Walk on the Wild Side - By Karl Edward Wagner Page 0,32
run the risk of pulling out a cassette of a film that was special to her. He would never watch To Have and Have Not again. Best just to turn on Cable News and let it run.
He put the rest of the cheese sandwich out for the cat, in case he came back during the night. His stomach was hurting too much to finish eating. Despite the Maalox, he felt like vomiting. Somehow he knew that once he started vomiting, he would never stop—not until all that he spewed out was bright blood, and then not until he had no more blood to offer. A toilet bowl for a sacrificial altar.
There was inspiration at last. Vomiting was back in vogue now—proof that great concepts never die.
While the fire was in him, he brought up the IBM, instructed global search to replace “kiss” with “vomit on.”
That was more than enough creativity for one day. He felt drained. It was time to relax with a cold beer. Maybe he could play a record. He wondered if she had left him a little pot, maybe hidden away in a plastic film canister.
But film canisters reminded him of all the photographs they had taken together, frozen memories of the two of them in love, enjoying their life together. He was too depressed to listen to a record now. Best just to sit in the darkness and sip his beer.
Janis Joplin was trying to plug in one of the black lights, but she needed an extension cord. Giving it up, she plopped down onto the couch and grinned at him. She was wearing lots of beads and a shapeless paisley blouse over patched and faded bell-bottoms. From somewhere she produced a pint of Southern Comfort, took a pull, offered the bottle to him.
“Good for that cough,” she urged in her semi-hoarse voice. “Thanks,” he said. “I got a beer.”
Janis shook back her loose waves of hair, looked around the room. “Place hasn’t changed.”
“It never does.”
“You’re stuck in the past, man.”
“Maybe. It sure beats living in the future.”
“Oh wow.” Janis was searching for something in her beaded handbag. “You’re buried alive, man.”
“Beats just being buried.”
“Shit, man. You’re lost among your artifacts, man. I mean, like you’ve stored up memories like quicksand and jumped right in.”
“Maybe I’m an artifact myself. Just like you.”
Janis laughed her gravelly cackle. “Shit, man. You’re all left alone with the pieces of your life, and all the time life is passing you by. Buried alive in the blues, man.”
“Since she left me, all I have left to look forward to is my past.”
“Hey, man. You got to let it go. You got to let her go. You know how that old song goes.”
Janis began to sing in her voice that reminded him of cream sherry stirred into cracked ice:
Look up and down that long lonesome road,
Where all of our friends have gone, my love,
And you and I must go.
They say all good friends must part someday,
So why not you and I, my love,
Why not you and I?
“Guess I’m just not ready to let it all go,” he said finally. But now he was alone in the darkness, his chest hurt, and his beer was empty.
She shouldn’t have left him.
He tossed the beer can into the trash, turned off the kitchen light. One thing to do before sprawling out across the couch to try to sleep.
He opened the upright freezer. It had only been a matter of removing the shelves.
“Goodnight, my love,” he whispered to her.
Lost Exits
Every morning she would wake him with a kiss and a sleepy vow, “I love you,” and he would smile and echo, “I love you,” and he never saw the hatred behind her eyes.
Mercedes O’Brien slipped her feet into blue pumps, smoothed her skirt, and stepped up to the cheval glass to give final inspection to her mascara. She adjusted the bow at the throat of her silk blouse, fussed with the lapels of her business suit, and agreed with herself that muted blues enlivened the greys without softening the crisp projection of competence.
She was long-legged, her figure drew second and third looks, and at 30 she could still wear clothes she’d worn at 20. Her hair was bright and black and coiffured atop her head. She had a straight nose which she thought too large, full lips which she thought were rather sensual, and a firm jawline which she thought connoted determination. Her teeth were white and straight and strong. Most of all she approved of