Goldfingers
- Don’t know where the idea came from to write this, but I stumbled across it recently, hidden away.
Goldfingers
…Images of floating over sun-drenched vineyards simmer out as Jim becomes reacquainted with his eyelids. They are closed, and they ache like the last time he drank through a bottle. One eye opens, then the other, and there she is, the Louisiana farm girl, slouched against the wall of the small NY apartment, a discarded hand cocked at the wrist, hanging over he knee. Cracks of orange light signal daybreak, settling here and there amongst the layers of dust, wood-chippings, fabric, and smoke. Her brooding silence compels him to overcome the many pillows between him and his cigarette case. He lets one drop on the floor, then tucks a second gently in between two of her long, slender fingers. She almost doesn’t notice.
“There you go, beautiful,” he says.
“Oh, thankya honey, you dream okay?”
“Sure, but I woke up worried.” Jim lights one of his own.
“Why?” Belle says, turning her head slightly, still looking over at the curtains.
“Well, you weren’t smoking, talking, or throwing up. I thought you might have died.”
“Oh hush. You know, you slept possessed.”
“You were watching me sleep? That’s just so darn cute, honey.”
“Hush!” She laughs, finally focusing her attention on him. “I couldn’t get a minute. You were kickin’ good last night.”
Jim watches Belle smoke like an Italian woman––thinning with every breath––and wonders what his 250lbs must look like naked. He laughs. Eventually necessity forces her to stub it out, first rotating the butt to smother the ash, then crushing it with her thumb. She gets up, crosses the room, and disappears into the bathroom…
…No blood in the toilet this morning either. Damn, that’s over a week late already. I’ll go see Joy today…
“What are you doing?” He’s looking at her.
“What?”
“You make a good one today? Needs looking at?”
“What? No!”
“What you looking into the crapper for then?”
“I’m just… Nothing.”
She uses her leg to swing the door shut. He hears a flush, then the shower curtain sliding. She screams; still not used to a small boiler even though they moved in months ago. He muses that her hair is the only thing about her that isn’t blond. Nice breasts, a great figure, and that “just plain stupid” look that makes her so adorable. His eyes close as he sinks back into the pillows. Pretty soon a little green frog is chasing him around an old wooden staircase, while dogs and old women cackle at him from lonely portraits…
* * * *
…He wakes again to the smell of coffee. It hides the closeness of the small apartment like nothing else, reminding him of his parents’ morning ritual; one large mug each, espresso strength, no milk, no talking. He heads for the pot, filling a large mug, and adding cream. It sits on the table while he waits for it to cool, while he douses his head in the sink, while he playfully gets her a little wet, while they kiss, while they cuddle, and while they return to the bedroom. As it sits there molecules from the creamy bottom half mix in their millions with those from the top, the stream of damp air from its surface spreads out into the room, a thin layer of dehydrating liquid on the rim adds itself to month-old layers underneath, and little concentric waves bounce to and fro on its surface, faster and faster, until there is a shout from the next room and it settles.
It is still sitting there, minutes later, when a smug and highly gratified Jim emerges from the bedroom and whisks it into the microwave, where it again begins to steam.
Jim is now smoking a cigarette, his other hand scratching his balls, as the cup moves around and around. He is sitting on the table; his back against the wall, his feet on the sink, and with one elbow perched on top of the unplugged toaster. She joins him there, one hand leafing through this week’s Marie Claire, the other picking at grapes. Her laugh reminds him of a girl in class who used to make fun of him when he blushed.
“Why are you reading such rubbish?” He asks, after a particularly vibrant snicker.
“Sorry, honey?”
“That magazine. What do you get from it? It’s just a medium for selling you products and people. You might as well be browsing through a supermarket leaflet.”
“You read the arts.”
“What?”
“The arts. Of the paper. It’s the same thing, just less pictures.”
“There’s a difference between culture and couture, you know.”
“Sure, honey, but which one is dead? My gran is older than dirt and she’s got more cooture than an art gallery, and she reads Vogue.”
The morning passes quickly for her. For him, jut getting dressed includes three cups of coffee, two slices of dry white toast, and hunting around the bedroom for his writing shirt. Without it, he says, he cannot think. His ideas, she says, must be whispered to him by the creatures living on it.
He hardly notices how many times she has gone to the bathroom. He’s even less aware that lying in the trashcan next to the toilet is a pregnancy test wrapped in tissue paper, or that she has taken a little more money than normal from under the bed, or that in her bag is the address of an Armenian gipsy called Joy who is paying $250 a week for a studio in China Town.
He is aware, however, that she is wearing a new perfume, and mentions the fact as he walks her to the door.
“Did you buy that perfume for me?” He asks, smiling.
“Of course. D’ya like it?”
“You know I like your own smell more. It’s honest.”
“Well the customers don’t come to see me for my honesty, they just want a couple of tits and a smile. Try to work today, ok?”
“‘Love reckons hours for months, and days for years; and every little absence is an age,’ and yet you, my love, ask me to forget you’ve gone the moment you leave. Well, I’ll try.”
“Hey, be nice. You moved pretty well this morning. Don’t see why you should get like a lead bucket just from looking at a piece of paper.”
“Ah, but this morning I was inspired.”
“Then write about me. Oh, and go and see Tony.”
“That quack? I’d rather hire a professional.”
“He is professional, and he’s cheap, and I’m not living for months without proper AC. For me, okay?”
“Okay, babe. ‘To die and part is a less evil; but to part and live, there, there is the torment.’”
“Ta ta, honey, I’ll be back before you know it.”
…Damn work. I’ll go in at lunch. I’ve just gotta see Joy first, just to make sure I’m worrying about nothing. It’s nothing. It’s nothing. Nothing…
* * * *
Jim isn’t writing; he’s not ready to. He is curled over with his forehead on the desk, his hands on the back of his neck, growling like what he imagines to be a scared wolf. It is part of his normal writing routine. It worked in his last book, The Many Deaths of a Child, which was praised as “a personal yet selfless attack, pointing out bad parenting from the mind of a troubled child” (Art Magazine). He hasn’t spoken to anyone in his family for the two years since it was published. He stops growling and wraps his fingers around a pen.
…Wow, those gypsy hands are hot. They ain’t even touching me! And what’s she doing with that spoon? It’s moving. Is that her moving it? And why do I feel like throwing up?…
* * * *
It’s lunchtime and Jim is banging on the door of the super, Tony. Tony is a fat, sweaty Brooklyner who wears a small towel hanging out of his jeans at all times, but who never seems to be doing any work. Jim is pretty sure that Tony is jealous of his height and his looks, but he also knows the guy likes him. He even read his book. Jim puts a note through the door––simple, concise: Get your ass up here and fix the fucking AC, Tony, or no rent. Jim.
He sighs and mounts the stairs again, counting each step along the way, wondering if Tony has ever seen his wife dance at the club.
A little more than two miles away an old, wrinkled lady with a heavy case of scoliosis is leading the little Louisiana farm girl by the hand. They are both crying. The old lady says a few words, opens the door, and Belle steps outside, wiping tears off her jacket. She takes the 6 train to 59th St, then a bus west, removes her wedding ring and descends the stairs of the dimly-lit Goldfingers Club. She avoids looking at the other girls, keeps her mouth closed, and gyrates noticeably less than usual when she’s on stage, minutes later, one leg wrapped around the pole, opening her dress one button at a time…
* * * *
…Jim is reading aloud, now, in an unconvincing southern drawl. His intonation is strong, musical, and flows one sentence into the next, rarely pausing. When he does it is to accentuate a word, often said much louder than the rest. In moments of excitement the paper shakes, but this is just for effect. He is, he admits, a terrible reader. Tony is fiddling around inside an AC unit, grunting at all the wrong times. Jim has asked him to be quiet.
“Ladies and Gent’men, Ahm ahearin’ a name. Ah hear that name acomin’. Mardy? That’s it. Mardy Rush. Is’atch you, Mardy? You’ve em-fee-seema, don’cha Mardy. You got emphysema an’ a ho-mo-sexul son. Well, Mardy, git on up here. That’s right. Git on up those steps, Marty. Amen, halle-lul-yah. Ah see angels all ’roun’ yo’ house, Mardy. Ah see them looking down on yo’ son. Now I’m gonna give ya Jesus, Mardy, I’m gonna give ya back what you lost. You got pills on ya? Tek ‘em out. That’s right, tek ‘em out and throw ‘em away! Praise the lord, praise ‘im and throw tha’ devil away! That’s a blow ah’ defeat for the Devil right there. The devil!”
Tony grunts and drops a roll of wire onto the floor. He looks over apologetically, then turns back to the AC unit.
“The devil’s tried to torment you with fear, Mardy, but we gonna throw him outta yo’ life. Ah feel that’ powah runnin’ through me. Ah feel tha’ powah comin’ on down from god, comin’ through me an’ my mine an’ my heart an’ my so’, and Ah feel it in my hayunds! You feel that? You feel that? By the end of the year yo’ son ain’t gonna be no homo no more, Mardy. He’s gonna go out, he’s agonna go right out theyah an’ have himsef a girlfriend. Ah see it Mardy. And you ain’t gonna have no mo’ trouble with yo’ heart, no sir ladies and gent’men. Do you ’membah yo’ wife, Mardy? Well she up theyah, an’ she sayin’ sorry. She sayin’ sorry for the pain she caused, for all tha’ trouble.”
Tony grunts in approval. Jim is starting to glow now, and a little sweat is collecting on the brow of his shirt. He takes a deep breath, and when he speaks his voice is even higher and louder than before.
“That’s it, Mardy, Ah feel it! It’s acomin’! It’s comin’! Theyah! Glory to god halleluiah praise the Lord Jesus Christ praise the Lord! Yes, ladies and gent’men. Mardy is saved. The lord has taken away his evil. But there’s more out there, people. You gotta watch that devil. You gotta watch him ‘cause he’s three in one; he’s suddle…he’s kerafdy…and he’s a trickstah. Tricky little devil, that’s him. Ev’r’body got their sins. You know chill’en can read Harr’ Pottah in schoo’ bu’ not the Bible? Did you know tha’ fo’ thousan’ babies killed every day by they mothers? That forty million babies been killed in the las’ twen’y fi’ years? It’s a holocast out theyah, ladies and gentlemen, and our kids are the targets. Did you know Hitler was an evolutionist? Ah’m tellin’ you that homosexuality is out there on the march, prayin’ on our chillun, prayin’ on our babies-
“…Oh, great. Thank you, Tony. Does it work?
“Of course. What, you don’t believe me?”
Jim smiles, glad to hear a real accent after all that strained reading.
“You must have the magic touch. And what about the mess?”
“Well I could come back tomorrow-”
“No, no, I don’t want to keep Midas busy. I’ll do it.”
“Thanks, Mr James.” Tony walks towards the door scratching his head. “Listen, that’s all good stuff, but where d’ya get it?”
“I wrote it.”
“Oh, I know that, but where d’ya get it? The idea?”
“I don’t know, I just wrote it. You liked it?”
“Sure, but it’s a bit long. I fixed the whole thing while you read it.”
“Well yeah, but-”
“You know, I’m not saying you don’t need to say all that stuff. But it’s too long. Homosexuals and abortions ‘n all. Why do you authors have to write about depressing stuff the whole time?”
“When once the itch of literature comes over a man, nothing can cure it but the scratching of a pen, wouldn’t you say?”
“But…”
“Why? Because it’s there, Tony. There are still people out there teaching this disguesintg stuff about…about homosexuals, for example.”
“Oh come on, Mr. James, you shouldn’t say that, I mean, they’re just doing what they feel is right. Look at the guys downstairs. I don’t care what they do at home, you know, behind those doors. I still fix stuff for ‘em. And they always treat me nice. Gave me a good tip at Christmas. I mean, you can’t say a couple of good people like that is disgusting.”
“No, Tony, I’m not saying that…. Whatever, I suppose you’re right. I shouldn’t.”
“Okay, Mr James, I’ll see you later. Keep up the good work, eh?”
“Thanks, Tony.”
The apartment is empty again. Jim walks over to the desk and drops the story. He puts the lid on his pen, lies down on the bed, and sighs.
* * * *
A hand that has recently been gripping a Manhattan subway rail is making its way slowly up a leg, that leg is long and slender, hardened, and stood in between the thighs of a sweating fat man. The man is in awe, and yet his hand is still active, pausing every time she pauses, moving every time she moves. By the time it gets to the top of the leg the hand feels everything freeze, but it does not stop. It keeps on pushing upwards, pushing into a fairly small tunnel that is incubating the extraordinary splicing of cells possessed; two cells then four, then eight…
…Oh god no. No, don’t…
* * * *
Seven hours later Jim hears the jangle of keys in the door. It swings open, bashing into the fridge. He can hear her sobbing––a low, guttural sound––so he gets up to comfort her, taking her into his arms.
“Hey, beautiful, what’s wrong?” She continues to sob, her hands punching his shoulders.
“Come on, don’t worry. Come on. Calm down.”
“Fuck you, Jim. Fuck this shit. I don’t wanna calm down.”
“Listen, what’s wrong? Here, let me take your jacket.”
“Get off me. You wouldn’t understand. You won’t care.”
“I care about you. And you’re upset, Belle. What is it? I can’t help you out unless you tell me what it is.”
“You’ve got to get a job, Jim.”
“Oh, Christ, don’t start this again. I’ve got a job. I’m a writer.”
“No, you’ve got to get a real job.”
“If we’re going to go through all this shit again…. Look, we talked about this before the wedding. You said you liked that I was an artist. I said I’m not quite an artist, but-”
“-We just can’t afford to waste any more time.”
“We’re not wasting time. I’m gonna get this book finished, then we’ve got royalties coming in every month, and-”
“-Jim, it’s not enough.”
“-and you’re pulling in enough money for both-“
“-No. I’m not going back to work.”
“…What? Why?”
“I’m pregnant.”
* * * *
“Listen, beautiful, I’m not saying that, I’m just saying we still have options.”
“What do you mean, options? I’m not killin’ our son.”
“How do you know it’s a boy?”
“Joy said-“
“-Joy’s no better than Tony! How can you fall for that stuff?”
“The spoon said-”
“I don’t care what any spoon said. Do you know what you’ve got in there? You’ve got an alien. It doesn’t even have arms or legs yet.”
“He don’t need no arms or legs. He’s ain’t going nowhere.”
“Look, all I’m saying is that he’s just a bunch of cells. They don’t mean anything yet. He- Damn it, it doesn’t have any feelings, or any thoughts. It probably doesn’t even have a brain!”
“He has a soul. And a brain ain’t everything.”
“It’s what makes us human.”
“No,” she says, punching him in the stomach, “that’s what makes us human. He can still feel pain. I ain’t killin’ him.”
“Listen…I’m not having a baby.”
“You ain’t having the baby, I am.”
“Don’t be childish. How are you going to raise a kid by yourself?”
“You’re leaving me?”
“What? No, I’m not leaving you.”
“Oh, so it’s either fuck you or murder him.”
“It’s not murder. Listen, those cells are only special because they combine our DNA. Wait, it is mine, right?”
* * * *
“I’m sorry, beautiful.”
“I’m sorry too. Let’s go get that checked out.”
“Don’t worry, it’ll heal. It’s just a little blood. How’s your jaw?”
“Ok. I can still kiss. Might not go back to work for a while.”
“Are you sure? Beautiful, bisexual, and bruised. Your bosses would love that, no?”
“Oh, hush. Actually, they’d probably go for it, but the customers wouldn’t be too happy.”
“Why the customers? Wouldn’t it make you a little more sullied?”
“Yeah, but they want to be the ones doing it. They don’t want me to bring it to work with me. Anyway, they ain’t my bosses anymore.”
“Oh yeah…. Hey, listen, what are we going to call him?”
“I dunno. Why don’t you choose?”
“I thought you married me because you wanted a son called Jimmy James Junior.”
“Sounds sweet, don’ it.”
“It’s got a ring to it. Just one letter short of a bad time, though.”
“What?”
“You know, JJJ? It’s…it doesn’t matter.”
“You want to go get a coffee?”
“You sure you should be drinking coffee?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you’re drinking for two now. No coffee, no alcohol, no coke, no tea, and definitely no smoking.”
“Damn.”
“Yeah, you’ve got to be careful, now.”
“How d’ya know so much about this?”
“Research. The minister’s wife is about to become pregnant.”
“I thought he was gay.”
“He is. But he’s a caring father, nonetheless.”
“You think there’s a little bit of you in there?”
“Getting out my gay side, you mean?”
“Or finding a way of exposing your caring side.”
“I doubt it. You do know I’m going to find some way of killing the child.”
“What?”
“Well, everyone in my books dies.”
“I thought that was just your family.”
“No, everyone. It’s the only way of putting truth into something.”
“That’s not true. What about love?”
“Aww, you’re so cute.”
“Oh, hush.”
“No, come here, give me a kiss. You want some love? You like this?”
“Get off me. This is serious. Do you love me?”
“Why?”
“Do you love me? Tell me.”
“More than anything else.”
