Â
All heads, including mine, turn to Zsadist. As usual, when he's in a meeting, he's sitting perfectly still, but his yellow stare is shrewd as an animal's, tracking the people around him. Under the lights that are mounted along the ceiling, his scar is standing out with special depth.
Wrath:
(to Z) So why does she jump?
Â
Z:
Because when you're around she's not quite sure where reality is. (glances at me) Isn't that right.
Â
J.R.:
Yes.
Â
At this moment, I recall that Z's had the same problem a number of timesâand it must have shown in my eyes, because he looks away quickly.
Wrath:
(nodding with a kind of huh-that-makes-sense) Okay, cool.
Â
Butch:
I got a question. (grows serious . . . then channels that ass from
Inside the Actors Studio
) If you were a tree, what kind would you be?
Â
Rhage:
(amid laughter from the Brothers) I know, a crab apple. She bears fruit, but she's cranky.
Â
V:
Nah, she'd be a telephone pole, not a tree. Trees have too much body.
Â
Butch:
(glaring at his roommate) Chill, V.
Â
V:
What? It's true.
Â
J.R.:
I like the crab apple.
Â
Rhage:
(nodding at me with approval) I knew you'd agree with me over these steakheads.
Â
Phury:
How about a Dutch elm? They're long and willowy.
Â
V:
And a dead species. At least I only insulted her figure. You gave her a disease that's going to mottle her leaves.
Â
J.R.:
Thank you, Phury, that's lovely.
Â
Wrath:
I vote for oak.
Â
V:
Please, that's a total arboreal projection. You're an oak and you assume everyone else is.
Â
Wrath:
Untrue. The rest of you asses are saplings.
Â
Rhage:
Personally, I'm a shaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaag bark hickory. For obvious reasons.
Â
Butch:
(laughs in Hollywood's direction, then turns to me) I think she's a Christmas tree. 'Cuz she's into the bling. (pounds my knuckles)
Â
Wrath:
Z? You got a tree?
Â
Z:
Poplar.
Â
Rhage:
Oh, I like those. Their leaves make a cool clapping sound when the wind goes through them.
Â
Butch:
Nice. I remember those from when I was a kid.
Â
Phury:
Those are friendly trees. Not snotty. I like that.
Â
Wrath:
Poplar is up for a vote. All in agreement say aye. (The Brothers all “aye.”) Any dissent? (silence) Motion is carried. (looks at me) You are a poplar.
Â
I'd like to point out that this is precisely how things go with the Brothers. They decide. I follow. And incidentally, the common, lowly poplar is probably one of my favorite trees of all time.
Wrath:
Next question. Favorite color?
Â
Rhage:
(raises hand) I know! Rhaging red.
Â
Butch:
Rhaging . . . (Busts out laughing.) You are such an assaholic, you know that? A real assaholic.
Â
Rhage:
(nodding gravely) Thank you. I try to excel at everything I do.
Â
V:
We need to get him into Asses Anonymous.
Â
Rhage:
I'm not so sure about that . . . that Knitters Anonymous program didn't do jack shit for you.
Â
V:
That's because I don't knit!
Â
Rhage:
(reaches over and grabs Butch's shoulder) God, denial is sad, isn't it.
Â
V:
Listenâ
Â
Wrath:
Black's my favorite color.
Â
Phury:
I'm not sure black's a color, my lord. Technically it's the sum of all colors, soâ
Â
Wrath:
Black's a color. End of.
Â
Butch:
Phury, that ass-burning sensation you feel is because you just got booted with a royal decree.
Â
Phury:
(wincing) I believe you are right.
Â
V:
I like blue.
Â
Rhage:
Of course you do. It's the color of my eyes.
Â
V:
Or a good facial bruise.
Â
Butch:
I'm all about gold. At least when it comes to metals.
Â
V:
And it suits you.
Â
Rhage:
I like blue, because V does. I want to be just like him when I grow up.
Â
V:
Then you're going to need to go on a diet and stop wearing lifts.
Â
Rhage:
Bet you say that to all the girls you date. (Shakes head.) You make them shave, too, don't you?
Â
V:
Better than having to back them out of their stalls, like you do.
Â
J.R.:
I like black.
Â
Wrath:
Score! Now, next questionâ
Â
V:
How about making this more interesting.
Â
Wrath:
(cocks eyebrow up from behind his wraparounds) In what way?
Â
V:
(staring over at me) Truth or dare.
Â
They all get quiet at this point, and I do not feel comfortableâalthough not because they are silent. I don't trust V to play niceâand going by the tension in the room, neither do the Brothers.
V:
Well? What's it going to be?
Â
If I go for truth, he's going to hit me with something that's either impossible to answer or way too revealing. If I go for dare . . . well, he can't kill me with whatever he makes me do. I'm pretty sure the others would make sure I live through it.
J.R.:
Dare.
Â
V:
Fine. I dare you to answer my question.
Â
Butch:
(frowning) That's not the way it works.
Â
V:
It's truth or dare. I gave her the choice. She picked the dare. Wrath: Technically, he's right. Although he's fucking around.
Â
V:
Oh, I'm quite serious, true?
Â
J.R.:
Okay, what's your question.
Â
V:
Why did you lie?
Â
The question doesn't surprise me, and it's a private thing between him and me. And he already knows the answer, but he's asking it here to cause problems. Which it will.
Wrath:
(cutting in before I respond) Next question. Favorite food? Rhage: A Rhage and Butch sandwich.
Â
J.R.:
(turning beet red) Oh, no, Iâ
Â
Rhage:
What? Like you're going to want any V in there?
Â
J.R.:
No, I don't think of you likeâ
Â
Rhage:
Look . . . (pats my knee, all that's-okay-dear) fantasies are good. They're healthy. It's why Butch's skin glows like it does and his right palm is hairyâhe wants me, too. So, really, I'm used to it.
Â
J.R.:
I don'tâ
Â
Butch:
(laughing) Rhage, buddy, I hate to slow your roll, but I so don't feel you like that.
Â
Rhage:
(wags brows) Now who needs a truth-or-dare?
Â
V:
You know, Hollywood, in the DSM-IV there's a picture of your ugly mug next to “Narcissistic Disorder.”
Â
Rhage:
I know! I sat and posed for it. It was so sweet of them to call.
Â
V:
(barks out laughing) You are such a freak.
Â
Wrath:
Food,
challa?
Â
J.R.:
I'm not a big foodie.
Â
V:
You don't say.
Â
Rhage:
I like almost everything.
Â
V:
And again, you don't say.
Â
Rhage:
Except olives. I just . . . meh. Meh on the olives. Olive oil is fine to cook with, though.
Â
V:
What a relief. The whole country of Italy was worried about their national economy.
Â
Butch:
I don't like seafood.
Â
Wrath:
God, neither do I.
Â
Phury:
I can't stomach anything with fish in it.
Â
Z:
No way.
Â
V:
I don't even like the smell of the shit.
Â
Rhage:
Come to think of it . . . yeah, big meh on anything that had a fin on it or comes with a shell. Well, excluding nuts. I like nuts.
Â
V:
Go. Fig.
Â
Butch:
I love me a good steak.
Â
Wrath:
Lamb.
Â
Phury:
Lamb is fabulous.
Â
Butch:
Oh, yeah. With rosemary. Done on a grill. (rubs stomach) Anyone hungry?
Â
Rhage:
Yes, starved. (Everyone roles their eyes at this point.) Well, I'm a growing boy.
Â
Butch:
Which, considering how big your head already isâ
Â
V:
Strains the bounds of credulity.
Â
Rhage:
I like all kinds of meat.
Â
V:
(laughs) Okay, I'm so not touching that.
Â
Rhage:
Which is kind of a surprise. (Grins.)
Â
Wrath:
Can we please get back on track?
Challa?
Food?
Â
The truth is, I'm loath to say anything and am disappointed to have the focus on me again. I love just watching the Brothers take the piss out of one another. Really, this vibe right here is what my days are like. I am among them, but not with them, if that makes any sense, and I'm always fascinated, wondering what they're going to say and do next.
J.R.:
It depends.
Â
Rhage:
Okay, build your own sundae for us, then. What's on it? Oh . . . and don't be embarrassed. I know you're going to picture me serving it to you wearing nothing but a loincloth.
Â
V:
And your elf shoes. 'Cuz you're mad hot with your little bells on.
Â
Rhage:
See? You totally love me. (Turns back in my direction.)
Challa?
Â
J.R.:
I . . . er, I don't eat ice cream. I mean, I love it, but I can't eat it.
Â
Rhage:
(looks as if I have a horn growing out of my forehead) Why?
Â
J.R.:
Teeth problems. Too cold.
Â
Rhage:
Oh, God. That sucks . . . I mean, I love me some coffee ice cream with hot fudge on it.
Â
V:
That's one thing I'll agree with you on. No whipped cream shit or cherries for me.
Â
Rhage:
Yup. I'm a purist as well.
Â
Phury:
I love a good raspberry sherbet. On a hot summer night.
Â
Wrath:
Rocky Road. (Shakes head.) Although I'm probably just thinking of life as king with that one.
Â
Butch:
Me? Ben & Jerry's Mint Chocolate Chunk.
Â
Rhage:
Okay, that's another good one. Anything they make with Oreos, also very good.
Â
Z:
We just tried Nalla out with some vanilla. (Laughs quietly.) Loved it.
Â
At this point the Brothers . . . they actually “Awwwwwww.” Then cover it up with a lot of scowling, as if they have to reestablish their masculinity.
Rhage:
(looking at me) For real? Have you seen that kid? She's like . . . spank gorgeous.
Â
V:
Yeah, 'cuz that's the way you say, “My, that young is beautiful” in his language.
Â
Rhage:
Come on, V, you totally feel me on this one.
Â
V:
(ruefully) Yeah, I do. Man . . . my niece is the most perfect young on the planet. (Pounds knuckles with Rhage, then turns to Butch.) Isn't she?
Â
Butch:
Beyond perfect. Into a whole 'nother category. She's . . . Wrath: Magic.
Â
Phury:
Total magic.
Â
J.R.:
She's got you guys wrapped around her finger, doesn't she.
Â
Rhage:
Absolutelyâ
Â
Phury:
Totallyâ
Â
Butch:
Wrapped tighterâ
Â
V:
Than a drum.
Â
Wrath:
Completely.
Â
Z:
(looking over at me and positively glowing with pride) See? For a bunch of violent, antisocial nut jobs, they're okay.
Â
Wrath:
Hey . . . did
Challa
ever answer the damn food question? (Resounding
no
echoes in the room.)
Â
Butch:
She passed on the ice cream. (glances at me) Why don't you build us a sandwich. You can use me, by the way, in any fashion. (grins) No probs with that.
Â
Phury:
(smoothing over Butch's comment) Or a meal. What kind of meal do you like?
Â
J.R.:
I don't know. Well, anything my mother cooks. Roasted chicken. Lasagnaâ
Â
Rhage:
I love lasagna.
Â
Phury:
Me, too.
Â
V:
I like mine with sausage in it.
Â
Rhage:
Of course you do.
Â
Wrath:
(whistling through his teeth) Shut it, ladies.
Challa?
Â
J.R.:
Roasted chicken with corn-bread stuffing made by my mother.
Â
Wrath:
Excellent choiceâand wise of you. I was getting ready to make them vote again.
Â
Rhage:
(leaning over conspiratorially) We wouldn't have given you fish, though. So you don't need to worry.
Â
J.R.:
Thank you.