Lex McQueen
March 8
The room didn’t look different in the dark. The shadows remained unhinged- thin and slender, the darkness cloaked itself wherever it could. The ceiling and the rough walls met at an ominous angle and in his mind everything stood black against it. The night seemed to reach its peak. There was certainty in it. Lex contemplated whether it was better to live or die.
He lay spread-eagled on the grainy, brown carpet,. His right foot touched a cold puddle of spilled gin. The cold air slowly filled his nose. A gentle quiescence. For a moment, he thought he was tucked back in the river back in his hometown—the same river where his father killed himself by slitting his own throat. The memory came with a narrowing sensation beneath his ribs. What a mess it was. He wished it had been done with a little more grace.
At least it was a silent way to go—no bang, no frenzy. It was better than jumping off a cliff. But was it necessary to burst open in the middle and have all your bowels gushed out? Hanging was a cliché for a compassionate man. It’s bullshit. A lazy and an unimaginative method. A slit throat, on the other hand, was simple. Calculated. The old man had made sure that the knife was sharp enough to puncture the arteries. Deep enough to let out a god-awful lot of thick, scarlet blood without severing the head from the body. Sputtered on the rocks, the blood looked like a sprinkling of fresh, black baccara roses.
It was around this time of the year when his father died. March, slow and dull. He could feel a surge of a sickening shame for that hardened memory. Lex had felt it for the last twenty years, although it was more powerful this time.
He didn’t know what time it was. Ten? Eleven? A quarter after one? The uneven beats of a wannabe rapper banged hard from three doors down like large rocks hitting a metal bin. The streets buzzed with honking cabs and young people in their small, careless eruptions of laughter.. The noises seemed to have wafted to his apartment from down below and from far away. He could hear them all even as his heart thumped.
He used to write for a living, churning out stories for a music magazine. “Can I give you a blowjob for a good write up of my band?” A girl, whose name might be Cherry, with her wavy blonde hair, black tank top and ripped jeans once asked him. His cheeks grew warm. He described the emo band’s music as “tortuous and empty”. He liked it—the cynical write-ups about the superficial, the artsy-fartsy, and all the fake ideals of Americana. “We stand by our pointed opinion. Bubblegum pop and EDM stink to the ear. We should abide by quality.” Mr. Stone, the editor, once said in a general meeting, his arms crossed over his big fat stomach. “Justin Bieber is shit,” he said before leaving the room. Everyone nodded like terrorized kindergarten pupils. And he was right. Music shouldn’t be that hollow. Damn right.
It wasn’t much working at Ultra—a B-class Pitchfork—but it was good. He liked the VIP passes at residencies and festivals. He liked writing nasty, disparaging reviews for fresh pop acts. Liked swinging between spectacles and raging rock concerts. And then he didn’t. It was those faggots’ fault. What was the thin one’s name? Ricky?
The temperature had gone down to the thirties. Late winter in New York. A little bit of snow here and there. It was still hot for him. He blinked his eyes and bit his nails. They tasted like dirt. Surprisingly good.
Sweat covered him like morning dew. Drop by drop on his skin, the heat on his body crawled. Inward scorching like hell. His head pounded and he had a momentary image of him swallowed into a pit at the middle of a Black Mass. He had always dreamed about it in his teens. "Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself." He imagined a legion of Black Priests in a triangle chanting as the silver-plated bells chimed. They chanted in unison. They chanted for his death.
He waited for the pitch-black room to turn burning red until gluttonous flames consumed every inch of the walls and dragged him further and further, so his burnt flesh could reveal the unbridled monster beneath his bones and flesh. It didn’t. He was alive and breathing. Breathing filth. Of course, he was.
He wiped the sweat from his upper lip. He slowly sat up and stared at his apartment. Cigarette butts, dust and shit. Flies circled around a pile of rotten trash. Cockroaches feasted on crusty bowls of cereal. The smell of dried semen and urine from his sheets mixed in the air.
He pulled himself off the floor and stood still for a few seconds. He was afraid the pounding in his head might get worse. But what was worse than this shithole?
He opened the dark grey polyester curtains. A rush of dust spiraled toward him like a colony of bees. Old cobwebs billowed against the mullioned windows of his apartment. He clasped his hands behind his head and stood half-naked, looking out at the lights of neighboring buildings. The lights were bright, and from afar the city seemed unfamiliar to him. But he knew it well—maybe even a little too well. He walked, drank, and fucked along the streets of New York. It felt like home.
He couldn’t recall the last time he’d left his apartment. It had been a couple of weeks now—or had it been months?—since he’d gotten fired. How much time went by, he couldn’t remember. Days were to be squandered.
His phone rang for the fifth time today. The ringing grew loud and panicky like coat hangers had rammed in and out of a hole. He didn’t want to move his lips or say a word.
He put on his pants and threw on a shirt and the black fading coat that had been lying on the floor for a week. It smelled like rat piss. He needed air and the commotion of the outside world. He needed to go out. He was on the third floor and he dreaded the flight of stairs. Oh, what a fucking challenge. He trudged down the old staircase past the graffitied walls coated with several layers of spray paint. An angry pastiche of scribbled words bemoaned someone’s discontent and ennui, anonymous cries for help.
It was, as he expected, busy outside, the cars honked incessantly, the store signs a little too bright. Drivers squeezed their way through traffic, one hand steered the wheel and one hand constantly banged the horn. “Watch yourself!” a woman he bumped into shouted at him. The crowd of people that surrounded him seemed almost illusive, like a wave of formless beings that passed him, whispering, not lingering for long. “Asshole!” a driver yelled at him as he crossed the street without looking. Cabs passed him on 6th Avenue, leaving trails of red and yellow lights. He walked his way to a bar down Lafayette St.
He sat at a gray stool and ordered a Sierra. The bartender, Vic, handed him the drink, his eye on the crowd from behind the bar. The place was packed and pulsed with energy. The neon sign that said “Thickies” hung at the center of the front bar. It was shabby, and it was nobody’s business what you came for. A group of women in their baggy coats sat at the corner, all three of them talked, giggled, and drank gin. They looked happy, genuinely happy and he wondered if the gin really made the difference in their delayed lives.
“You good, man?” Vic asked, his gaze swept across the room.
Lex nodded. He had sat at that same spot months ago, only for a different reason. He would usually drink until he passed out and woke up with Vic splashing water right on his face or in a bathroom cubicle soaked in his own piss.
He raised the heavy glass to his lips. One shot and a fire within him grew. Warmth trickled down his throat. He looked at his empty glass, saw nothing but a massive waste. He decided he couldn’t stay in that place. He stood up and left the bar before he could lose control and get himself in trouble.
Lex put his hands over his mouth and shut his eyes to focus on the ethereal noise of the city. The uproar felt therapeutic. It reminded him of the life around him. The noise was potent. Wide-eyed and beaming with hope was what he was when he moved to New York. Nothing was provincial in the place. He felt he could belong. He liked the variety, the different hues in what seemed like a palette of cultures. The busy communal life appealed to him. The way people lined up for coffees, the way they are too fixated on their smartphones or their personal issues on subways. Or the way you can see through the lighted windows how people danced with each other, shameless and free. He liked the coexistence of individuals without lingering too much. Maybe he lingered too much or maybe the place just lost its appeal. Either way, New York became dull and tiresome for Lex.
He crossed his arms and decided to walk home. He didn’t think his aimless wandering around the streets would do anything. Maybe he’d just run into someone he knew. Hi, he would say. A brief glance, a little smirk, some senseless come-ons, and they would both wake up in a hotel room. He would take her from behind as she pressed her palms against the wall. Harder, Lex, he recalled a woman saying, her breath smelling of mint and lemon. It might have been Kelly who was PA to a growing alt-pop band. Kelly, with her sweet burst of giggles, pulled him close. He couldn’t get an erection at the time, so he used a small mineral water bottle carelessly wrapped in a latex condom. He had picked up the bottle from a liquor store. He never thought water bottles could come that handy. It didn’t matter now. She had a good time.
It was something he didn’t want tonight. Well, not tonight, he thought. Not tonight.
He dropped his keys at the door of his apartment. Rest was all he wanted. His hands trembled. What do you want, Lex? He felt like shouting. He bent and grabbed the keys.
“Do you need any help, Mr. McQueen?” his neighbor, Mrs. Satur, opened her door adorned with brown, plastic vines and lifted her creased face. Lex couldn’t remember when she stopped passive-aggressively giving him casseroles. “You look tired, son.”
“No, I’m fine.” he replied. She smiled sheepishly. Lex frowned, his voice trembled violently like he was out of control. He finally managed to open the door and waved goodbye to her.
He threw himself on his bed, the comfort almost homelike as he covered himself with a blanket. The bed knew him. He wanted to close his eyes. He wanted his body to feel the sheets. It was the warmth of a mother he never had. His phone rang again, but this time it vibrated to a different tune. The tune of synthesized piano flourishes looped, horrid and loud. It was three in the morning. Someone said it was the devil’s time. Was it the devil himself calling?
He reached for his phone, still ringing in its sky-blue case that had scratches all over it. Here it comes. It was an alarm that he had set to repeat every year at this exact moment. The three o’clock alarm. An old and horrible reminder. It had been years, but it still creeped into him every time.
PRAY, the phone displayed in bold letters. He knew what day it was. March 7, twenty years since his father killed himself. Images of him, an odd mix of both gore and beauty, came to his mind. He thought about the prayer. He thought about it a lot and as he did, his throat felt dry.
He made the sign of the cross, each movement tainted with doubt. He closed his eyes and wondered if his mouth still knew the words, and if the words even worked at all. He was afraid the alcohol might further weaken his resolve, that the prayers would falter at the back of his skull. He stroked the fabric of his blanket until he found a rhythm that urged him to begin. “Our Father,” he said with a certain conviction he never thought he could possibly have. God. Mary. Jesus. Holy Spirit.
And there he was speaking the old words - how much could they mean?
He spoke the prayer and wondered how many Hail Marys it would take to atone for whatever mortal sins. A hundred? Thousands? Millions? Until the divine words made sense to the bleeding tongue? He didn’t know.
He closed his eyes and dreamed of his father. He dreamed of the office chair where he sat to accumulate his father’s failed thoughts, of birds that circled in the sky, of a clear river turned red, wild roses that bloomed and died, his apartment clean and neat, the smiles of the ones he cherished.
When he woke up, his back hurt. It ached whenever he bent. He had tiny scratches on his left hand, which he figured he must have gotten while climbing up the stairs. He walked to the kitchen counter and picked up the kettle. He made a pot of the cheap tea he bought from the Cambodian store downstairs. He poured himself a cup and sat on the chair that faced the ugly dishes. He could smell the stench now. He wanted to gag.
He could use a moment of stillness to make sense of the thoughts that swirled around his head. He was stirring some brown sugar into his tea when his phone rang. The sound startled him. It felt like a nail had pierced through his skull, drilled past the bone and into his brain. He imagined his blood splattered across the room, turning the bed a dreadful sea of red. He tried to ignore the ringing, but it wouldn’t stop. Please stop. It sounded more persistent this time. Damn it.
He could tell by the heat that it was past noon. He grabbed the phone, answered it, and heard heavy breathing on the other end of the line. Then the heavy breathing turned to woeful sobbing. He suddenly remembered the crescendo of the funeral band. Lex knew that sob, the shrill quality of it. He wanted to hang up and sleep emptily again. He waited. It was an overly long pause, and he felt his blood run cold. He sensed something ominous waiting for him on the other end. Something that would impale him when it finally struck.
He got up and tried to shake off the sickly feeling that had been clinging to him for weeks. He jerked as if he’d been thrown into a scalding bath. His skin ached with a familiar sensation.
“What is it, Aunt Marie?” he asked, hoping it was something ordinary—lost dog, Bible club drama, dead patient. Anything.
“Come home,” she said, giving Lex a measure of relief. She was only missing him. But there was a hint of urgency in her shrill voice, less familiar, more desperate. He called her often. From time to time, a faint exchange of words about how was the weather on New York or if Lex knew someone she had bumped on the market and it always end up the same. She would ask for him to spend time back home.
“I can’t.” Lex replied, as he had done many times.
“It’s Mars.” She whispered over the phone.
The name came unbidden to Lex. His twin brother Mars, forever good. It has been a long time.
“What about him?” More sobbing that turned to a pointed sound like, a quick clattering of glasses. Lex closed his eyes and heard her wobbling inhalations for seconds.
“What is it? Is he sick?” Lex asked sharply. He was sure his aunt was just overreacting. Old people were so sensitive.
“Mars—He’s—” He imagined her trying to compose herself. She would probably be in the parlor, wearing a loose green sweater, her hand pressed hard against the back of the largest chair so she could stand firm. “He’s…dead.” A sob between those two words.
Dead.
His brother.
No. Just no.
“He killed himself this morning.”
Lex hung up. He didn’t bother asking for details. He kept tilting his head. Unbelievable. Not so Mars. What now? he asked himself. What sort of cruel joke was this? He felt nothing. Not even an inner muted groan nor a mild pinch of shock. The thought of his brother dying didn’t stir fury or grief in him, no strong feeling rumbled up through him. Nor was any sense of loss ignited. His heart didn’t pump madly. He shook his head, sat at the couch and scribbled his brother’s name on a piece of crumpled yellow paper.
Three hours passed after the call . He turned on the heater and sat on the couch for a while waiting for another call, one that would take it all back. He washed his face for the first time in several days. The water ran warm as he tapped his cheeks and saw his lucid face. At 6 pm, he knew it was all true,. All hopes, monumentally stupid hopes of it being a tasteless joke quickly sank.
Well played, Mars, he thought. His brother took his own life on the anniversary of their father’s suicide. The same fucking day. How dare he.
He thought about the heaviness he will soon bear. Death, death, death—their lives had always been entwined with it. Now he’d have to pray for one more soul each year.
Leave no man behind, right? What a fucking lie.