Orbit Beach Page 4

  So I was at Robert's, and I'd just finished him off. And I went to him something like, Aw gawdoo go... awl be rawd bawk... and I went to the shitter. And it was exciting, like I was a chemist. Like some kind of biologist. Like a famous dog breeder. Maybe even like one of those chipmunks or squirrels or some shit.

  I took the soap dish and spat Robert's load into it. It was a fair bit. Half our baby. I grabbed my hidden turkey baster from behind the toilet. Like one of those smaller ones. Then I tried sucking Boo's goo into it, but the baster was still too big, like there was too much air in it. So I ran a bit of water until it was like room temperature, and splashed a bit into the dish. It worked.

  I didn't even notice until after I'd done it. And I'd like to think that what happened next was like maybe out of my Sense of Sacred, but I don't know. Without thinking about it, I rolled into a shoulder stand lotus pose. Queen of Asanas, or like one of the queens. As my yoga instructors Siobhan and Eiohan would say, it promotes proper thyroid function, strengthens the core— especially the abs and lower back— elongates the spine, improves circulation, and helps relaxation. And I honestly don't know what the thyroid is or does, except that if it doesn't work your eyes get all buggy, but Siobhan and Eiohan could add self insemination in a tight spot to that list. Like four-hundred square-foot filthy bachelor pad shitter tight.

  I inserted the turkey baster into my cunt, and squeezed the life into my womb. Boo's spew. Half our baby. And it's like I felt electricity. Like a jolt. It was like that picture in that church of god and a man touching fingers. Like I was transformed into some kind of Madonna or some shit. Like immaculate conception. Like when the aliens abduct and knock up depressed lonely women who lie for attention. It was the most alive and the most calm or serene that I can ever remember being. Maybe it was all the blood rushing to my head, maybe it was the baster in my vagina, but it was like bliss.

  And then I hear Dean rolling into the apartment. Probably back from the Wal-Mart. Done rubbing his crotch against women for the day. For real, he was like a suspect— like he was investigated for that. A truck was stolen and left in a Wal-Mart parking lot. The security cameras picked up a man who exited the truck, entered the store, and repeatedly rubbed his crotch against female shoppers and a couple of employees. There was like maybe eight all together. The man got away. And then it happened again a few weeks later, at a different Wal-Mart. Security caught him that time, but he swore up and down it wasn't him. They couldn't do anything about it. Too many guys in hoodies, and the video was too grainy and shitty. I mean, seriously, why do these places even have cameras? But I swear to god he did it. He's still not allowed in Wal-Mart, the fucking pervert.

  Anyways, he starts shaking the knob, and I'm all like Shit, Dean... Just a second. And he's like, Hey, you gonna be long? I really gotta piss.

  So I'm scrambling. I turn on the tap. Pull the baster out. Stash it behind the toilet again. Tidy shit up. And then he's knocking like a rude asshole.

  What? Are you having the kid in there? Another period? Come on, man. Hurry the fuck up.

  I wanted smash the toilet tank lid over his Caesar cut. Crack his fucking head open. Curb stomp his ugly chipped teeth onto the rim. But I was like, Just give me a second, Dean. And then I opened the door. He was standing in the entrance and stank like beer and weed. I just smiled and walked right by him to Robert's room and listened to him piss for like three minutes.

  The moment was over. Dean had made sure of that. But I didn't care, I was done for the day. I did the same thing five more times that week, just to be sure. It was like a ritual. Like a religious rite. With special attention to detail. The soapdish. The spitting. The baptism. The asana. The insertion. Conception.

  I did try it once with the downward facing dog posture, but it just didn't feel right.

  Text Message to Gingerbox

  roses r red

  violets r blue

  ur fucking dead bitch

  Lavafair

  I guess word spread pretty quick about the slut in the Indian headdress. I wore a tiara and boa the first day, but half the little bitches in the Lavafair were wearing tiaras. I needed to stand out.

  I wasn't going to like just trust my pregnancy to science. If Robert was going to be such a freak about it, I'd have to guarantee I got knocked up somewhere else. About twenty-five miles outside of town.

  And I might have felt bad about it if Robert hadn't cheated on me. Hadn't dumped me. This was karma as far as I was concerned. I mean, I'm huge into Buddhism. Huge. I love the Dalai Lama and shit. I love him almost as much as I love Oprah. A friend of mine gave me his audio book How To Deal With Anger a few years ago, which I've listened to a hundred times. I've also read The Art of Happiness, and How To See Yourself As You Really Are. For real, I could be a Buddhist if I wanted to.

  Anyways, it's been a few years since my clubbing days, my rave days. It's all a bit of a blur, really. I mean, specific things— weird details, OD's and whatever— pop out here and there, like shitty half-developed Polaroids. But really, it was all like a dream. Like me and a bunch of nameless, slutty ghosts drifted into these warehouses and clubs for the night, and then faded back into the city and our regular lives in the morning.

  It didn't seem like much had changed, but I don't know, I couldn't fucking remember.

  There was the darkness, the pulsing lights. Everyone was young and beautiful. At least with the foxy moxie and vodka they were. Chrome and glass and angles everywhere. The perfume and cologne. The rising and falling beats. I was dancing, grinding like a ditch pig. Kissing guys, kissing girls— I'm a good kisser. I have a pierced tongue and full lips that I maintain with injections every six months. I was shameless, confident. Like a small town whore.

  And the things you notice on your knees in the men's shitter. I remember irish have stinky pussy scratched into the stall more than I remember the guy I was blowing. And never mind stinky pussy, I remembered his smelly balls. At first I thought it might be the smell in the shitter, but I'm sure it was his balls. Maybe it was poor personal hygiene, or maybe it was because he was like dancing all night, but they stank real bad. It was fucking gross. I mean, I wasn't even going to blow him at first, but I was already down there, so whatever.

  But I couldn't even finish, it stank so bad. So I just sort of got up and ran away. It wasn't like I was going to get knocked up by blowing guys anyways. I left to find some other dudes. It wasn't that hard. And before I knew it, my dirty weekend was just another blur.

  I don't know— maybe it was just the drugs, but it felt like I'd done something spiritual. Like I'd taken part in something magical. Cycle of life or some shit. It's like so many animals, like in nature, have these narrow opportunities to mate. These tiny windows of real specific conditions. Spawning season, mating season. Those little fish that mate under the full moon at Orbit Beach every year, like clockwork. All those other animals on my nature DVDs. Shit like that. And it was like— I was one of those animals now, like David Attenborough should have been narrating my weekend. I mean, I did all that I could, and now it was over. I was out of time.

  But between my dates with the turkey baster and all the pervs at Lavafair, I was pretty sure that I was pregnant. For real— I was like the goddamn sperm bank for a week. Whether it was Boo, the short bald troll with the white glasses and Kangol cap, Paco Robanne Millions in the silver shirt, the hairy eager guy with a small dick who made gross noises like a kitten, or Smelly Blowjob, one of them was going to be a father.

  Well, except for Smelly Blowjob. But that was for the best, really. He was like mulatto or some shit anyways and I'd have a hell of a time explaining a brown baby.

  Red Bull

  I woke up after six o'clock and I was like totally disorientated. I felt a jolt of panic, like I'd slept through my alarm and was going to be late for work. Only it was after work, and I was sleeping at work. Maybe I should have called in sick this morning.

  I used up all my sick days though, so I really didn't want to call in and
push my luck. Besides, my head wasn't throbbing and I wasn't like violently ill or whatever. It was one of those nice two-for-one hangovers where you feel high or stoned the next day. Those are awesome on a day off, but it sucks when you have to work. There was no way I could function.

  But I did make it into the office. I was like sitting at my desk in my glitter and heavy makeup and drinking coffee and Red Bull and trying not to fall asleep. I had like six Red Bull and had to stop. If you have like eight Red Bull, your heart will explode. It's true. It happened to this one kid in like Germany or France or some shit. Maybe Sweden. He drank like eight Red Bull and had a jammer and died.

  Anyways, I was struggling. I was a bit of a disaster. I got a call asking if Dave had gone for lunch yesterday. Who the hell was this? I didn't recognize the voice because it sounded like it was on speaker phone or some shit, and the phone was like showing Line 101 and not some extension. So I was like, Pardon me? And she asks me again if Dave had a lunch yesterday. I was like confused and tired and I wanted to cry. It's like, was this LaKeefa in payroll, was it Dave's wife, or someone else? I mean, it sounded like LaKeefa in payroll, only I couldn't tell for sure because it was on speakerphone and I didn't want to sound like a retard and ask who the hell is this? Then she asks if Dave is still in his meeting— and he was. Relief. This was my out. So I was like, Yes he is— do want me to leave a message? And she was like, No, could you just find out for me and call me back? Thanks, bye.

  I felt like I'd never been more confused in my life. I just put my head down into my arms and cried and passed out. I was like dreaming of space, of Pegasus-sunsets on glass highrises, and of some city that was like this one but was really like no city I'd ever been to before. I was hanging out with people that I really liked and they were doing important things. It was like reality had shifted on me, and maybe I was in a better world, where I had better friends and a better job and more money.

  I snapped out of it. The phone was ringing, but I missed the call. Maybe it was LaKeefa again? I didn't care. I needed more coffee. Only when I got to the coffee machine, all the paper cups were gone. There were like a couple in the cupboard, but they looked like they were covered in pencil shavings, or like someone had farmed or planted shit in them. So I went to the supplies room. I think I needed more staples or post-it notes anyways.

  I got there and it was like my head was floating, like an air retard or some shit. And I thought to myself maybe I needed vitamins, to eat some fucking fruit. I stood in the doorway, stunned for about a minute, trying to figure out what the hell I was doing.

  Right. Paper cups. So I went to the far left corner where the cups were supposed to be. Nope. Not there. These idiots just throw shit wherever. I work with a bunch of animals. And maybe I took it too personally, but I hated them with a passion— I really had to find a cup. I looked across at the bottom right corner and thought I saw them tucked way back in the shelf, only I couldn't tell for sure, it was pretty dark.

  And then it was like I was still in my dream. It was like magic. Like the universe really did shift. Like it finally came around for me. I was the girl in the urban fantasy novel. I mean, for real— I'd been in there a hundred times before and had never noticed it— there was an opening behind the shelf.

  It was like that story where those children open the wardrobe and go on adventures with the talking lion and the green elves and shit. Or that one with David Bowie and his tight pants and the crotch bulge and he steals the baby. Or like that movie where John Cusack crawls into the weird guy's head and has an amazing adventure. It was like a modern faery tale. Like Oz, like Og. A Kaballa secret. Like something lost from childhood found. It was a dream where you win the lottery, but only it's for real.

  Anyways, I was pretty excited. I felt like this deep connection to my childhood. I crawled under the shelf, like into some closet, maybe six feet by six? I don't know, I'm not fucking Jesus. But it was big enough to lie down in. And it was dark and warm. It was perfect. And somebody else knew this too because there was an air mattress and blanket.

  I set the alarm on my phone for fifteen minutes and slept. I did this four times in the morning, and for an hour on my lunch. My desk was filled with rubber bands and paper clips by noon. This was turning out to be the best day at work.

  Only I guess I fucked up the alarm on my last nap. Everybody was gone when I crawled out of my hole, except for some old Mexican lady and her husband who were like vacuuming. They ignored me when I went to my desk and signed out of work on the phone.

  I smiled and waved at Guadalupe. I don't know her name. She turned off her vacuum, and I asked her if she'd let me out, all loud and slow so she'd understand. I explained to her that I had a lot of work to catch up on, that I guess I'd lost track of time. And I tell her that it's rough being the CEO of a company— that there's just not enough hours in the day. How I needed to get home to feed my daughter, and somehow find the time to get ready for a charity dinner that I'd organized. All after a fifteen hour work day. And I laughed and shook my head at her like I was crazy. She didn't say anything. It was pretty clear we had nothing in common, but whatever. I followed her to the door and she locked it after me on my way out.

  Retail boxes duking it out

  I friended her on Assbook. I found out all about her. Looked at all her stupid photos. Read her wall. She thinks she's In a Relationship. I was going to teach that little cunt a lesson. Teach her what happens when she messes with another woman's man.

  She was on Robert's ball team. His pub sponsored team. Like the one he and his work buddies play on. The one that he didn't want me playing on. Said he wanted some time for himself. Time with the guys. Time with the ball team sluts.

  I couldn't believe I didn't see this. I trusted him too much. I felt like an idiot. Like a total shithead. I was convinced that all his friends knew. And all of his coworkers and their friends too. Talking about me behind my back. Laughing about me like I was a fucking joke. Or maybe feeling sorry for me. I don't know. Whatever, I didn't care. I hated them all. And I knew for a fact that Dean knew— and I hated him the most. He was one of her buddies on Assbook. I was in shock that he didn't tell me. I mean, it hurt, it really hurt— I was his friend too. Or at least he thought I was his friend. I felt so betrayed by Dean, and I hated him more than ever. I hoped to god that he'd get hep ABC. Get hep and hit by a bus and die. I wouldn't forget this.

  She saw me in the mirror, looking at her while she did her eyeliner.

  She works at the bar. Robert's ball team sponsor. Day shift. I had a couple drinks and followed her into the shitter. She was like doing her makeup. I was behind her, just staring at her, like one of those staring drooling retards. God, I felt like puking. I was sick. This is what he's attracted to? He cheats on me with this? This is what he couldn't control himself over? This frecklepuss? This skanky gingerbox? Just so gross. Just too fucking nasty. I mean, she wasn't a full on ginger, with like the dirty orange dishwater Brillo pad hair. And she was sort of pretty I guess. She was skinny. But I was prettier for sure.

  So she sees me and makes eye contact and is all like, Do you need to use the mirror?

  There's all sorts of mirror— she's just being polite. I don't say anything at first, I just keep giving her a nasty look, and then I'm all like, Stay away from my man. And then she's like, What? You gotta speak up Sweetie, I can't hear you. So she turns around and is facing me. She's young, like early twenties. I hate that she calls me Sweetie. I don't like it at all. And I look her straight in the eye, and I'm like, Stay away from my man. Stay away from my man, you fucking cunt.

  And she kind of laughs and shakes her head and looks like at me like I'm crazy, like she doesn't know what the hell I'm talking about. And then she's like, Um, I think you're confusing me with someone else. I have a boyfriend.

  And then I get right up in her face. Real close. So close that I can smell her gum and notice that she doesn't have any freckles. That the bitch has flawless white skin that should like be on a soap commerc
ial. And I get even more jealous and I hate her even more. And then I'm all like, I said stay away... Stay away from my man, you... you fucking cunt. Stay away or I'll... I will grab you by the back of your head and shit in your face. Do you fucking understand?

  So she steps back and is all like, Jesus, calm down... quit screaming... I really think you've got me confused with someone else... I honestly don't know what you're talking about.

  And I mean, what a joke. For real? Seriously? If she thought I was screaming, bitch is fucking crazy— I was so not screaming.

  And then I laugh, and I think I'm like starting to cry. And I can't really hear what she's saying because all the blood is like rushing to my head and my ears are ringing. She's like pointing at my crotch and I'm not sure, but I think she says something like, your camel toe's leaking. And it was true— I like peed my pants. And I wanted to say Keep your skinny cunt away from my boyfriend, or at least I tried to say it, but it was like one of those dreams where you try to scream and you can't make a noise. I'm pretty sure I was like hyperventilating.

  So I just went at her. I kicked her in the box and grabbed her ginger hair with both hands and pulled her head down like to the side. And she's all like shrieking, Stop it! What are you doing? Fuck off! Leave me alone! Fuck off! And then she's like reaching with her claws and trying to grab my hair. But I'm like bigger and taller than she is and have reach. So I kind of pull her head into my side and struggle and get her into a headlock.

  She's trying to push her head out but I've got her good and tight. And she's like desperate, with these pathetic little kicks, and I can feel her jaw moving at my side, like she's trying to bite my tit. And then she's pinching my arm, which actually kind of hurt. So I give her a couple shots to the face, and then kind of like use our momentum and crash her head into the stall. And then I get obsessed with the idea of pushing her face into the toilet.