Mimi was curiously and incomprehensibly affectionate after she had buttoned up her dress and resumed walking toward the strip of clubs along Richmond Street. She put her hand on his forearm and murmured funny commentary about the outlandishly attired club kids in their plastic cowboy hats, Sailor Moon outfits, and plastic tuxedoes. She plucked a cigarette from his lips, dragged on it, and put it back into his mouth, still damp with her saliva, an act that sent a shiver down Alan’s neck and made the hair on the backs of his hands stand up.She seemed to think that the wings were self-explanatory and needed no further discussion, and Alan was content to let them stay in his mind’s eye, bat-shaped, powerful, restless, surrounded by their gridwork of angry scars.Once they got to the club, Shasta Disaster, a renovated brick bank with robotic halogen spots that swept the sidewalk out front with a throbbing penis logomark, she let go of his arm and her body stiffened. She said something in the doorman’s ear, and he let her pass. When Alan tried to follow her, the bouncer stopped him with a meaty hand on his chest.“Can I help you sir,” he said flatly. He was basically a block of fat and muscle with a head on top, arms as thick as Alan’s thighs barely contained in a silver button-down short-sleeve shirt that bound at his armpits.“Do I pay the cover to you?” Alan asked, reaching for his wallet.“No, you don’t get to pay a cover. You’re not coming in.”“But I’m with her,” Alan said, gesturing in the direction Mimi had gone. “I’m Krishna’s and her neighbor.”“She didn’t mention it,” the bouncer said. He was smirking now.“Look,” Alan said. “I haven’t been to a club in twenty years. Do you guys still take bribes?”The bouncer rolled his eyes. “Some might. I don’t. Why don’t you head home, sir.”“That’s it, huh?” Alan said. “Nothing I can say or do?”“Don’t be a smart guy,” the bouncer said.“Good night, then,” Alan said, and turned on his heel. He walked back up to Queen Street, which was ablaze with TV lights from the open studio out front of the CHUM-City building. Hordes of teenagers in tiny, outrageous outfits milled back and forth from the coffee shops to the studio window, where some band he’d never heard of was performing, generally ambling southward to the clubs. Alan bought himself a coffee with a sixteen-syllable latinate trade name (“Moch-a-latt-a-meraican-a-spress-a-chino,” he liked to call them) at the Second Cup and hailed a taxi.He felt only the shortest moment of anger at Mimi, but it quickly cooled and then warmed again, replaced by bemusement. Decrypting the mystical deeds of young people had been his hobby and avocation since he hired his first cranky-but-bright sixteen-year-old. Mimi had played him, he knew that, deliberately set him up to be humiliated. But she’d also wanted a moment alone with him, an opportunity to confront him with her wings—wings that were taking on an air of the erotic now in his imagination, much to his chagrin. He imagined that they were soft and pliable as lips but with spongy cartilage beneath that gave way like livid nipple flesh. The hair must be silky, soft, and slippery as a pubic thatch oiled with sweat and juices. Dear oh dear, he was really getting himself worked into a lather, imagining the wings drooping to the ground, unfolding powerfully in his living room, encircling him, enveloping him as his lips enveloped the tendons on her neck, as her vagina enveloped him… Whew!The taxi drove right past his place and that gave Alan a much-needed distraction, directing the cabbie through the maze of Kensington Market’s one-way streets back around to his front door. He tipped the cabbie a couple of bucks over his customary ten percent and bummed a cigarette off him, realizing that Mimi had asked him for a butt but never returned the pack.He puffed and shook his head and stared up the street at the distant lights of College Street, then turned back to his porch.“Hello, Albert,” two voices said in unison, speaking from the shadows on his porch.“Jesus,” he said, and hit the remote on his keyring that switched on the porch light. It was his brother Edward, the eldest of the nesting dolls, the bark of their trinity, coarse and tough and hollow. He was even fatter than he’d been as a little boy, fat enough that his arms and legs appeared vestigial and unjointed. He struggled, panting, to his tiny feet—feet like undersized exclamation points beneath the tapered Oh of his body. His face, though doughy, had not gone to undefined softness. Rather, every feature had acquired its own rolls of fat, rolls that warred with one another to define his appearance—nose and cheekbones and brow and lips all grotesque and inflated and blubbery.“Eugene,” Alan said. “It’s been a very long time.”Edward cocked his head. “It has, indeed, big brother. I’ve got bad news.”“What?”Edward leaned to the left, the top half of his body tipping over completely, splitting at his narrow leather belt, so that his trunk, neck, and head hung upside down beside his short, cylindrical legs and tiny feet.Inside of him was Frederick, the perennial middle child. Frederick planted his palms on the dry, smooth edges of his older brother’s waist and levered himself up, stepping out of Ed’s legs with the unconscious ease of a lifetime’s practice. “It’s good to see you, Andy,” he said. He was pale and wore his habitual owlish expression of surprise at seeing the world without looking through his older brother’s eyes.“It’s nice to see you, too, Frederick,” Alan said. He’d always gotten along with Frederick, always liked his ability to play peacemaker and to lend a listening ear.Frederick helped Edward upright, methodically circumnavigating his huge belly, retucking his grimy white shirt. Then he hitched up his sweatshirt over the hairy pale expanse of his own belly and tipped to one side.Alan had been expecting to see Gregory, the core, but instead, there was nothing inside Frederick. The Gregory-shaped void was empty. Frederick righted himself and hitched up his belt.“We think he’s dead,” Edward said, his rubbery features distorted into a Greek tragedy mask. “We think that Doug killed him.” He pinwheeled his round arms and then clapped his hands to his face, sobbing. Frederick put a hand on his arm. He, too, was crying.
Mimi was curiously and incomprehensibly affectionate after she had buttoned up her dress and resumed walking toward the strip of clubs along Richmond Street. She put her hand on his forearm and murmured funny commentary about the outlandishly attired club kids in their plastic cowboy hats, Sailor Moon outfits, and plastic tuxedoes. She plucked a cigarette from his lips, dragged on it, and put it back into his mouth, still damp with her saliva, an act that sent a shiver down Alan’s neck and made the hair on the backs of his hands stand up.
She seemed to think that the wings were self-explanatory and needed no further discussion, and Alan was content to let them stay in his mind’s eye, bat-shaped, powerful, restless, surrounded by their gridwork of angry scars.
Once they got to the club, Shasta Disaster, a renovated brick bank with robotic halogen spots that swept the sidewalk out front with a throbbing penis logomark, she let go of his arm and her body stiffened. She said something in the doorman’s ear, and he let her pass. When Alan tried to follow her, the bouncer stopped him with a meaty hand on his chest.
“Can I help you sir,” he said flatly. He was basically a block of fat and muscle with a head on top, arms as thick as Alan’s thighs barely contained in a silver button-down short-sleeve shirt that bound at his armpits.
“Do I pay the cover to you?” Alan asked, reaching for his wallet.
“No, you don’t get to pay a cover. You’re not coming in.”
“But I’m with her,” Alan said, gesturing in the direction Mimi had gone. “I’m Krishna’s and her neighbor.”
“She didn’t mention it,” the bouncer said. He was smirking now.
“Look,” Alan said. “I haven’t been to a club in twenty years. Do you guys still take bribes?”
The bouncer rolled his eyes. “Some might. I don’t. Why don’t you head home, sir.”
“That’s it, huh?” Alan said. “Nothing I can say or do?”
“Don’t be a smart guy,” the bouncer said.
“Good night, then,” Alan said, and turned on his heel. He walked back up to Queen Street, which was ablaze with TV lights from the open studio out front of the CHUM-City building. Hordes of teenagers in tiny, outrageous outfits milled back and forth from the coffee shops to the studio window, where some band he’d never heard of was performing, generally ambling southward to the clubs. Alan bought himself a coffee with a sixteen-syllable latinate trade name (“Moch-a-latt-a-meraican-a-spress-a-chino,” he liked to call them) at the Second Cup and hailed a taxi.
He felt only the shortest moment of anger at Mimi, but it quickly cooled and then warmed again, replaced by bemusement. Decrypting the mystical deeds of young people had been his hobby and avocation since he hired his first cranky-but-bright sixteen-year-old. Mimi had played him, he knew that, deliberately set him up to be humiliated. But she’d also wanted a moment alone with him, an opportunity to confront him with her wings—wings that were taking on an air of the erotic now in his imagination, much to his chagrin. He imagined that they were soft and pliable as lips but with spongy cartilage beneath that gave way like livid nipple flesh. The hair must be silky, soft, and slippery as a pubic thatch oiled with sweat and juices. Dear oh dear, he was really getting himself worked into a lather, imagining the wings drooping to the ground, unfolding powerfully in his living room, encircling him, enveloping him as his lips enveloped the tendons on her neck, as her vagina enveloped him… Whew!
The taxi drove right past his place and that gave Alan a much-needed distraction, directing the cabbie through the maze of Kensington Market’s one-way streets back around to his front door. He tipped the cabbie a couple of bucks over his customary ten percent and bummed a cigarette off him, realizing that Mimi had asked him for a butt but never returned the pack.
He puffed and shook his head and stared up the street at the distant lights of College Street, then turned back to his porch.
“Hello, Albert,” two voices said in unison, speaking from the shadows on his porch.
“Jesus,” he said, and hit the remote on his keyring that switched on the porch light. It was his brother Edward, the eldest of the nesting dolls, the bark of their trinity, coarse and tough and hollow. He was even fatter than he’d been as a little boy, fat enough that his arms and legs appeared vestigial and unjointed. He struggled, panting, to his tiny feet—feet like undersized exclamation points beneath the tapered Oh of his body. His face, though doughy, had not gone to undefined softness. Rather, every feature had acquired its own rolls of fat, rolls that warred with one another to define his appearance—nose and cheekbones and brow and lips all grotesque and inflated and blubbery.
“Eugene,” Alan said. “It’s been a very long time.”
Edward cocked his head. “It has, indeed, big brother. I’ve got bad news.”
“What?”
Edward leaned to the left, the top half of his body tipping over completely, splitting at his narrow leather belt, so that his trunk, neck, and head hung upside down beside his short, cylindrical legs and tiny feet.
Inside of him was Frederick, the perennial middle child. Frederick planted his palms on the dry, smooth edges of his older brother’s waist and levered himself up, stepping out of Ed’s legs with the unconscious ease of a lifetime’s practice. “It’s good to see you, Andy,” he said. He was pale and wore his habitual owlish expression of surprise at seeing the world without looking through his older brother’s eyes.
“It’s nice to see you, too, Frederick,” Alan said. He’d always gotten along with Frederick, always liked his ability to play peacemaker and to lend a listening ear.
Frederick helped Edward upright, methodically circumnavigating his huge belly, retucking his grimy white shirt. Then he hitched up his sweatshirt over the hairy pale expanse of his own belly and tipped to one side.
Alan had been expecting to see Gregory, the core, but instead, there was nothing inside Frederick. The Gregory-shaped void was empty. Frederick righted himself and hitched up his belt.
“We think he’s dead,” Edward said, his rubbery features distorted into a Greek tragedy mask. “We think that Doug killed him.” He pinwheeled his round arms and then clapped his hands to his face, sobbing. Frederick put a hand on his arm. He, too, was crying.