Tats (12 page)

She left me in my room and the rest of the suite. The place is huge. Anne Frank’s entire family could live in just my bathroom.

I wonder what time it is. How long was I asleep? I look at the window. It’s dark inside and out. And way too quiet.

I get up and walk silently on the plush carpet to Vivian’s room. I press my ear against the door. I don’t hear anything.

“Vivian?”

Nothing.

I open the door to her room and peek in. Sure enough, she’s passed out on her bed, lying catty-corner, arms flung out and legs spread. The only way I know she’s breathing is because she’s snoring.

I sit on the edge of her bed and watch her sleep. With her makeup off and her hair every which way, she looks even more beautiful. I don’t think she knows it, though. She can’t know it or she wouldn’t work so hard to cover it up with all those artificial cosmetics.

She’s left an opened bag of one hundred calorie cupcakes near her feet. I munch on one while I watch her. I smile to myself because I know she’s going to wake up and be all mad, ‘Who the hell ate my cupcakes? Where are all my cupcakes?!’

I eat them anyway. Then I see a lone blue pill laying near her hand. I pop it into my mouth, too. I figure the worst thing that will happen is that I go back to sleep.

I lie on my stomach and turn on the TV. I turn it down low so I won’t wake up Vivian and flip through the channels. A million channels in this hotel and I can’t find anything worth watching.

I turn it off and open the mini bar. I take out all the little bottles of booze and line them up on the bed. I’m a sucker for miniature things.

I start with the browns. When I’ve drunk all the brown stuff, I start in on the clear. It doesn’t seem like you’re actually drinking that much when it comes in tiny bottles. I count them. Eight. Eight little bottles.

I lie on the bed beside Vivian and watch her eyes flicker back and forth under her eyelids. I wonder if her dreams are as vivid as mine. Dreams. I haven’t had a good dream in a long time. When I was a little kid I always dreamed about flying. Zooming down low over clotheslines and rooftops, peeking in windows, the feel of no gravity and being able to go anywhere and everywhere. That incredible rush of freedom and infinite power. Now all I have is nightmares. Nightmares filled with darkness, a crushing weight that pins me to the floor, loud voices and shattering explosions. For a long time now I’ve approached nighttime with dread and foreboding.

Getting to sleep in prison isn’t a cakewalk either. The screaming, talking, coughing, fighting and frenetic grasps at hurried lovemaking are the sounds I lived with and slept through for twelve years. Now it’s the silence I find hard to deal with.

I hope Vivian is having a nice dream. A good dream. A fluffy, marshmallow dream.

When I was about three or maybe four years old, Mom used to sneak into my bedroom extra early in the morning while I was sleeping and stuff marshmallows down the back of my panties. I’d find them in the morning and show them to her. Mom told me I was a special, magical child whose dreams were real. That when I dreamed of flying high in the clouds, it was really true. And that’s why when I woke up I had bits of clouds down my panties. I called them my fluffy dreams.

I stuff a handful of little cupcakes down the back of Vivian’s panties. Maybe she’ll have fluffy dreams.

Between the tiny booze and the tiny blue pill, I’m starting to relax and that’s a good thing.  I was numb before I met Vivian and I didn’t even know it. She makes me feel. Sometimes she makes me feel happy, sometimes she makes me feel sad, lots of times she even makes me feel mad. But, at least she makes me feel. I like that.

Vivian makes me laugh. I like that, too. I’ve laughed more in the past couple of days than in my whole life. She surrounds me with a big bubble of laughter and like that old John Travolta movie,
The Boy in the Plastic Bubble,
nothing bad can get in.

I wonder what life would be like if Vivian and I did get together? I think the future with Vivian would be fun. Even the little things would be fun. I’d go off to work every morning and when I got home, Vivian would be in the kitchen making supper. I’d walk in and give her a kiss and say something goofy like “Mmmm...that smells good.” And she’d say, “What smells good? The dinner or me?” And I’d laugh while I scrubbed all the oil and grease off my hands at the kitchen sink. Then Vivian would hand me a pickle jar and ask me to open it for her. And I’d open it even though I know she could probably open it herself, but it’s just her way of telling me she loves me.

I think I’m in love with Vivian. I mean, I must be if my fantasy revolves around pickle jars and I have the dream when I’m wide awake. I better not think about love. I should just throw that thought away right now. I’d be better off just thinking about laughing with her. Or even sex with her. Much safer. And healthier in the long run.

Vivian has pretty feet. And ankles. I bet she hates her feet, but I think they’re pretty. They look way better out of those high heels she likes to wear so much. Those shoes are sexy, yeah, but her feet are even sexier unconfined and free. I bet she’d like to have her toenails done. I could paint them for her. She’d probably sleep through the whole thing. I bet she’d like her feet then.

I grab her red bag and dump out all the girlie shit. I pull out five bottles of nail polish from the mountain of junk. Which color should I use? I can’t make up my mind. I don’t know if I should go with something pale and unassuming or something bright and bold. I contemplate the choices for a long time before realizing that I don’t have to make a choice. I can use them all. I’ll just paint each toenail a different color. It’ll be like looking at a bouquet of beautiful balloons.

I open the first bottle. I’m going to take my time and paint each one like I’m a famous artist and the toenail is my canvas.

When she wakes up, she’ll be so surprised and happy.

Chapter Six

Vivian stands on the far side of the room with her back to me, looking out the open window. The lights are off and the room undulates in moonlit shadows. A light breeze teases the curtains back and forth. I stand absolutely still, admiring her. She’s fresh out of the shower, wet hair, and wearing only a thin, short silky robe. She looks so tranquil and peaceful. I make a small noise in my throat so she’ll know I’m there, but she doesn’t turn around. Instead, she unties the belt and lets the breeze open her robe and caress her naked body.

I softly walk up behind her and press my body close to hers. If she doesn’t want this to happen now is the time for her to say something. But she doesn’t. She leans back against me and tilts her head back onto my shoulder.

I reach around her and lightly trace my fingers from one hip to the other. She relaxes even more. My hand moves upward and I caress under each breast. She moans deep from the back of her throat. Encouraged, my other hand—

She turns and whacks me upside the head with her shoe.

“What the hell?!” I yell, jerking awake. Suddenly and painfully awake now, I shout, “Where’d that shoe come from?!”

I shake the remnants of the dream from my head. I’m lying on the floor and Vivian sits cross-legged on her bed, fully dressed and looking way too innocent.

“Why the sam hell did you hit me?” I demand.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says in a really stupid, innocent voice.

I pick up the shoe lying next to me and point the evidence at her. “You do too. You clobbered me in the head with this damn shoe.”

She snatches the shoe from my hand. “Did not,” she replies.

“Listen,” I say. “I was having a great dream. I’m going to finish it now if you can refrain from hitting me.” I lie back down and close my eyes.

“That was for Joey.”

I open my eyes. “What?”

“That was for fucking Joey Hanes behind my back. Now we’re even,” she says simply.

“No we’re not,” I say, leaning up on one elbow and grinning. “Twice. I actually did him twice.”

“What?!”

“Yeah,
twice,
” I say, rubbing it in. “A couple of weeks later he saw me hitchhiking into town. He picked me up and we drove down to the river, smoked a joint and did it for hours. This time it was fantastic.”

“You bitch!” she yells. She throws the shoe at me so fast, it hits me in the forehead before I can even duck.

“Dammit,” I mutter, rubbing the dent in my forehead. “We’re even, okay. Truce?”

“Maybe,” she says. “If you can tell me what the hell happened last night.”

“Nothing. Why?”

“Something must’ve happened. I woke up shitting cupcakes and my toenails are painted different colors,” she says, sticking one of her feet in my face.

“Pretty.”

“I don’t remember doing it. I must’ve been real fucked up to paint them all a different color. That’s just not like me.”

“Well, it is unique. I kinda like it. Don’t you?”

“I guess,” she says, sitting down and examining her feet. “It is kinda pretty in a weird kinda way. But that doesn’t explain the cupcakes in my panties.”

I’m saved by a knock at the door.

Vivian looks at me.

I shrug.

The next knock is louder. More insistent.

I open my mouth to ask who’s there, but Vivian shushes me with her finger. She tippy-toes out of the room and up to the main door, looks through the peephole and goes into panic mode. She hops up and down and motions wildly with her arms.

“What?” I ask.

She shushes me with her finger and mouths without sound, “Black dick.”

“Black dick?” I say a tiny bit louder than her.

Pounding on the door.

Vivian shakes her head furiously and mouths again, “Black dick.”

“Black dick?” I ask again, thoroughly confused.

A deep, husky voice calls out in that girlie accent, “Vivian! Open the door. I know you are in there and I am not pleased.”

“Fer Chrissakes!” she sputters. “Pack quick! Pack quick!” And she runs back to her bedroom.

“I don’t have anything to pack,” I protest, slipping on my boots and jacket as quickly as possible. At least I have my fucking pants on this time.

I follow Vivian into her room. She has both bags of money in her arms and the red bag slung over one arm. She opens the sliding glass doors with her shoulder and runs out onto the balcony. She leans way over the rail, looking down somewhere below.

“We have to do it,” she says. “It’s the only way out.”

“Maybe we can just talk to him. Let him have the money back or something.”

“He will kill you,” Vivian over-enunciates. “He will kill you
dead
. You understand?”

“I understand. Kill. Dead.”

Vivian tosses the bags over the balcony rail.

“What’re you doing?!” I yell.

I look over the railing. The bags are laying on the tiled floor of the balcony directly under us.

Vivian grabs my arm and looks at me earnestly. “You go next,” she says.

“Like hell,” I respond.

“Dead, Lee. But he’ll torture you first.”

“I’m scared of heights, Viv, there’s no way—”

The front door crashes open.

“Vivian!” Prince Charles shouts.

Vivian and I both jump ass-first over the balcony. We hang by the top rail with both hands. Hanging in midair, Vivian and I look wide-eyed at each other. Then I look down to the ground, ten stories below, and almost shit cupcakes myself.

“Don’t look down, Lee, just look at me. Do what I do,” Vivian whispers.

A voice from within our suite calls out, “She’s not in here! Check the loo!”

Using her legs, Vivian rocks back and forth, like how kids on a swingset do. She swings higher and longer and I follow her example.

“On the count of three,” Vivian says. “One, two, three!”

We let go and somehow, someway, we end up on the balcony below with nothing but a few bruises for tomorrow.

Vivian hops up and throws one of the bags at me. Cradling the other bag, she opens the sliding glass door and we run into the bedroom. We both stop when we see a man and woman in flagrante in the middle of their bed.  They both turn their heads and look at us over their shoulders.

“Never mind us...just playing through,” I say.

Vivian and I dash out of the room, into the hotel’s hallway, and into the nearest elevator.

We stand in silence for a moment, the sound of Beatles muzak and our own heavy breathing in our ears. I watch the elevator floor numbers tick downward. Without looking at Vivian, I utter, “Black dick.”

She giggles. I look at her and giggle, too. We break into loud guffaws.

The elevator dings and its doors slide open. Stifling our laughter, we run through the hotel lobby and out the front doors.

We stop and scan the rows and rows of cars in the parking lot. I see a flash of green and point. We haul ass across the lot and jump in the car. Vivian finds the key between her boobs, sticks it in the ignition and peels out of the lot, leaving yards of burnt rubber in our wake.

I turn and look through the rear window. I see Prince Charles, staring after us. He clenches and unclenches his fists, watching us leave. Two goons appear beside him. Their skin is pale and sickly looking, but their bulging muscles imply a great deal of health.

Vivian drives without direction, never even touching the brakes. After about five minutes of weaving in and out of traffic, and getting lost in general, I chance a conversation, “Hey, Viv, I have a good idea. Kinda simple, but I think it might work. GIVE HIM BACK THE MONEY! That way maybe we won’t both die!”

“Oh, he’ll kill us anyway. He’ll take the money and kill us too. The Mafia doesn’t leave loose ends.”

Mafia? Fucking British fucking Mafia? That’s a little piece of information I could’ve found useful about twenty-four fucking hours ago.

“Fuck me,” I say, slipping way down in the seat. “Fuck. Me.”

Vivian drives like a normal person now and makes turn after turn like she knows where she’s going. I keep my feet braced on the dash just in case she cuts loose again. She pulls a cigarette from out of her bra and flicks her fingers for me to light it for her. I push in the cigarette lighter on the dash. That’s a good thing about these old cars, they came with cigarette lighters back when. I hold out two fingers to her in a peace sign and she gets another cigarette out for me. What’s another cigarette going to hurt if I’m going to die soon anyway? When I stick it in my mouth I can smell her all over it. Another good reason to start smoking.