Hanging On St. Jude, by Nik Korpon

Rivulets of thin pink blood stream from the sides of his lips. He chews with his mouth open. Bits of raw flesh stuck between his teeth. He dabs the corner of his lips with the cloth napkin tucked into his collar to keep his bolo tie clean and I’ve lost my appetite. I bite an ice cube in half. God damn you, Elroy, how do you find these people? He tears off another piece, looks me up and down, chews and grunts approval. It’s me or the steak but either way I want to break my glass on his neck. I poke the dead flesh lying in front of me, daring it to move.

‘C’mon, girl. Eat up.’ A speck of pink falls onto his napkin. ‘I didn’t order somethin for you to look at.’

‘I’m vegetarian.’ I adjust the strap of my dress and wish I’d brought a sweater. He’s been staring at my chest the entire meal, smile a gash on his drink-bloated face.

‘But, I got it in good confidence you do in fact like meat.’ His teeth scrape the metal prongs of the fork when he shoves in more steak. Chews on one side, gives me the I’ma fuck you nasty smirk with the other. I whisper a prayer to the patron saint of heart attacks then flag down our waiter and point to my glass.

‘Another, Madame?’ He has surgeon’s hands, slender ice-picks with manicured nails. His cheekbones are effeminate and I’m positive he exfoliates.

‘Extra dirty.’ I give him a polite smile, exhale to remove the alcohol tang of his imposter cologne. ‘Thank you.’

This brings a juvenile guffaw from the cowboy pederast across from me. He grabs the poor boy by the elbow. ‘Another of your fine cognacs, too, champ.’ The waiter scampers off.

His jowls wobble with each grunting laugh. He slaps his thigh. ‘Extra dirty,’ he says, wiping the corner of his eye with his napkin. The cloth falls over his hand like a cheap Halloween ghost. His left hand looks dead, alien. A distinct line across his wrist just below the cuff and the flesh is a different shade. ‘Damn, I knew you was freaky, but shit.’

My hand curls around the fork and I want nothing more than to sink it into his cheek and tear until I can see the back of his throat then tell him his last comment didn’t even make sense. Instead, I smile at him and bite my bottom lip, then stand and excuse myself to the bathroom. I can feel his eyes on my ass.

Fishtanks sunk into the wall of the restaurant. Blobs of electrified color zip in every direction, a handful of tetras and surgeonfish imported from the Indian Ocean. Translucent anemones wave their fingers in the current. Strewn across the floor of the tank, diamonds, rubies and emeralds sparkle in the light. A striped clownfish trembles inside a coral hollow, both a sanctuary and a prison. Oh I wish, I wish, I was a fish.

The maitre ’de gives a slight bow and assures me that if he can assist Madame Wren in any way to please not hesitate to ask. Thin wisps of white at the edge of his hair, probably pancake makeup from his Halloween costume, even though All Souls Day passed and he’s been wearing that for more than 48 hours. A train of waiters pass me, some flaming concoction held above their heads. They’re villagers on the way to reduce their monster to ash and cinder. For a second, I imagine tripping the first, splattering the fire-cake all over the corpse patrons and their mummified wives. I can see them holding me by the ankles and wrists and tossing me into the back alley, a body rolled up in a carpet, the Cowboy fuck still sitting at the table and chewing his steak. I blink and thank the maitre ’de for his hospitality.

‘And please,’ he says, ‘give my best to Monsieur Elroy.’

Inside the bathroom, my reflected hand smacks my cheek. ‘Fucking cow. Get yourself together.’ The sting of a razor glove and my face looks like a radioactive peach. The air smells of static electricity. ‘Goddamn you, bitch. You’re going to ruin this fucking contract.’ I lean down and trace the patterns of the marble counter as I snort three lines of the Sweet Lady. Serenity drips behind my nose, down my throat. The stone must be only an inch thick but has the illusion of infinity, flying over the crystal ocean. Warm water covers my body as the drug merges with my blood. You tell me you love me, Elroy, and you let me poison myself. You allow me the delusion of control.

I let my eyelids drift shut and feel my breath ebb and flow. You’re good, Wren. You’re fucking aces. The room materializes before me. I sample hand lotion from the woven basket and go back to work.

The table is like my life, everything about the same when I return. The only alteration is that the steak on my plate is now on his and there is an extra martini. My napkin, folded into a delicate linen swan. This is the type of restaurant that Elroy always books my appointments. He says that investors need to see the charming side of Baltimore, but without the risk of a drive-by. I’d told him to give the investor strong pot and a Welcome Brochure and he told me to go fuck myself. At least in the restaurant, as opposed to the brochure, the drinks are strong and the lotion isn’t oily. And, it goes on the city’s tab.

He flicks his head in my direction. ‘You feeling better, sugartits?’ This motherfucker holds half the oil in Texas but leaves us to pick up the bill, and he has the nerve to insult me.

‘Much,’ I nod, all smiles and come hither.

That fucking smirk again and I breathe deep, swallow the urge to turn his face into hamburger. He skewers four hunks on his fork, shoves them in his mouth, twists his wrist and it only now occurs to me that the hand isn’t dead, it’s a prosthesis. ‘Think it’s time for desert, then.’

I shake my head and bite the nail on my pinkie. ‘Just drinks, actually.’

He snorts when he laughs. ‘Yeah, whatever you say.’

The Cowboy possesses the manners of a Neanderthal rapist and the night bellman has to hurry over and open the hotel door for us. He’s a shrunken man with hair like cigarette ash and skin dark as burnt coffee. I can never remember his name, but a few times I’ve encountered him after securing an investor and the stories he tells might make even Elroy blush. He doesn’t mind, either, that I’ve introduced myself with at least eight different names.

‘Evenin’ y’all.’ He gives an exaggerated bow and tips a phantom hat. ‘I’s was findin’ myself lonely without ya.’

The Cowboy snickers, a kid who’s seen his first tit on late-night TV and I find the bellman’s act equal parts admirable, ingenious and sad. He pulls back the rusted gate of the elevator and motions for us to enter. The Cowboy presses his erection against my hip when he passes. This makes him snicker, as well.

‘We tried to get the rat from Muppets to work the switch, but damned if he don’t have hisself a good agent.’ Every time you get in the elevator, and it’s still funny.

He pushes the button for our floor and we rise. Behind the Cowboy’s back, the bellman gives me a wink and I purse my lips to not laugh and keep our joke inclusive. Tarnished brass and dead flies in the lights, melted carpet from dropped cigarettes.

When the elevator groans to a halt, he bids us a good evening with a slight salute. Half the hallway sleeps in shadows, burned-out lights hugging the walls. The faint scent of polish. I walk in front of the Cowboy, traipsing the delicate edge between lust and fit-to-be-raped. The pattern of the carpet is hypnotizing and I find myself concentrating on this repetition whenever I’m here. Elroy always insists on this hotel, too, but I’ve never been able to figure out why. An old favor is all he ever says.

He opens the door with a grunt and I hesitate on the periphery. Touch the round imprint of the compact in my purse, imagine the Sweet Lady holding my hand. I step through the threshold with a manufactured smile.

‘Do you have Tangueray or—’ my words collide with his tongue in my mouth. Charred grease and flesh. It tries to stab through the back of my throat. I push away but his hand grapples my neck. I relax, the way a zebra does when caught in the jaws of an obese and socially-inept lion, and allow him to grope me. He kneads my breasts, a baker preparing bread.

I tune in Morrissey on the radio station in my head, imagine his celibate fingers twirling my hair into curls as he recites Yeats and talks about impossible things in that winsome British way. He purrs in my ear and the combination of him and my Sweet Lady start to lift me away from my body. My blood fades to a distant trickling creek, contorted backwards, swishing through a body craned over a bed as a rabid hippopotamus ravages, and the Cowboy’s teeth in my neck whiplash me away from Morrissey back to reality. As he loosens his bolo tie, I dart away and peruse the top of his dresser for liquor. He grunts behind me, breathing from exertion. I hope he enjoyed his groping because touching my underwear is not on the schedule for the evening.

‘Any Maker’s Mark?’ I run a finger across the dresser’s edge.

A flash of silver in his toiletry bag, shaped to a point. I start to open it and he snatches it away, grumbles something and sets two glasses on the sink. The glass on porcelain is a rifle-crack. Ice cubes tinkle and shatter when he fills the glass.

‘Here,’ and he hands me half a glass of something blue.

I arch an eyebrow but sip anyway. It’s sweeter than Kool-Aid and could singe my hair.

‘I thought we could at least talk for a while. A great man like you, I’m sure you have a lot of interesting stories. The pinnacle of entrepreneurship, I’d venture to say.’

‘Hell, I don’t know nothing bout pinochle, but yeah, I’ve seen some things.’ He downs his glass, all cocky-bastard-like, and pours another.

‘You’ve made so many great deals and…’ My mouth continues to stroke his ego while my brain drifts away on a helium cloud. I can’t remember if I bought more food for my fish. I got feeder fish for the piranhas, then ran into some guy who said he knew me—which, in Baltimore, is never uncommon—and I was headed to the food aisle but might’ve been diverted towards the register. Shit, I hope I got food. Otherwise I’ll need to go in the morning so they don’t starve and I’d like to sleep in. A rumble snares my attention. The Cowboy covers his mouth in embarrassment while pouring another drink and his belch floats across the room like a cloud of homemade napalm. His cheeks flushed and a smile across his grill, he looks reasonably good, scumbag quotient aside. He’s enjoying himself and I should be able to end this appointment soon.

‘Sorry, darling. I didn’t mean to do that in the presence of a lady. Just slipped out.’ He pounds a fist on his chest and belches again, no embarrassment this time. ‘So’s anyway, that’s how I came to contact Mister Elroy.’ He pauses, waiting for me to add some humorous anecdote. I have no idea what he’s been talking about so I take a sip from my glass. The liquid is now brown and I don’t remember him pouring another but I drink it anyway.

‘We like to get to know our investors before taking up projects together. It’s only good business, you know.’ I cross the room to the window and swing my hips harder than normal, shift my weight to one leg so my dress hugs the bottom curve of my ass and a tattooed tiger paw hangs belong the silk hem. Revealing enough to sign, but still restrained to stay safe.

Couples stagger across Fells Point square, arms over shoulders, hands under shirts. A man with one leg holds out his cup, hopping and doing what looks to be some kind of swing dance. The couples pass him and he falls back on a bench, stares up at the stars with a smile on his face. Halloween trash flutters along the ground like discarded butterflies. The Cowboy’s breathing is audible, the sound of compliance. I’ve drawn him in and he’ll invest with us, if nothing else than to take another meeting in the hopes of seeing me naked. Sorry to disappoint, but I highly doubt it, partner.

‘How are you finding Baltimore? This is your first visit, right?’

‘Lots of money to be made round these parts. This here city’s a big pussy waitin to be fucked.’

‘Charming,’ and I don’t bother to tell him that analogy has the wrong connotation and making repeated references to genitals won’t help them spontaneously appear. ‘Have you had a chance to meet with Elroy in person yet?’

In the window reflection, he knocks back the rest of his drink in a breath, a metallic flash at his wrist, removing his watch. He steps towards me, licking his lips. My stomach fills with broken glass and bone shards. Hair stands at attention and I can feel sticky sweat on the back of my neck.

‘Had some sight-seein to take care of first.’

And before I can set down my drink, there’s a cool breeze as he yanks my dress above my waist. I slap at it and he pushes me into a chair. My stomach, naked and vulnerable. He lays one paw on my pelvis, the other on my shoulder. It’s not a paw, and it wasn’t his watch he was taking off: It was a metal claw he was putting on, a sharpened gardening implement attached at the wrist and what the fuck is going on? My blood is acid. Invisible ropes wrap around my head as I struggle to sit. He’s staring right at my stomach, the scar on my stomach.

‘Wait.’ I force a smile to my face but it must look horrified. ‘We can stop now and everything’s okay. Nothing. Nothing happened, just some dinner and a few drinks, nothing to worry about.’ The callous on his finger is sandpaper against my skin. ‘But you go any farther and Elroy will have your balls on his rear-view by the end of the week.’

He purses his lips and gust of breath explodes from his nose. ‘I got three pounds of Ben Franklin that say I can fuck you dirty.’

‘What the fuck does that mean?’

A smile infects his face. Burnt meat stuck between his teeth. ‘It means you gonna let me turn you inside-out, and I’m gonna give you enough money to make them problems go away.’ A silver prong traces my scar. ‘All of them.’

I swing my leg at him and my heel connects with his ribs. His grunt wouldn’t stir a fly. ‘I’m not a fucking whore.’

His laugh is an electric eel swimming through my spine. ‘Girl, I had you pegged soon as I laid eyes on you. No, no, mister, I ain’t no ho.’ His voice, high and mocking. Towering over me, I am a twelve-year-old niece in his mind. ‘Okay, then. You ain’t no harlot and I won’t give you no money.’

I blink my eyes and exhale.

‘But I do hope your plumbing don’t work no more.’

My back is electric as he wrenches me upright, hand clutching a knot of hair. Morrissey tries to sing but there’s too much static, I can’t tune him in and my Sweet Lady has gathered her belongings and skipped town. I choke on the smell of rotten meat that pours from the shirt he unbuttons. Cold metal on the back of my neck, he shoves my head down. The bolo tie flashes next to my eye and tears the skin of my cheek. With one hand he unclips his belt buckle and his pants fall. Boxers that were once white and might have been used to apply furniture polish. A hole in the left thigh and the fumes of a bog. His testicles are the size of my fist and that slab of meat with surely choke me. I dig my fingernails into his skin and almost get jabbed in the eye.

‘Yeah, I think I like Baltimore. It’s dirty and the food sucks.’ His fingers relax then tighten on my neck, the claw scratching the discolored tumbleweed on his pelvis. ‘The company ain’t much to desire, but I reckon I’ll like having someplace down here.’

He yanks my head back and his dead-snake eyes paralyze mine. ‘I think I can swallow it.’

And if I disassociate myself, if I close my eyes and open my mouth and think of summertime cookouts in Patterson Park, if I imagine Morrisey or Iggy Pop—fuck, even Elroy—and just get this over with, I’ll be out the door in five minutes and we’ll have his investment and I can tell Elroy I’m going for a spa or massage or to be pierced and strung from wires, whatever the fuck I want because I endured this. But his smug fucking laugh above me, the echoes in a darkened hallway of an abandoned sanitarium, he’s mocking me, he knows he has me and I’m not a whore.

I bite until my jaw hurts.

Hot copper floods my mouth. The shriek of a child watching its pet cat run into an electric fence. Several hairs and a flap of wrinkled skin in my teeth. He topples backwards onto the bed, curled fetal and cupping his testicles. Cursing that might raise some ancient demon. The bedspread changes color, a scarlet halo around his crotch. I wipe my face with the sheet and hurry to the door. A bottle of cologne lies on the floor and I aim at the small of his back. He doesn’t notice. His shrieks have faded to dull moans that come from some pain burrowing deep inside and, finally, we have something in common.

‘I’m not a fucking whore.’

At the edge of the stairwell, I wait for the bellman’s head to descend back into sleep. His feet rest on the reception desk and, behind the bulletproof glass, he has created a tiny womb, comfortable and secure. I envy him and his lack of stupid decisions. He snorts as he nods himself awake and his head begins to drop again. I am but a guilty shadow across the lobby, and I hope the cloud of shame following me doesn’t knock anything over and disturb him.

Two blocks from the hotel and I spy a pay phone inside the Greek Diner on Aliceanna. Cigarette smoke and coffee that smells of copper piping. The man in the booth by the phone piles grey eggs on a limp slice of bread. Next to his hand, a piece of paper with something scrawled in crayon. It might be a treasure map or the schematics of a pipe bomb. I drop two coins and dial Elroy’s number, rubbing the Saint Jude pendant hanging from my neck. The troll behind the counter screams in some vulgar language at a woman pushing an empty stroller. The woman assures the phantom child that everything is okay and wipes a golden tear from her cheek.

‘Who’s dead?’ His voice tumbles through the fog of sleep.

‘You motherfucker.’

‘Oh, well. Evening, Wren.’

‘I’m going to kill you.’ The man in the booth looks up at me and I push a whisper through my teeth. ‘That inbred fuck tried to rape me, you son of a bitch.’

Something on his end clicks and a breeze shivers through the line. ‘You’re fine, though?’ He says it as though he’s exhaling smoke and somehow I’m not surprised by his lack of concern.

‘You need to screen them better, El. This happens again and I’m out. I’m not doing this shit anymore.’

I can hear his smirk through the line. ‘Tell me what happened, darling.’

I swallow bile at the thought but concede anyway. His startled cough interrupts me mid-sentence.

‘You did what to him?’

‘He shoved my face into his bog hole like I was a fucking altar boy. What was I supposed to do?’ I grip the phone until my knuckles ache. The gash on my cheek burns bright blue when I lay my face against the wall. The slash of my blood doesn’t even stand out on the tile. ‘Look, I’ve always done what you asked. I don’t argue with you like Alma and Melody and I don’t ask for anything special. I let you talk me back into the job when I quit and I’m on top of things. But I need to know you have my back. This is the last time.’

A dry cough in the phone and I can imagine him standing in his living room, biting the filter off a Casamir before chaining it from the one between his lips, pouring another bourbon into his Simpsons coffee mug, scratching the hair billowing from the bathrobe that strands him somewhere between Roy Orbison and Hugh Hefner. I imagine his head on my nightstand with a rose in the mouth.

‘Can’t nothing happen to you, darling. You’re the Queen, right?’ I adjust the bottom of my dress and realize how many goosebumps I have. ‘I’m sorry it happened. Really, I’m all tore up. If you want to take a couple days off, go down the ocean or something, that’s fine. Reckon I need to get Alma up on her game anyhows.’

‘I don’t need time off. I need your word that it won’t happen again.’ The woman with the stroller stands in the middle of street, arms extended and face tipped skyward. The streetlight gives her the complexion of a body submerged in water that flows beneath a condemned bridge. ‘I’m serious, the next time something like this happens, there’s no talking. I’m out.’

‘Wren, sweetheart, I promise.’ The purr at the end of his words sets my legs to tingle. ‘It won’t happen again.’

I close my eyes and exhale. ‘Thank you.’

‘And if it ever does,’ he says, ‘I’ll chop off your head.’

My skin is cool, pale marble. ‘What?’

‘You’re my best girl, but you ever pull some shit like that and I’ll have you mounted over my fireplace. You got any idea how many cocks I gotta suck now, just to fix this?’

‘You bastard.’ The diner goes comatose. Hissing on the griddle and the tender tink of a baby tapping a fork against glass. ‘I fuck who I want, when I want. Don’t you ever fucking threaten me again.’

I beat the receiver against the wall until his voice fade to static. The plastic rim hangs from wire strands like an industrial jellyfish. I escape to the outside. Twenty eyes stare at me through the grease-fogged glass of the diner. The woman in the street mutters, praying for ascension. I kick her stroller over and it echoes in the empty street.

‘Give up.’

I slap her face and weave through alleys, as if anyone would be following me.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Nik Korpon is from Baltimore, MD. He likes to bang on the keyboard until something intelligible comes out, or his head hurts, whichever comes first. His stories have appeared in various places. He reviews books for the Outsider Writer Collective, co-hosts ‘Last Sunday, Last Rites,’ a reading series in Baltimore, and is writing his second novel.