Choke

The music is loud dance techno mixed with samples of dogs barking,car alarms,Hitler youthrallies. You hear sounds of breaking glass and gunshots. You hear women screaming and fire engine sirens in the music.

"Hey Picasso," the dancer says, and she dangles her foot in front of De

Without looking up from his pad, De

For serious, the world is gone wrong when we dance to fire alarms. Fire alarms don't mean fires anymore.

If there were a real fire, they'd just have somebody with a nice voice a

The world won't end with a whimper or a bang, but with a discreet, tasteful a

With one hand, the dancer takes De

De

And she says, "That's supposed to be me?"

"No," De

The dancer, she's Cherry Daiquiri from our last visit here only now her blond hair's dyed black. On the inside of one thigh is a little round bandage.

By now I've walked up to look over De

And De

And I say, "It sounds like you've been at the library again."

To Cherry, I say, "It's good you took care of that mole."

Cherry Daiquiri swings her hair in a fan around her head. She bows, then throws her long black hair back over her shoulders. "And I tinted my hair," she says. With one hand, she reaches back for a few strands and holds them out near me, rubbing them be­tween two fingers.

"It's black now," she says.

"I figured it's safer," she says, "since you told me blondes have the highest amount of skin cancer."

Me, I'm shaking each beer bottle, trying to find the one with any beer left to drink, and I look at De

De

Corinthian Tuscan composite architraves of the entablature . . . They should let some people into the library by prescription only. For serious, books about architecture are De

In America, if your addiction isn't always new and improved, you're a failure.

To Cherry, I tap my head. Then I point my finger at her. I wink and say, "Smart girl."

She's trying to bend one foot behind her head and says, "You can't be too careful." Her bush is still shaved, her skin still freck­led pink. Her toenails are silver. The music changes to a blast of machine-gun fire, then the whistle of falling bombs, and Cherry says, "Break time." She finds the slit in the curtain and she's gone backstage.

"Look at us, dude," I say. I find the last bottle of beer and it's warm. I say, "All women have to do is get naked, and we give them all our money. I mean, why are we such slaves?"

De

I move his rock to the floor and sit down.

I'm just tired, I tell him. It seems women are always bossing me around. First my mom, and now Dr. Marshall. In between, there's Nico and Leeza and Tanya to keep happy. Gwen, who wouldn't even let me rape her. They're all just in it for themselves. They all think men are obsolete. Useless. As if we're just some sexual appendix.

Just the life support system for an erection. Or a wallet.

From now on, I say, I'm not giving any more ground.

I'm going on strike.

From now on, women can open their own doors.

They can pick up the check for their own di

I'm not moving anybody's big heavy sofas, not anymore.

No more opening stuck jar lids, either.

And never again am I ever going to put down another toilet seat.

Hell, from now on I'm peeing on every seat.

With two fingers, I give the waitress the international sign language for two. Two more beers, please.

I say, "Let's just see women try and get along without me. Let's just watch their little female world grind to a halt."

The warm beer tastes from De

"And for real," I say, "if I'm on a sinking ship, I'm getting in the lifeboat first."

We don't need women. There are plenty other things in the world to have sex with, just go to a sexaholics meeting and take notes. There's microwaved watermelons. There's the vibrating handles of lawn mowers right at crotch level. There's vacuum cleaners and beanbag chairs. Internet sites. All those old chat room sex hounds pretending to be sixteen-year-old girls. For seri­ous, old FBI guys make the sexiest cyberbabes.

Please, just show me one thing in this world that is what you'd think.

To De

And De

"No, I mean it," I say.

I say I could just kill the guy who invented the dildo. I really could.

The music changes to an air raid siren. Then a new dancer struts out, glowing pink inside some sheer baby doll lingerie, her bush and breasts so almost there.

She drops one strap off her shoulder. She sucks on her index finger. Her other shoulder strap drops, and it's only her breasts that keep her lingerie from falling to her feet.

De

Chapter 32

When a tow truck from the auto club gets here, the front desk girl needs to go out to meet it, so I tell her, sure, I'll watch her desk.

For serious, but when the bus dropped me off at St. An­thony's today I noticed two of her tires were flat. Both rear wheels are resting right on the rims, I told her, and forced myself to make eye contact the whole time.

The security monitor shows the dining room, where old women are eating different shades of gray mashed food for lunch.