Empty V

I told Fitz that the cheap-ass toilet paper he bought made my twat burn, but he was too absorbed in the Missy video and his Bushmills to pay any attention. He’s been chain smoking brown cigarettellos, the place was loaded with them—small stashes scattered throughout all the drawers like spare pencils. D, the guy who owned the house, liked them and porn, apparently. There were tapes and magazines in every room, sticking out sloppily from in between legitimate public literature. Thankfully, there weren’t any tissue boxes in sight, but who knows? I get yucked out thinking about him smearing it into the furniture after busting a nut to “The Gold Rush Boys" D’s got lung cancer so he’s bald and although he’s still overweight it’s like he’s shriveled. Fitz brought him around one time so I know what he used to look like. A fat, ugly fag. Right after meeting me he made a comment about tuna and muff diving and it was tacky and lame instead of provocative and funny. Maybe now he’ll get that taut skin cancer look—it can only help. He was here for one night—last Sunday, I think. The Land Rover is his—he didn’t want to drive it in from Manhattan after his fourth round of Chemo (or is it ‘Kemo’, I never know) so Fitz volunteered and got the keys to the place. We picked up D from the South Hampton train station. Of course we were late and were therefore afforded the wholly depressing sight of him standing slumped over on the platform, half asleep with his ski cap sliding off his head and no one else around. The three of us ate pasta and sausage and salad with homemade mustard dressing for dinner. No one mentioned the impending holiday, like normal people feel compelled to do. In fact, we barely spoke at all, preferring instead to stare out into space. Afterwards, D shuffled into the kitchen and mixed a tea with camomille flowers and weed and let it steep for an hour. His bedroom’s in the attic. He’s built a Buddhist shrine up there, complete with candles and a picture of the Dahli Llama and a red mat and matching red pillows embroidered with secret meanings in golden thread and a pair of crossed real-ass swords for gutting yourself in case that’s what comes up during a weekend away from the City.

Personally, what I can’t take about the place is the constant TV. I have one in my closet in Brooklyn, which I hardly take out. Fitz can sit in front of this one all day, lining up the empties. I can’t sit still that long. Suddenly, my general situation is outlined for me and it all becomes too much to handle. Last night, while Fitz was watching The Godfather, I wanted nothing more than to get back to my drafty bare place in the big BK. It was just turning Xmas and my crotch itched. All I had were the clothes on my back so I put on my Timbs and my Dutch military parka and I was out the door.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Fitz shouted. I turned around and saw him on the porch, blue velvet smoking jacket wide open. There was his white-ass, fuzz covered chest and skimpy navy blue boxers. In his right hand he gripped a tumbler half-full of whiskey and ice.

I kicked at the gravel filled drive. “I’m taking off. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” he shouted. Then he ran down the wooden steps, barefoot across the drive to the Land Rover. I think he thought he was Michael Corleone. He jumped inside and slammed his drink on the dashboard where it promptly slid off and spilled all over the passenger seat. He started the engine without missing a beat.

“Fitz, c’mon!”

“Wait, I’ll drive you,” I heard him shout. He threw on the headlights, blinding me. At the same time he gunned it.

I think I screamed, “Shit!” when I heard the stones shooting up and felt the rush of air as the car leapt at me. I crossed my arms over my face. I wasn’t thinking about anything in particular.

At the last second he must have thrown the wheel all the way to the right--I don’t know exactly because I was blinded and couldn’t see a thing, but that’s what must have happened. The next thing I knew, he’d crashed into the 4000 year old Elm tree in the front yard. Yellow-green smoke filled the air.

“It’s OK, everything still works. Listen! You can still hear the music,” Fitz shouted from somewhere.

It was “Autumn Sweater,” by Yo La Tengo, the Kevin Shields remix. I thought to myself, that’s one of my faves, as I took off and ran the hell out of there.

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