Through the cracked back door I peek over to Ferret’s property. Eric already has him distracted with a front porch roach and a promised lead on parts for his other projects: a golf cart drive shaft for a rolling St. Bernard found dead in a cross town ditch, and a pump value for a bird bath built with the birds’ corpses, neither of which exist, but Ferret takes the news with absolute conviction. I wait at Marsha’s back step for the agreed sign of abandon: a brisk cough, which hacks through the air on the ruse of a sharp inhale.

  I leave Marsha alone and move toward Ferret’s shed in hopes that this departure will not become abandonment. She inhales tears and mucus, sending her sad echo into the outside, as I carve a grass path to our mechanized llama. Those sobs mingle amid the laughter now spewing from Ferret’s front porch. Laughter = happiness. Sob = sadness. See also frown, tears.

  The shed air smells of rust and oil. Or perhaps me. I’m part of the ambient lifelessness, frozen wrenches, still sockets, a stiff saw nailed to the wall. Awaiting purpose. Stay human, Mitchell.

  Daisy sits center stage, surrounded by discarded tools and stripped wire sheaths. She is the armored nucleus, sure to soon be shrapnel under Ferret’s pyrotechnic direction. She grows fuses. She sprouts cannons. I have seen Ferret destroy buildings with less.

  Her fur gives, but I feel no skin. I remember the sense coarse hair should allow, but I feel nothing. No ground, no weight, no air. And the smell too has suddenly disappeared.

  Human, Mitchell.

  I repurpose a mud-lacquered garden hose and hitch the statued body to my own. Our escape comes clean, trekking through backyards and concrete overflow ditches, cloaked by the reliable disinterest neighborhood of stoners. Ferret laughs a dying wail. The llama follows behind me, obedient to the tether and graceful despite the pebbled ground and recycled casters (from shopping carts, the best I can tell). Its armaments entice ignition at every jarring step. Weathered posters measure my journey, most devoid of the llama’s likeness, washed of all ink, just flimsy flaps of paper advertising nothing. The neighborhood too appears withered.

  The llama’s home just nicks the periphery of our neighborhood, a positive x coordinate to Marsha’s negative. And as the opposing geography would imply, the home’s crisp landscaping and pristine blue paint job contrast Marsha’s weed garden and stripped wooden siding. I wonder how Ferret got as far as he did without rousing suspicion. A home like this keeps motion lights for people like Ferret. Likewise, how am I so invisible? And at that thought, just as I spot the house at the end of the block, a young girl rides up beside me on a yellow bike with patriotic handlebar streamers, limp despite the subtle breeze. I guess age nine by her boyish chest and willingness to engage a stranger. “Hey,” she says, pedaling softly to maintain pace with my increasingly rigid gait. Is this what it feels like to rust? I check my frame, no rust anywhere. Is this then, what it feels like to lose a heartbeat ? I ignore her; I do not need further suspicion. But she persists, riding now in front of me and craning back. “What are you doing with that?”

  A few words cannot hurt. “Bringing it back to its owner. Do you know the owner?”

  “What is it?”

  “A llama. A dead one.”

  She slows her pedal at ‘dead.’ “Ms. Gregor use to have a llama. But it ran away.”

  “Does she live there?” I say, and motion toward the blue house.

  The girl nods. “Why are you bringing it back?” She circles me now, a curiosity devoid of social tact favoring questions upon questions upon—“Did you kill the llama? What happened to it? Why are you metal?”

  “It died. Have you ever had a pet die?”

  She ponders. “I dropped a frog once, in the toilet. Mom says he’s probably still alive.”

  “He is dead,” I say and search her face for reaction.

  “It’s not dead,” she says, less dread and more anger in her voice.

  I push. “What if I could show you the dead frog? Would you believe me?”

  “That wouldn’t be the same frog.”

  I push harder. “What if I found your frog in the toilet, pulled it out, and then stomped on it myself? Then how would you feel?”

  She considers the thought but shrugs. “I didn’t really like that frog, anyway.”

  My knees are locking, letting only my hips push forward. “What about me? Do I scare you?” The house taunts me.

  She shakes her head. “I’ve seen machines before. My mom’s boyfriend works on trucks.”

  “Grab this hose for me,” I say and flex my right clamp. As I meld into streamlined inevitability, all superfluous joints fading, I enlist the help of the girl. But, as one machine surveying the workings of another, I am conscious now of her weak-shouldered youth. I instead bend down to her bike and tie the hose. “Can you pull this to that house?” She nods. “Ring the doorbell, too.” And she is off, sweating for the sake of a machine, like a perfect assembly line station.

  She breaches the entrance gate, the llama trailing behind on surprising bearings. The entire yard, so obvious now, exists as a home for the llama. A shelter, treated wood and felt-underlined shingles. A trough, packed with hay. I still recognize what should be love. Stay human, Mitchell.

  Suddenly, a desperate “hey” calls from behind. Ferret vibrates the ground at my rear, huffing a poorly-paced trot, intelligible commands robbing his weak breath. “You’re scrap!” it sounds like.

  I tell the girl to hurry. I think it, perhaps. My jaw hardens to an elbow bracket. She turns back, her eyes questioning motivation, but furious Ferret scares her forward. She is at the door. Presses the doorbell. Paralyzed, as I am, for a reaction.

  The door opens to a woman, her friendly grin interrupted by the trailing llama. “Daisy.” She cries. No reaction more human.

  “Scrap!” Ferret yells, and all the world dissolves to schematics.

  E: I assure you mom, he tried

  M: But did he assure me?

  E: It was Ferret. Mitchell was afraid to ask for the llama.

  M: And this, this is all you could get from him? A piece of metal…what is this?

  E: A screw or something. Ferret would be pissed if he knew I had this much.

  M: I’ll hang a picture with it.

  E: Mom.

  M: Eric.

  E: Did you do this to him?

  M: I don’t know how to be human any more than you do or he did. Maybe he simply failed…I could have. Sure. Maybe.

  E: How’s your leg?

  M: This chair is a godsend. I wouldn’t feel human without it.

  Parts

  globe valve

  These downtown Hubert Lofts hijacked my young horizons. Two renegade weeds from an otherwise clean, though admittedly barren, lawn split the earth years ago to strangle the clouds and occupy our family photograph backgrounds; pictures rendered good enough for Mom’s wall, but always heavy with commentary. “I’d love to have raised you downtown, Eric,” she said too often. “We’re not even cultured enough for the suburbs to claim us.” Seeing the towers reminded us that we didn’t live in them.

  From Tom’s loft balcony, my mother’s home doesn’t exist. The tree canopy and church steeple distractions erase that life, leaving a view washed of all but green and stone. Tom uses words like quaint and dismal when measuring to my mother’s distant horizon.

  “I don’t know,” I tell Tom. “Distant maybe. But I wouldn’t say quaint.” I inhale from my converted globe valve pipe, let the smoke waft beyond the railing. A breeze tangles my blond cancer wig, my mother’s. Tom inhales, denies the smoke from escaping our contrived conversation. I’m not gay, neither am I a habitual cross-dresser, but for a chance to walk these lofts I can pretend. Mom always wanted to know how these people lived. So far, mom, I’d use words like aromatic and chic. “That’s a nice pipe you have there,” Tom says.

  “I stole it from a friend. He’s got a nose for things like this.”

  Tom lifts a highball from a table at his knee. “Must have been a good friend.” He drinks.

  “I stole it.”

  Silence from each neighboring wall saves the moment. The only sound to fight our discomfort and the steady winter air is Tom’s own stereo, spewing ambient jazz he calls “superb.”

  “I don’t know,” I tell him. “Annoying maybe. But I wouldn’t call it superb.”

  He touches the highball to his lips, considers it but returns the glass to the table. “Why even agree to come up here?”

  “Honestly? My mother and I have a bet. She says people who live in lofts are artistic types with good taste.”

  “And…”

  “So far, I’m winning.”

  He plants into one of the two metal-worked chairs behind us and reaches back to power on a dim overhanging bulb. The light reflects against the textured metal, camouflaging his balcony nook with the same stars haunting over us. We are floating, defying gravity and ascension alike. “Owning a loft is in good taste, wouldn’t you say?”

  I can feel his eyes against my back. Another inhale, exhale leaves acrid smoke hovering thick in front of us, a limbo between the asphalt below and the spotted night above. “Owning a loft for the right reasons is in good taste, yes. Owning a loft to fuck rookie trannies is not.”

  Tom swats a mosquito at his neck. “Since when is fucking a wrong reason?”

  “This,” I gesture with my chin toward his living room, a sweeping motion to describe the aging bachelor’s entire life, “should be a perfect existence. You’ve got a couch upholstered in rabbit fur, walls filled with artists only other perfect people know, and a view that could kill lesser men. Why can’t you see this?”

  “Are you saying I’m one of those lesser men?”

  “Do you call this perfect?”

  “I’ve lived with better views,” he says. “And I don’t have a pipe that nice.”

  “There are no better views. Have you ever truly looked out there?” I extend my arm over the railing, the pipe at my clenched fist, and sweep the black skyline. “Have you ever envied—”but I’m stripped of the pipe by a falling body, a blur of skin and fabric piercing the blanketed smoke. Within a single heartbeat, a body goes from one of the Earth’s residents to just one of its craggy imperfections.

  Tom knocks his drink to the ground as he rushes to the railing. “Shit,” he says, no taste, no art to his reaction. “Did he jump?”

  I swear I met the body’s eyes, received a wink and a confident smile. I still feel his cotton collar, his belt buckle, his laces against my fingertips.

  “Who the fuck was that?” Tom says pacing the balcony, his neck still craned over the edge.

  “You live here,” I say. Fresh light from the first floor neighbor’s deck illuminates Tom’s face. He’s sneaking a grin amid his concern.

  “I don’t know everybody,” he says. “Should I call an ambulance?”

  I keep my seat to maintain poise. “Do you know anybody?”

  The first floor light flicks off. No observance beyond that simple dismissal. The darkness releases Tom back from the edge. He claims the opportunity for a lesson: “See, this lifestyle isn’t perfect. It drives some people mad.”

  I pull away. “Yes it is. Those people just don’t live it right.”

  “I’m calling an ambulance,” he says and kicks aside his fallen highball as he enters the loft.

  Should I look? I have never seen a dead human, not outside my head, and morbid curiosity can be a persuasive demon. After all, I’m enduring this loft, aren’t I? The smoke has dissipated entirely, leaving not even a fog to mask the stars. Even that man’s final destructive wake has died. I wonder how long he spent aiming for these lofts only to one day aim for its ground.

  Tom pokes his head outside. “Ambulance is on its way.” He pulls back in but stops. “I’m going down there. If your pipe survived, can I have it?”

  I shrug, nod, and watch him leave with this still smuggled tiny grin. On the way out, I steal a painting from his wall—Mother’s Day approaches—and head to the stairwell for a rear exit.

  malignant bolt

  (ding)

  Twenty-five years, and you’ve[1] had the same fucking[2] golf balls on your[3] wall. Too many. [4]

  I think my family[5] finally got the hint that I[6] don’t collect golf balls[7].

  Maybe if I get you[8] another display case[9], they’d start up again[10]. Your birthday is coming up.[11]

  Don’t make me[12] shave your head.[13] Have a seat. [14]

  Twenty-five years. How many times[15] have you heard “just[16] a trim”[17]?

  From you? Too many. [18] Time for you to get rid of that mane. [19] In a dark bar, I[20] would mistake you for an[21] ugly woman[22].

  The less you cut, the less[23] work you have to do[24]. Not too many people can operate[25] scissors for a few minutes[26] and get away with twenty dollars[27].

  Not too many people are going to[28] tolerate someone like you[29], even for those few minutes[30].

  Just cut. [31]

  (snip)

  This shit keeps growing. [32] Why is that? They[33] teach you the biology[34] of hair in[35] barber school?[36]

  I’m a stylist. [37]

  They teach it to you? [38]

  No other animal grows[39] hair like we do[40]. You don’t see monkeys[41] chopping locks[42] with sharpened stones[43].

  Do monkeys even[44] sharpen stones[45]? Humans do. [46]

  I don’t know[47], they didn’t[48] teach it to me[49].

  (snip)

  When someone sits down and says[50], “just a trim,”[51] does it even register anymore?[52] You’re a barber[53] to everyone. Just a[54] guy who cuts hair[55]. You’re programmed for it.[56]

  I’m a stylist. [57]

  (snip)

  How do you know the moment you cease to be human?[58] They teach you that?[59]

  It’s too early for that shit.[60]

  (snip)

  Listen to us, even we sound the same.[61]

  That’s too scary.[62]

  (snip)

  I’ve sat in this chair for twenty-five years. [63] The coroner will have to[64] scrape my scalp[65] from under your fingernails[66].

  I have upgraded my chair[67] three times in that time.[68]

  Maybe it’s the[69] acknowledgement of repetition[70] that makes us human?[71] When we no longer recognize[72] the repetition, that’s[73] when we stop being human.[74]

  Not now.[75]

  So what are we? [76] We’re machines.[77] Except[78]…

  Except? [79]

  Except nothing. [80] If we recognize the repetition[81], but choose to ignore it[82], we are no better than machines[83].

  Or monkeys. [84]

  Neither is a human. [85]

  (snip)

  I got fired today. [86] I’ve been leaving a[87] single screw out of the[88] toasters for years[89]. Assembled, packed, and shipped[90], minus one screw[91].

  Years? I’ve heard of the[92] plant letting[93] lifers go for[94] much less. I have an[95] aunt[96] who was fired for laughing[97]. She worked there for twenty-three years.[98]

  And no one ever complained about the missing[99] screw. So I[100] ask you, what’s the purpose of[101] this screw[102]?

  Why did you work there? [103]

  I like machines.[104]

  Maybe the screw[105] is an aesthetic thing[106].

  Whose aesthetic? [107] No one ever complained. [108]

  (snip)

  You cut my hair, but[109] I keep going. So[110] what is the purpose of hair[111]? To keep your elbows[112] from rusting[113]?

  To pay my ex’s mortgage. [114]

  You’re divorced? [115]

  As of yesterday. [116]

  (snip)

  Why? If you don’t mind. [117]

  Said the spark died. [118] Things got tedious…[119]

  Well, at least we know she’s human. [120]

  I am, too. I see[121] the tedium, but I[122] choose to bear it[123]. I could do something new. [124]

  (snip)

  Could you? Step[125] far enough away from the minutiae[126], and everything’s been done[127]. It’s all repetition. [128] There is nothing new under the sun. [129] Even this conversation[130], philosophers have been having[131] it for years[132]. Sartre. Said. [133]

  Has someone really talked about[134] monkeys chopping locks with sharpened stones[135]?

  I’m sure someone has. [136]

  (snip)

  Easy on the mane. [137] I have plans for this. [138]

  Unless those plans[139] are to look like a woman[140], you are apt to fail. [141]

  …[142]

  Really?[143]

  I can have conversations[144] here with you, and have the[145] same conversation tonight[146], but as a woman. I’m[147] a different person. So[148] something new comes of it[149]. I’m living twice[150].

  You hang out with[151] tranny stylists[152]?

  In theory, dick! [153] I could say the same words[154] but get something different[155]. A changed context is a[156] changed experience[157].

  Why tell me this? [158]

  The best way to find out if you can trust somebody is to trust them. [159] I’m sure it wasn’t easy to[160] bring up your divorce[161]. You can call it[162] raiding each other’s closets[163].

  It was quite easy. [164] I like structure. [165] She doesn’t. [166] Fucking alimony. [167]

  (snip)

  All done. [168] Take look in the mirror. [169]

  No need. Nothing trivializes progress more than a reflection. [170]

  I like that. Who said that? [171]

  You. [172]

  Really? I guess I don’t need[173] fake tits and long hair[174]. Old age[175] seems to work just fine[176].

  You want me to get you some phone numbers? [177] Some of the trannies[178] clean up quite well[179].

  Let me be single one weekend.[180] Then you can fuck off.[181]

  (ding)

  a screw or something

  Two months with an elevated leg trains blood to reroute in all sorts of strange ways. Marsha’s elbow throbs. Her thigh pulses. Inside, her veins and capillaries swell to the disarrayed tidal backflow of confused arteries. Her body narrates its deterioration in sore joints and labored breath, comforting decline by casketing her healing bones with swollen muscle and taut ligaments. This is the kind of pain Mitchell swore to have wanted for himself, toward the end, when all that was left of him was a numb desire to stay alive. While she wanted her pain to stop, he wanted his to start. The comatose and the injured, neither completely human and neither completely machine.

 

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