said there'd been so much blood loss that the flesh-though still attached to the back of my head-had died. It would have to be removed. What they meant, of course, was that it just hadn't been worth the effort. Instead of letting it die, they'd have had to wash it, sterilize it and sew it all back down. And who the h.e.l.l cared? My legion of fans? Johnny Cupcake in cell block 6? Nah, they'd keep on love-love-loving me anyway."You can wear a hat," said the man-child of a doctor, as if that might never have occurred to me. Then he brought in some colleagues to gawk at my open head.One of the doctors-by the looks of it, a twelve-year-old Chinese boy-had seen this happen before: a woman in a car crash, and the steering wheel sliced her scalp in a line across the front, peeling it right to the back of her head. He said it was called "degloving."I said, "Wouldn't detoqueing make more sense?" The Oriental kid laughed, and the others looked like they hadn't realized I was conscious. "So what happened to her?""We spent like hours cleaning under her scalp with soap and water, then it took forever to sew it back down ...""Aha!" I said, looking at my doctor, who, minutes earlier, had been holding my scalp in one hand, a pair of scissors in the other. He avoided my eyes. "So there we have it: a soccer mom's scalp is worth more than mine?" The Chinese doc laughed nervously, someone else coughed. "Or maybe the other way round, hey?" I turned to Doogie Howser: "What were you planning to do-sell my scalp on eBay? Mark my words, kemo sabe, when I leave here the top of my head's coming with me."And that's what happened: two days later they gave me a paper to sign and put my scalp in a Ziploc bag, then a cardboard box. One of the guards held it in his lap as we drove back to the prison. He thought it was medication. I was wearing a Kingston issue toque, and halfway to the pen I said, "That's the top of my head you got there." He looked at me like he was bored. I said, "Go ahead and take my hat off: you'll see." After a few moments he put the box on the floor at his feet. I looked at the top of his head, trying to figure out how best to scalp him. It had never occurred to me how fun that would be.S-C-A-L-P, find out what it means to me!Sock it to me, sock it to me ...

Mason s.h.i.+vered beneath the hot sun, felt his own scalp crawling. Gas Station Joanie was inside the store, calling the tow truck driver again. She came out, two cans of beer in one hand. "Whatcha reading?"

"You don't want to know."

She shrugged and pa.s.sed him one of the beers. "The tow truck guy's being complicated. Says a Dogmobile's not a real kind of car and he doesn't know when he can get here. Whatever happens, it'll cost you."

"Figured it would." He'd tried to talk to the tow truck guy himself, but it hadn't gone very well. "Isn't there someone else?"

"Round here? You got somewhere to be?"

Mason opened the can of beer. "No idea."

"That's a weird answer."

He tipped the can towards her.

"Cheers," she said. "Don't worry-I won't bug you. We'll have us a drink, then I'll leave you to your reading."

THE B BOOK OF H HANDYMa.n.a.lthough Larry says he's not reading this, he seems right f.u.c.king edgy about something.I handed it in for his "perusal." At our next session he put it on the table between us and tried to look me in the eye, but his gaze fell fast and he was staring at my chest. "What's up, Mr. White," I said to him. "You checking out my t.i.tties?" I said it in that same voice I'd been using since the day I met him-kinda stupid, sort of naive, almost accidentally rude. We'll call it my first-page voice.He took a moment, then said, "Remember-you can call me Larry."I've got to hand it to him; that was just great: you can call me Larry! He started babbling about how it was good to see that I'd taken his advice, and that writing was a constructive thing to do. But I had this vision forming:Larry the Fat b.i.t.c.h is in his office. He's taken off his jacket and is looking particularly ugly in a sweaty beige checkered s.h.i.+rt. He stops for a moment to contemplate his likeness to a hideous overweight woman. Pus.h.i.+ng the thought away makes him twitch. He reaches down and pulls a brown notebook from his briefcase. He starts to read. And now, in my vision, his thoughts form in a bubble over his fat head, as would those of a particularly ugly comic book character."Ah, yes. Poor Seth Handyman. Can't write any better than he talks: the semi-coherent, childish ramblings of an idiot. Maybe with a bit of time, though, and my help of course, he can learn to access things, process his thoughts. I could write a paper about it. Oh look, there's my name!" And then Larry turns the page.And oh, what's this?Fat Larry starts to shake.The sweaty patches spread across his ugly s.h.i.+rt. He breathes quickly-and then, reading on, the words fill his brain like smoke fills a lung. He coughs, then retches.When he's finished there are two thought bubbles over his head. One says, "Holy s.h.i.+t, that man can write!" The other says, "He's going to scalp my fat ugly head!""If Larry White knows what's rightHe'd better keep his mouth shut tightSing Larry White (Larry White)Sing Larry White (Larry White)It's all right (It's all riiiiight)."

The thing about reading this f.u.c.ked-up c.r.a.p-it took his mind off Sissy.

But is the book going to last the rest of your life?

The sun was starting to sink in the sky.

"Still nothing." Gas Station Joanie was leaning in the doorway. "There's a bus goes by the junction to the county road. It'd take you into Barrie."

"Just leave the Dogmobile?"

"They got other tow trucks in Barrie."

"Well, why don't we call one?"

"Not their district." She came out of the shadow and looked at the empty road.

"What time's the bus at?"

"Five-thirty," said Jonie. "It's almost five now. I'd give you a ride, but I've just got the scooter." She pointed at it, parked beside the tin-can building-small and orange. He couldn't imagine how she fit on it.

And so Mason gave up on the tow truck man. He said goodbye to Gas Station Joanie, paid her for the beers, and headed back to the county road. He'd been up for thirty-six hours, killed the Dogmobile, stranded himself-and all for what?

For nothing.

When he got to the highway he checked his cellphone again. Still no reception, and it was past 5:30-no bus to be seen. His mouth felt full of sawdust. He sat down and drank a bottle of water. His hollow body ached, the air around him dry. Naught for company but the ramblings of a disturbed convict.

THE B BOOK OF H HANDYMANA few notable things have happened of late. Firstly, our dear friend Larry has greatly impressed me-so much, in fact, that I will refrain, for the time being, from referring to him as Larry the Ugly b.i.t.c.h (that he remains an ugly b.i.t.c.h is, for now, unimportant). I a.s.sumed that he was a coward and that upon "perusing" my latest journal submission he would (a) hand it over to the warden, (b) refuse to counsel me any more, (c) quit his job and spend his time wetting himself in lieu of jacking off.But wrong I was, on all counts. Fat Larry has handed me back this notebook, which suggests one of two things: (1) he was honest about not reading what I wrote, or (2) he is being a man for once in his girly life. Either way, good for him. Although nervous, he managed to mumble for a while, then said he'd like me to "go back further now-and write about other things."Which brings me to notable thing the second. In this prison-a terrible, s.h.i.+tty place, filled with ugly pa.s.sion but no succulence-I've rediscovered something I truly enjoy: I like to write. It feels f.u.c.king good. And for that I thank Larry.Thirdly, there's this: according to the charter, my internment is meant to be rehabilitation rather than punishment, yet I've been here four and half years, convicted of horrible crimes, and it wasn't until someone lopped off the top of my head that I was deemed f.u.c.ked-up enough for personal therapy. It's wondrous, really; the system understands exactly how I feel: more for my scalp than for my sins.And the final thing to note is our calendar.In just two more months I'll be up for parole.

It was past six o'clock. The bus hadn't come and Mason was having trouble reading. His brain was boiling from the heat of the day, the drugs and exhaustion. A car drove by. Ten minutes later, another, and neither of them stopped-like he wasn't even there.

But he knew that he was-he could tell by the mosquitoes. They were feasting on him now, buzzing around his ears. He slapped at them, blood streaking his fingers. His scalp was crawling, his skin burning as they swarmed.

The Lak-of Fir-is real!

And now he was up and running, back towards Utopia.

51. I would rather do karaoke than sing in the shower.

52. Good things never come in threes.

The scooter was gone, the gas station closed. He looked at the sign on the door: Hours of Operation: 9 a.m. to 6 p.m., except when I feel different.

He'd never seen a business referred to in the first person singular before. And now it occurred to him: he hadn't asked her a thing about herself-just kept on taking her beers, listening to those hoo-hoo-hoos hoo-hoo-hoos-couldn't say if she was happy or dying of loneliness. He sat down next to a gas pump, a lamp buzzing overhead, the deep yellow glow. Did the bus even exist?

At least the mosquitoes were gone. Maybe the smell of gasoline kept them away.

Maybe, maybe, and f.u.c.king maybe.

Who f.u.c.king knows?

He leaned against the pump awhile, waiting for sleep or nothing. He thought of Sissy. Soon and Sarah. Warren and w.i.l.l.y. Then he pulled out the G.o.dd.a.m.n notebook.

THE B BOOK OF H HANDYMAN"If Larry White's b.u.t.t was tight I'd f.u.c.k it hard with all my might Sing Larry White (Larry White) Sing Larry White (Larry White) It's alright (It's aalllriiight)"Aw, I'm just kidding. But that's a f.u.c.king great word, isn't it? Alllriiiight. You listen to good rock 'n' roll-say some Velvet Underground-and there is no greater attainment than alright alright. That's all you can hope for, and you'll do anything to get it-drugs, s.e.x and violence all night, and then anything at all to feel alright alright, more and more till nirvana. Nirvana feels alright. I feel alright. Lou Reed feels alright. Steve Earle feels alright. And finally Kurt Cobain feels alright.But sometimes it takes a lot.Okay, picture this: it's three o' clock in the afternoon, April 8, 1994. I'm sitting in my brother's living room, drinking beer and listening to In Utero In Utero. I've been doing this since I turned off the TV. No one else is home. This morning an electrician found Kurt in his own guesthouse. On the floor next to him was a shotgun, a suicide note and a large part of his head. So I'm f.u.c.king angry-and with each turn of In Utero In Utero I'm getting angrier. This alb.u.m used to get me off without too much risk, make me feel "alright." But now he's ruined it for me-and it's not like he'll be making any more of them.... I'm getting angrier. This alb.u.m used to get me off without too much risk, make me feel "alright." But now he's ruined it for me-and it's not like he'll be making any more of them....When I see her through the window, "Heart-Shaped Box" is playing. I see her red socks, and make my decision fast-up and out the door. I reach the sidewalk in front of the yard at the same time she does. Then, just like that, I pick her up, like a little bunny. She is remarkably light, I move fast, and we're up the stairs before she starts to scream. I close the door behind us.The screaming is distracting. I'm trying to cover her mouth and I drag her over to my brother's toolbox, but by the time I've found the duct tape and stretched it over her teeth I can barely feel my p.r.i.c.k. So I push her onto the carpet facing up, and kneel on her little arms.When she struggles, her pigtails whip back and forth, her eyes flooding over. I reach my hand under her Care Bear T-s.h.i.+rt and pull at her tiny nipples. They're hard. The opening riff to "Rape Me" is playing as she writhes beneath me. It looks like she's moving to the music; I f.u.c.king love that, and start to s...o...b..r. "You're going to like this song, baby," I say ... and by the time our Kurt (half his head missing) has reached the song's end, I am deep inside her-the first man ever, and probably the last.I did everything to that little bunny-stopping only to turn over the record. At one point I got tired, so I poured a full beer into her. When the bottle was all the way in I took off the tape so I could hear her screaming. When it turned back to sobs I said, "Tell me your name and how old you are." Then I said, "If you don't, I will break this bottle inside you." It took a while, but eventually she said, "My name is Becky. I'll be eight next week.""That means you're seven," I said, and filled her mouth with her underwear. It had blue ducks and blood on it. I taped it all in and got back to it-her body bouncing and twitching like a spastic f.u.c.king Care Bear.And I've got to tell you: by the time we were done, I loved In Utero In Utero again. I loved that f.u.c.king alb.u.m, and I felt Alright. again. I loved that f.u.c.king alb.u.m, and I felt Alright.

60.

The sad, drunk stranger had left hours ago, staggering up the road, but now Sissy Follow heard something outside. She opened the front door. There was a commotion in the stables-the beating of hooves, whinnying. She went back to get the rifle, then headed towards the barn. The sky was dark, just a faint glow on the horizon, stars appearing like in pinhole cameras.

She pulled back the barn door and could see right away what was missing: a blanket, saddle and bridle. She entered the paddocks. Silver, her s.h.i.+ning white stallion, was gone. In the sawdust lay a piece of paper: I am sorry, Sissy, for everything.

61.

He was riding a white horse, leaving Utopia behind.

There are a number of ways to see it, and just as many to say it: You could say he'd been galloping like this for five long years, a ghost rider chasing him. You could say he had a monkey on his back, or an albatross or a drug-addled chimpanzee. You could say he was on the back of a stolen horse, carrying a bag of secrets.

He can see Sarah's hair, s.h.i.+mmering in the moonlight as they race across the plains. He leans forward, thumping the horse's broad neck with his open hand. He feels a great love for the animal, the night sky, the dizzying, rumbling speed-chasing something and also chased. This is where he is supposed to be, racing in the silver light-ready to fly or fall.

You could see it as a metaphor or a cheap cosmic joke. But this much you'd have have to see: the branches to see: the branches were were whipping his face, the stirrups whipping his face, the stirrups were were a bit uneven, the hooves a bit uneven, the hooves were were thundering beneath him. He thundering beneath him. He was was on the back of a white horse-five years ago and now again-drunk, high and full of purpose. on the back of a white horse-five years ago and now again-drunk, high and full of purpose.

He pulled out his cellphone.

Still no reception.

On his back was a pack.

In the backpack, a notebook.

He had read it front to back.

Faster, man!

Turning his head, he caught a glimpse of wings. He leaned forward and dug in his heels.

Giddy f.u.c.king up!

THE B BOOK OF H HANDYMANI'm worried about Larry the Fat b.i.t.c.h. I might have judged him too highly. He did return this notebook to me, but with hesitation. And I'm pretty sure I could see little Becky the Bunny in his eyes.That always cracks me up: as if my situation has anything to do with her. It didn't even have to be a little girl. It might have been anybody that day-a fat, girlish-looking man with pit stains, who just happened to waddle into the light at the right time, a short necktie instead of red socks ... or not a person at all; a new drug could have fallen from the sky, G.o.d might have risen up and licked my b.a.l.l.s with a tongue of pure sensation-any of those things might have worked right then. It was a small f.u.c.king moment.Fatty's eyes are only full of little Becky since she's who I chose to write about-and that's only because I was busted for that one. It's not like I'm copping to anything new, or threatening anyone-that would be stupid, especially so close to my parole hearing.Speaking of which, I'm sure, despite his worrisome sputtering, Larry will testify courageously on my behalf. There's really no reason not to; they'll let me free eventually. They tried to kill me and failed, might even try again-but someday I'll walk out of here, my f.u.c.ked-up head held high.I trust he'll remember that.

It's hard to think when you're moving like this. A misstep in the moonlight can send you flying. But he is already flying-so that, too, is hard to keep in mind, and eventually he stops trying. What good is thinking? Better just to keep moving. Every moment he holds on is another he doesn't fall. That is the meaning of everything: the bliss of adrenaline, gambling, horseback and drugs.

The white horse, whinnies. He can feel it, too.

Mason held the reins in one hand and his cellphone in the other, still riding through the dead zone. There were too many races being run-he could feel the aching of a distant satellite, his animal tiring, the battery dying. Ahead was the city, the cellular network-but before that, a cliff. He could sense it in the moonlit darkness. It was as real as Sissy or Circe or Sarah, as real as the Man in the Black Helmet, as real as those evasive cellular waves, as real as w.i.l.l.y's left side and right. It was time time that was false, or at least horribly skewed. that was false, or at least horribly skewed.

You're running out of time.

THE B BOOK OF H HANDYMANDig it:"In seven days, Prisoner Seth x.x.xx.x.x shall be released into the custody of Sudden Street Halfway House where, for the next 42 days, he will be confined. During this time he will begin a med/ psych program. If after 42 days Prisoner x.x.xx.x.x is responding favourably to treatment, it may be deemed acceptable to begin curfew, to general parole."So says the Man.The week before Christmas I will walk out of here. And in a bag I'll carry two things: this notebook and the top of my head.Oh, happy day ...

Maybe even without the danger ahead, the waves of adrenaline, the volatile speed of riding horseback-without the horse's breath like wisps of fog, the sleep deprivation and all the drugs and booze-maybe even without all that it would have been dreamlike: he had been riding, after all, for five long years, or maybe forever. He tried to think clearly.

Text requires less.

He flicked open his phone.

Less power, less reception.

As he rode, Mason typed with one thumb: w.i.l.l.y's life in danger! Get her somewhere safe! w.i.l.l.y's life in danger! Get her somewhere safe!

But he couldn't send the message.

Get out of the dead zone.

The battery was dying.

Send the f.u.c.king message!

He couldn't get reception. He closed the phone and gripped the reins, his boot heels digging in. They hit another speed, racing through the night-horse and rider, demons on their backs.

THE B BOOK OF H HANDYMANThings I've Doneby Seth HandymanI was born, as were most of us, from a b.l.o.o.d.y s.h.i.+tty c.u.n.t.I opened my eyes, still dripping.I saw everything.I did things typically, unknowing, and it felt f.u.c.king good.I spent my allowance on budgies and tore off their wings.I spent the rest on candy and ate it.I watched everything carefully.I stole gum from purses, magazines from doorsteps.I worked on my muscles, lured dogs from neighbouring yards and cut off their ears, then t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es. Learned fast I'd be shunned-didn't mind the cliche: just the getting caught, and more the f.u.c.king punishment. That felt like losing.I turned ten, pushed a whiny boy named Brian off the jungle gym headfirst down the hole for the fireman's pole. He was concussed, I cried, people took care of me. It was the best birthday ever, and a week later I got another-for mine had been ruined. Sadly Brian survived, and became even more neurotic.I killed two swans and tried to tie their necks in a knot-it was tougher than you might think.I beat a crossing guard's daughter with her own shoes, blackening her eyes.Went to juvenile detention.I did a lot of drugs, sold a lot of drugs and mixed them together-into new drugs, then sold those. I convinced a male nurse to f.u.c.k me, then I beat him with a flashlight.I travelled. I read books. I wrote. I dove into ca.n.a.ls. I threw empty bottles from rooftops, cars colliding in the street below.I stopped travelling, became a DJ, raped a girl with red socks, rediscovered rock 'n' roll, decided not to kill her, then hit the road again.I studied Buddhism.Drank a lot.I tied a boy named Jeffrey to a furnace and peed on him for three days while eating strawberries, drinking gin and raping him.I rolled drunks to buy drinks for drifters. I singed their eyelids with cigarettes.I loved life, took what I could, was imprisoned for it, yet remained optimistic.Then, all of a sudden, I was released.And moved to a place called Sudden House-I became once more, for the most part, free. Free to be me, to live and love and write.I enjoy the writing more each day. In fact, I came on this page.And now I'll try it again.For I am an optimist: coming, coming ... Oh, I am a poet.

On a quiet night, there is profound rhythm to the hooves and breath of a strong horse. It moves upwards through the rider's gut and changes the beat of his heart, the tenor of his own breathing. Wind made of speed rushes past their ears. The horse and rider breathe together, drum rolling across the earth-hooves thudding and clicking-until the sound is like a message.

Down the cliff. Down the cliff.

You'll never make it.

Down the cliff.

Hooves and breath. Hooves and breath.

A book on your back like a monkey junkie.

And the dark rider knows: somewhere out in front of him, the Earth gives way to nothing.

THE B BOOK OF H HANDYMANI think what's funny is people trying to figure things out. They try to figure me out as if I'm like them. Pathetic. I don't give a f.u.c.k, as in I got no empathy, a.s.shole! Get it? But they try to get me by trying to relate to me. I don't f.u.c.king relate! I do what makes me feel good. Period. Empathize with that, you p.u.s.s.y! If I were someone else, I'd just beat the s.h.i.+t out of me if it made me feel better instead of trying to understand. But people are just p.u.s.s.ies and a.s.sholes. And I f.u.c.ked them.f.u.c.k!

62.

THE B BOOK OF H HANDYMANYou may notice that the last few pages have been torn out. There is a reason for that-just as there is a reason I have not written anything for the past four months. There is also a reason that I am writing this now-and it is NOT because I enjoy it. In fact I find this painful. It has taken me almost half an hour to write these f.u.c.king sentences, and they're not even good. I am no longer a poet. But I will persevere, and explain all of this, for the sake of reason. I'm not saying this will be an engaging read. The writing is not good. But you must pay attention. I am writing this for you.And keep in mind: even poorly written words can change your life. These are the ones that changed mine:"Condition of Parole, Medical: progesterone treatment (injection q. 14 days) under force of law."At first glance the sentence doesn't seem too bad-other than it is incomplete and some of the words are confusing. But don't be fooled, it's a doozy-full of ugliness, hopelessness and death. It can be found in paragraph four, page 11, of Seth Handyman's "Conditions of Release," a work I should have read more carefully.Progesterone is a female s.e.x hormone that suppresses androgen through shutting down the pituitary axis. This, in turn, stops the production of testosterone.The side effects of progesterone are as follows: decreased libido, decreased creativity, extreme depression. Simply put: I have been legally, chemically castrated.And as it turns out, the key to life is not acceptance or love or balance: it is testosterone. Without it there is nothing: no sensation, so no desire, so no reason to do anything-to eat or drink or f.u.c.k or write. No incentive to choose one word over another. But it's more than that-or should I say less?If I look out the window, what do I see? A tree, two squirrels, a plastic garbage container, a brick, a man with a brown cap, three cars, a woman in a blue dress, an orange pylon. To me they're all exactly the same. It's not just that my sense of compet.i.tion is gone-it's that all compet.i.tion is gone from the universe, so that nothing vies for attention. The woman is the pylon is the tree is the brick. And so why write, when one word describes it all: ugly ugly.U-G-L-Y.You ain't got no alibi.Yer ugly. Yer ugly.And it's all yer fault.So you see, with that one incomplete sentence-"Condition of Parole ..."-I was robbed of everything: music, books, s.e.x, power, pomegranates, women, pylons, trees and bricks.In the end, fat Larry f.u.c.ked me-gave me freedom and took away my life. I, Seth Handyman: brought down by a girl's s.e.x hormone.