Authors: Set Sytes
I think we all do, maybe. I don’t know.
Yeah, I know man. I don’t know either. Red let out a long sigh that was half yawn and half exhaustion from life and Mr White had to fight the urge to yawn himself.
A drink? Mr White offered.
Red grinned at last, and twirled his feet something ridiculous, whisking them around like the blades of a chopper or like some terrible breakdance until he fell off the bed and rolled to his feet where he stood up laughing a little. You buyin? he asked, his eyes shining. Yeah you are. I’m gonna find me some real hot ass tonight. Needs fuckin must.
Mr White wondered how he could go straight back into it after his troubled rant, but he guessed the rant itself answered that one.
Frustrations?
said Mr White, smiling a little sadly.
Always, buddy. Always.
BAR
They went to the bar, Red telling dirty jokes and laughing along the way, while Mr White smiled, happy that Red was in a better mood. When they arrived he ordered Red a drink as prompted, and Red ordered two more for himself.
The feeling of relief in another’s lifted spirits soon changed.
Red got drunk quickly, very quickly. He did not stay in Mr White’s company but moved about trying to pick up girls. Within a couple of hours sat watching him Mr White couldn’t bear the sight. Red seemed desperate, a strange, lost dog, shot down by girl after girl in his frustration. All charm seemed a caricature, his grin almost pained, his laughter hysterical, his tomfoolery causing others to shake their heads out of embarrassment on his behalf, or pity, or contempt or disgust. To say Red was trying too hard was an understatement. Mr White could not say whether the observation was more cringing or depressing.
After two hours Mr White left Red to it and retur
ned to the hotel, feeling defeated on Red’s behalf, as if somehow tied to his soul, if there was indeed a part of Red that was acknowledging his own failings that night.
HOTEL
I think I’m a bad person White, Red said, his head lowered and his hands rubbing over the sides of his face, contorting his cheeks about like a waxwork and his eyes all bleary and downcast. He had returned two hours later from the bar, looking drunk and tired but not altogether insensible. Mr White correctly judged he must have stopped drinking, perhaps run out of money. He came in and sat down with abject weariness on the floor, his back against the wall and his legs splayed, looking sorry for himself.
Mr White looked over at him. Why do you think that?
Cause I am. Red sighed. Sometimes I think I’m even worse than Johnny.
Don’t be crazy.
I mean it. I mean, Johnny is cold and rational or thinks he is and does things according to some bullshit purpose. I’m a man of passion. I should be doin good. Johnny does all this extreme stuff right, stuff you kinda can’t comprehend, kinda don’t even fit on the scale of good and evil, it’s just somethin way out there right? Like some bushwhacker way out there on the plains on his own in some storm. I’d say Johnny’s got no morality at all, that he just like observes it from afar as though it’s somethin fuckin foreign and amusin, but he does. You ever see him hold a door open for a girl? Or all these little other things he does. He’s got manners and such forth. I reckon he’s got this, this appetiser of good morals he carries around with him on a big silver platter, and the big fuck-off main course of killin is somethin different, and he hides it with this appetiser on a platter. Or like some necktie and clean shirt to try and disguise the fact he’s covered in blood. It’s like he thinks he can stave off judgement. If he prances about doing all these little bits of goodness it’ll distract everone from the death and keep him on the fuckin right.
Mr White tried to imagine Johnny Black
prancing, and shook his head. How does this make him better than you?
I dunno, Red sighed.
I mean, it’s like he’s a nice guy somewhere. I mean he’s a psychopath of course, but a nice one. Ah fuck, what am I sayin. He’s psychotic. But he’s off the scale. He ain’t even human. That’s what makes me worse. I’m as human as they come and what have I done with it? I done bad things, that’s what.
You never struck me as having d
one anything really bad.
Maybe, maybe not. It’s little things become big things. I bet Johnny never lies. I bet Johnny stays true on all the little things, but it’s th
e little things that’ll fuckin get you. Red glanced at Mr White and his face looked sad and red and beaten. Did you see that chick come outta my room in District Twelve? You know the one.
Yeah.
She was cryin a lot.
Yeah.
That’s what I mean man. She was kinda drunk, well so was I, and I persuaded her to cheat on her long-term boyfriend. I persuaded her and I persuaded her and it weren’t hard and I fucked her. When we were all done she wouldn’t stop cryin, I mean really sobbin her little heart out. You know what I did? Fuckin nothin. What could I do? I were the son of a bitch who’d got her into this in the first place. I just sat there sayin nothin doin nothin starin at the wall. All about me she is gatherin her clothes and puttin them on and cryin black makeup down her face and I’m just sittin watchin the wall.
Red
crawled to the mattress and lay on it and smeared his face with his hands. He pulled the blanket over him. Then he turned to his side, away from Mr White, and he looked at the wall just as he’d said he’d done.
Did you want to do something?
asked Mr White softly.
More than anythin,
said Red, and his words were muffled and cracked. He curled up in the blanket like he was much younger than his years. You know how I told you that my brain just asks me if I give a fuck, and I never do. Well that’s a fuckin lie. I give ten tons of fucks, at least I do when I’m not fuckin turned on. I wish I didn’t. I wish to hell I didn’t, but I do man. I wanted to hug that bitch so goddamn hard, but what could I do? What could I fuckin do. I was the son of a bitch. And I been it all my life. And I didn’t feel nothin for her, nothin but guilt and pity. Pity that she let a bastard like me into her life.
You could change, said Mr White quietly. He felt sad, but more than that he felt confused
and distant. As though he relied on Red to guide him through this world. To tell him that the real things were fake and the fake things real. That nothing was true except what was believed to be.
Yeah?
Red said bitterly. If I wanted to, right? But there’s too much of me don’t want to. I can’t change man. I got this illness in me and I’m all torn up inside. Y’know, I push everthin into bein as sexual as it can be, and it’s like I wanna live in a world where everone fucks everone. Where everone cheats on everone. Where everone is a stinkin bastard and bitch and nobody cares and everbody fucks like pigs and nobody fuckin cares. And if I weren’t feelin such a sorry cunt right now I’d be fuckin turned on just by that.
Fuck.
Red sniffed and moved a hand up to his face, seemed to scratch it or something and then moved it back down to his side. He shifted his weight about as though it was a dead weight and his body was something to lug sullenly around and connected to his mind only by a thin chain.
I’ve led a good life, he said at last. But I done a lot of bad things. Can you be a good man and do bad things?
Sure you can, said Mr White soothingly.
It’s the intent that makes the man, not the actions. He wasn’t sure if he believed this or not, but he said it anyway.
I
been lyin mostly. That’s the real sin ain’t it. The world breaks down from it. What kinda world is it where a guy can lie? One of betrayal. There’s no trust in anythin and it’s cause of people like me. No wonder Johnny hates me.
Johnny likes you. In fact I bet he’d warm to you a fair
bit more if he heard all this.
Red sniffed again.
Yeah, he’s got a funny way of showin it.
He’s got no way of
showing it. It’s just his way.
Yeah. Well.
I don’t get him at all. I don’t get why he does all that shit. How he can kill someone, just, just for its own sake, y’know? Just for the fuckin fun of it.
I don’t think that’s why he does it.
What then.
Mr White paused, feeling the wretched sadness in Red’s voice.
He looked down at him. I think he knows that the best anybody can be is when they’re dying.
Red didn’t say anything for a
while. Then, How’d you mean?
Mr White shrugged. Just that. I don’t think he’s got any hope in humanity but for that. Seeing the best in someone. When they finally come true. Nothing else matters then, I guess.
Mr White climbed
under his sheets and stripped. Come on, off to sleep with you. You’ll feel better tomorrow.
Alright.
Red took off his blanket and sat up and pulled his boots off, and fell back down. He sat up again and then stood up, looking at the window. His hands were clenching and unclenching. Mr White looked at him and his face was pained and confused. As though held by some secret agony. He stood that way for a minute and just when Mr White was about to say something his face dropped to nothing and he laid himself like an old man back down on the mattress and turned himself away once more.
He let out a deep, long sigh, as if the world had betrayed him.
I don’t know how to live White. I don’t know to live a good life. I mean what’s a man without lies? How can you go through life and not lie? Ain’t a single person anywhere that could do that. He coughed to himself and then added, like the afterthought of a child, Life is hard.
Mr White looked at the back of Red and felt really sorry for him. He knew that maybe he shouldn’t but he did. He looked like an animal that had lost its mother. He wanted to hug Red but he didn’t. He didn’t know why he felt so sorry, he couldn’t put real words to it, but it
was as if Red was not a man but some broken idea, some sense of freedom lost and betrayed and tethered in the name of goodness, in the name of some fucking thing. There was once a man called freedom, and the man had been forced to live.
Minutes dragged by in silence and they both settled further into bed. At one point Mr White thought he heard a muffled sob, but when he opened his eyes and listened intently he heard nothing more. He fell to sleep.
Mr White woke up some indeterminable time later, as if roused by some sou
nd, like the shutting of a door. He looked around blurrily, muddled. Red was gone. No thoughts passed through his dream-addled mind, and in his tiredness his eyes dropped shut again and in the morning he would have no memory of this waking.
STREET
Red moved slowly through the district. He did not make eye contact with others. He saw but he did not observe, did not understand. His feet moved without his control. Things appeared to him only in their image, without depth or value, useless in any respect but visionary. It seemed to him that he moved through water, but he did not feel perceived as such by others, in fact he did not feel perceived at all. They were only images, not really real, and they blurred and melded with his own dreamings and all mental ideas and prompts that burst like bubbles from the muck.
He saw hookers and trees. He saw girls and shadows.
Mud and lights. Tits and dogs. Lust. Pink light and erection. Girls and lights. Grey and red. Buildings and erection. Anal and mud. Cop. Stone ground. Tree like a skeleton and a beggar. Laughter and crying. Someone stabbed. Red and grey. Rats around overflowing bins and hookers. Smashed glass and drugs. Men in coats and pink light. Blue light. Lust. Anger. Lust. Water.
Bench. Cat.
He sat down and petted the cat. It was thin and black and it purred at him, seeing no danger in his dull, unfocused eyes, in his sunken, zombie movements. He was another animal, an animal lost in the night. It looked up at him with shining white eyes.
You don’
t have to be sick, Kidd Red, it spoke, without moving its mouth. It was low and rumbling and comforting, as if the earth itself was conversing.
Mmm. He smiled
strangely. His hands stroked the cat’s head with submerged grace. He tickled it behind the ear.
You don’
t have to be sick, and foul, the cat continued. It spoke slowly, wisely. You don’t have to be full of perversion. You don’t have to have a red soul. A red line coming down. You don’t have to corrupt and be corrupted. You don’t have to act more than you are, be filthier than you are, impress upon others a sickness and disgust not so strong as you play it to be.
Red shook his head,
smiling sadly. It’s all I have, he mumbled. It’s everthin I have.
The cat purred.
There’s this . . . this hole.
I know.
You gotta fill holes up. Holes are for puttin things in.
The hole is not you.