“Man, at the culmination of his rebellion, incarcerated himself; from Sade’s lurid castle to the concentration camps, man’s greatest liberty consisted only of building the prison of his crimes.”

                                                       – Albert Camus

“For the flesh sets its desire against the Spirit, and the Spirit against the flesh.”

                                                       – Galatians 5:17

“The railway trains are falling off the bridges.”

                                                       – Jakob van Hoddis

Part One

Prelude to a Pornographic Performance

(Semel in anno licet insanire)

1.

“OH SAVE YOURSELF from yourself!”

      He was one of those unquestionably deluded individuals. His hair a grey-brown, wiry mess. His clothes stinking and torn. His eyes wide and watery. His home was likely a puddle-filled alley. His bed a filthy, piss-stained mattress. His inebriation surely a constant state. But on that late Saturday afternoon, as Karen – clearly vexed – waited for me in the cab that was parked outside the convenient store, as the autumnal sun retreated from what seemed to be the ever-more dominant darkness of the evening, I thought to myself: Maybe the homeless guy has a point.

2. The jam | Slowly we drift . . .

SITTING IN TRAFFIC — is there a better metaphor for life?

   Coldcut City has the worst traffic congestion in North America. This isn’t statistically true, but it’s what I was thinking as I sat next to Karen in the back of a cab which crawled along 99th Street at a pace more appropriate for an escalator.

   We were flanked by skyscrapers, and I watched as people passed by on the pavement making their way to their respective destinations; handbags strewn over shoulders, heads bowed consuming information from their cell-phone Gods; rucksacks straddling backs. A few of them would glance in the direction of the cab, one or two catching my stare.

   I checked my watch: 6:45pm.

   Beside me, Karen was looking out the window.

   “I read somewhere that we spend at least three months of our lives stuck in traffic,” I said, to no response. “That’s approximately thirty-eight hours a year.”

   “Fascinating,” she returned tenuously.

   “But think of what you could do with that time,” I said. My impassioned statement was met with apathetic silence.

   I looked out the window again. Autumn had truly set in. The sidewalk was littered with crinkled bronzed leaves, and the evening sky in the distance looked as if it were a canvas on which a frustrated painter had lashed out with aggressive strokes of blues, pinks, reds . . .

   “We’re going to be late,” Karen said, checking her pallid complexion in her pocket mirror. Sometimes when she spoke, she’d close her eyes and her eyeballs beneath would engage in some kind of scanning activity, reducing her appearance to that of the possessed woman. This is how she looked as she clamped the pocket mirror shut in the palm of her hand.

   I sat up and leaned forward to address the cab driver, suddenly becoming aware of the musty scent in the cab, as if my movement had prompted its permeation of the air. “Maybe get off 99th at the next turn? We’ll be here all night.”

   The turban-wearing, bearded driver looked at me in the rear-view mirror.

   “That is what I plan on doing.” Impatience, incredulity. “You know there’s bin a crash, yis? You know traffic is more congested now going north ‘cause of the crash, yis? Do you think I like sitting here like slug?”

   “Hey, there’s no need—”

   Karen wrapped her fingers around my arm. “Please don’t fight with the cab driver.”

   “I’m not trying to fight, I—” but I quickly realized that this would be a losing battle, so I sat back in my seat, sighed, and looked out the window once again.

   More people: man, woman, child. An amalgamation of nations. Coldcut City – my home for almost twenty years, neighbor to New York – a merciless metropolis. All these passers-by were possibly mocking the two idiots sitting in a cab that moved a few yards every couple of minutes.

   I was tempted to get out and walk, but then I’d just be another person on the pavement.

   “That meter works on distance covered, right?” I asked.

   “Yis, yis. Don’t worry; the foreign man isn’t trying to rob you,” the driver replied with a jerk of the head and a roll of the eyes.

   I turned to Karen, raised my eyebrows: What’s with this guy?

   “I wasn’t implying that you were trying to rip us off, pal” I said. “Not everyone who gets in your cab is racist.”

   “Just leave it,” said Karen.

   The driver made some kind of frustrated noise — a wide-open-mouthed yahh! — and waved a dismissive hand before muttering something in his mother tongue. I rested myself against the back seat, fingered my phone from my trouser pocket and opened the browser. I’d forgotten to clear my browsing history, and I was greeted by a thumbnail featuring a supine couple nude and engaged in a not-so-subtle sexual exercise. ‘Alfie B. Lee/Raspberry Rose – Hot Pool Scene’was the title of the video. I experienced a momentary snippet of recollection: me furiously masturbating as I watched the video earlier that day, in the en suite bathroom before I took a shower — one hand gripping the sink as I looked at the video, the other hand wrapped around my shame — while Karen applied her make-up in the bedroom.

   I quickly swiped the window closed, not before checking to see if Karen had noticed, but she was busy staring out the window people-watching as the cab picked up the pace, finally, only for the driver to hit the brake a few seconds later, resulting in deeply felt desolation for the two passengers.

   I tapped my way to the settings menu on the phone and selected Clear History and Website Data.

   I thought to myself: Who knows about my internet history? Who’s aware that I was watching two porn stars go at it like bunnies only a couple of hours earlier? Who’s monitoring me? When will I be exposed? Why does the guilt grow with each diminishing climax?

   “Will you message Steph and tell her that we’re going to be a little late?”

   I looked at Karen as if she’d asked me to undress for the driver.

   “It would be good for you if you tried to communicate with her,” Karen elucidated.

   “That’s what I’ll be doing at dinner, sweetie. Dinner is one thing. Texting, that’s a whole other level of interaction. That could almost be misconstrued as amiability.”

   “Could you just try? For once?”

   “She’s the one who holds grudges,” I remonstrated. “I’m the nice one. She’s the nutbar.”

   Karen shook her head and sighed as she leaned forward and fished her bag for her cell phone. I watched her as she typed: her manicured fingernails glossed with a deep red polish ferociously tapped against the screen, accompanying sound effects for each chosen letter.

   I took in her facial features, because there had been times recently when I had closed my eyes and ordered my brain to present to me an image of my wife of eight years, but the result was not entirely accurate; the visage presented to me was mostly made up of Karen, but some of her — minute details like a fleck of color in her eye, or a slight variation in the angulations of her eyebrows, or a more obvious structural misrepresentation — would be made up of previous lovers. Lately, in my mind, Karen was a collage of almost every individual I had met underneath the cover of bed sheets.

   I thought to myself: What does that mean?

   There, in the cab, I registered her firm, confident expression, an expression that rarely changed in public, one which communicated determination. I observed her blue-grey eyes, garlanded by unnaturally long eyelashes. Her recently trimmed blonde hair fell obediently around her boney shoulders. Her exterior was both sexy and cold, and her interior could be both frosty and warm, depending on her mood.

   “Just try, please,” she looked at me with those eyes. “Just make an effort.”

   I nodded, smiled: Sure.

   “Don’t forget your appointment with Dr. Lillard tomorrow.”

   “Sweetie.” A reproach presented in a smile. “Let’s not talk about our personal problems in front of our cab-driver friend here.”

   The driver looked at me in the rear-view: “I don’t give a shit about your personal life, yis?” he said before turning his attention back to the road.

   I raised my eyebrows: Fair.

   I looked at Karen, who ignored the driver’s comment.

   “Maybe you should consider talking to him about Evan.”

   “The driver?”

   “Lillard!”

   “What good would that do?” I replied.

   “Because it’s an important issue, Lukas.”

   “But it has nothing to do with why I see Dr. Lillard,” I said in an unintentional monotone.

   “It’s important.”

   “I know it’s important. But we’re his parents. We’ll deal with it.”

   “It’s un-parentable.”

   “Is that a word?”

   Karen sighed, unamused – a recurring theme in the last two of her thirty-four years on planet earth. (Aside: Karen and I have not had sex in months; the earth, however, still spins in prograde motion.)

   I reached for her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

   “It’s not un-parentable. It’s something every parent’s got to deal with, I’m sure. I guess . . . Maybe we should talk to Steph and Bill about it.”

   Karen withdrew her hand.

   “God, no. I don’t want Stephanie knowing about this. Not until we know for sure.”

   “Well, how about Janice and Elliot?”

   Karen considered this proposal.              

   “Maybe Jan and El.”

   I didn’t respond. I wasn’t in the mood to further discuss the recent revelation about our only son; a disclosure he didn’t know his parents were aware of. (Aside: I’m convinced that Evan is a genius.)

   The cab fell into silence yet again. The traffic surrounding us — impatient honks and frustrated engine revs — the only source of conversation.

   Eventually Karen said, “Maybe we should see Dr. Lillard together.”

   “No,” a firm refusal, “not gonna happen.”

   “I had seen him before you began your sessions. It could be good for us. To talk about Evan . . . and us.”

   “Sweetie, no.”

   “We need to address these things.”

   “And we will,” I said. “And now I’d prefer if we stopped discussing all of this in front of a stranger.”

   This time the driver didn’t look at me. Karen pulled on her seatbelt absently as she stared out the window once again.

   There was a deep sadness about her being.

   “That poor kid,” she whispered.

   “Who?” I asked. “Evan?”

   But she didn’t respond.

   Then, a hint of success: The car moved a little faster; picked up the pace. The asphalt below us became the running belt of a treadmill, and eventually the driver accelerated hard as he turned off 99^th. Now I could enjoy looking out the window at the pavement walkers who drifted behind and out of my life, like a memory unworthy of preservation.

3. The dinner | Head, shoulders, camels, and toes…

AS I EXITED the cab, having paid the driver and providing him with an obscenely generous tip — an ironic screw you of sorts for his unwarranted hostility — I breathed in the crisp autumn evening air diluted with the omissions from vehicles passing through the busy street, a vague odor of sewage (the result of nearby construction work; there was always something being built in this city), and the jarring cigarette smoke which came from a group of suit-wearing gentlemen puffing away as they stood by the front entrance of The McDonald Hotel. The natural grace and splendor of autumn could be spectacular in this city ifyou kept your distance from downtown.

   I thumbed the waistband of my flat front trousers, ensured my shirt was neatly tucked in, and fixed my suit jacket with a single, synchronous tug with both hands. I took Karen’s hand and guided her out of the cab, closing the door behind her.

   After I turned and scratched the two-day-old stubble on my face, I took in the spot-lit visage of the building: the seven-story hotel’s distinctive, elegant châteauesque style belonged to a European vision of old; that of the 16th-century French castles (or so I’d read).

   I pocketed my hands as the taxi pulled away. Looking up at the Salem limestone-exterior (as described on page 56 of the Taschen architecture A-Z that Evan had shared with me) I regarded each window with squinted eyes as I considered the innumerable potential scenarios taking place behind the expensive, luxury curtains that hung from the equally expensive rails which were mounted above each expensively glassed window.

   I thought to myself: Maybe someone’s shooting a porno.

   This thought reminded me of my next journalistic endeavor. And while my upcoming interview with one of the most famous men in America excited me, a juxtapositional feeling of dread and anxiety was a conscientious constant.

   “Lukas!” Karen’s widened eyes reprimanded me. I slowly withdrew my hands from my pockets and approached the entrance, before waving cigarette smoke out of my way as Karen and I entered the hotel.

   I thought to myself: Cigarettes. Oh, how I miss thee.

XXX

“Immigration,” drawled William, pointing his fork which proffered a piece of medium rare steak; the bloody juice dripping into the small pool on his plate next to the cut of meat and assortment of in-season vegetables. He was a rotund, bibulous man who perspired almost incessantly. When he spoke, he often elongated syllables; sometimes he’d jitter like a jalopy attempting to start as he emphasized a point or a vowel. His grey hair was neatly combed back (as always). The elasticity of his face had waned in recent years, causing the skin to sag under the cheekbones and below his chin and jaw.

   I thought to myself: Gravity and time always win.

  He was beginning to look every bit his sixty-four years. Originally from the United Kingdom, and still possessing a sonorous, haughty accent – that patrician manner – he had been living in the United States for more than thirty years and considered himself an Anglo-American. “This country was built by immigrants. We’re all immigrants. Every one of us. Immigration. That’s your next piece.”

   “Immigration?”

   “Yes, yes. Immigration,” he said impatiently. “I want you to interview the everyday Jack who came to this country, or whose parents or grandparents came to this land. I want you to tell a linear story through a dozen or so immigrants. I know what this country stands for.”

   “It’s quite a shift from the Alfie B. Lee article—”

   “It’s important, Lukas, boy,’ he interrupted, jittering. “It’s relevant. . . And, well . . .” William paused, as if something had struck him there and then, his expression melancholy for a beat, but he shook it away before repeating softly, and somewhat sadly: “It’s important, Lukas.”

   “With the greatest respect, Bill,” I began in my Californian way (Aside: I grew up in Brentwood). “Immigration. It’s a little stale, right? I know with everything that’s going on in Europe and here with the wall, but right now . . . I don’t know. It doesn’t feel like the right move. People are getting tired of it . . . And, again with the greatest respect, you don’t assign me my jobs.”

   “That I don’t, but I do pay your salary, along with that of your editor-in-chief.” He leaned forward and pointed his fork at me again, with an accompanying wry smile. “And if I tell Melissa that I want Lukas Lazaruk to write a story on immigration, you’ll write a damn story on immigration.”

   “Are you boys discussing work at dinner?” Karen asked cheekily and cheerfully (always the perfect actress while in the presence of family and friends) as she checked her cell phone; I noticed her “like” a picture posted by a friend on Instagram.

   “Your wife has spoken,” smiled Bill.

   “What took you two so long, anyway?” asked Stephanie. She was wearing an outfit that I would call sexy if I could bring myself to compliment her. It was an Alexander McQueen sheer stripe dress that Karen had first noticed while watching Milan Fashion Week, after which she had called Stephanie to inform her of its existence: These days she used her sister to vicariously live out her sartorial fantasies having made a vow that she would no longer frivolously indulge in her penchant for expensive clothing. The final straw was the January 1st, 2016 purchase of a Dior dress along with a pair of Prada ankle boots, topped off with a Karl Lagerfeld suede bucket bag. That night she had dressed in each item she’d purchased and sobbed openly and uncontrollably on our king-sized bed.

   “Racist cab driver,” Karen said.

   “There was a crash, traffic was terrible,” I explained. “And yes, the driver appeared to be somewhat intolerant towards anyone he considered to be potentially racist, which I’m guessing means the white male.”

   “Ah, the white man: the oppressor. The privileged,” said William before he released a brattling cough, after which he patted his mouth with his napkin.

   I thought to myself: He’ll be dead in a few years, if not sooner.

   “Maybe he didn’t like you,” Stephanie offered.

   “He wouldn’t be the first,” I replied with a sardonic smile.

   “Everyone likes you, Lukas,” said Karen.

   “Well,” said Stephanie, ignoring my retort and Karen’s comment with well-rehearsed apathy. “Karen, guess what I’m having shipped in next week.”

   At this William rolled his eyes and jerked his head in a single, distressed upward motion.

   “What?” asked Karen.

   Stephanie sat forward and placed both hands on the table, either side of her dinner plate which housed a half-eaten Cajun chicken salad.

   “A miniature camel.”

   “A what?” replied Karen.

   “A what?” I echoed.

   William shook his head in dejected silence.

   “A miniature camel,” Stephanie beamed. “All the celebrities are getting them; they’re the latest trend.”

   “Jesus,” I said involuntarily, another response ignored by Stephanie.

   “One of the Kardashians is rumored to have two, although People had no pictures to accompany the article, so I’m a little skeptical. But I’ve seen them. They’re genetically engineered, or something. Or inbred, like the micro dogs. They. Are. The. Cutest little gooseberries. You have got to get one.”

   “A miniature camel?” asked Karen, mouth agape, as she swirled the cocktail pick in her dry martini.

   “They are so adorable!” said Stephanie as she unlocked her phone and presented a picture to Karen of what to me looked like a retarded monkey.

   “But . . . they’re camels,” Karen reasoned, or attempted to.

   “Miniature. Karen,” replied Stephanie. “Miniature camels. They’re teeny. They’re so cute with their two little humps and their dopey expressions. And they’d be great in the event of a drought; you know how dry it can get here in the summer.”

   William looked at me; his face had turned a deeper shade of red. His will to live, I surmised, had been lost.

   “Camel’s humps are mounds of fat, Stephanie,” he said, exasperated. I was certain spittle had escaped his mouth. “They’re not filled with bloody extractable water.”

    He turned to me once again and took a deep breath. I thought that he might cry.

   “Anyway, I was thinking about something else for you to sink your teeth into, Lukas. You know, your Venezuela piece,” he said, after which I felt a flurry of butterflies in my stomach. This was followed by a flood of intense heat permeating my body and draping my skin.

   I quickly rose from my chair and excused myself.

   “Sorry, Bill. I’ve to . . . run to the little boy’s room.”

   William looked surprised, but, as he did the math — a just-eaten meal and a sudden sense of urgency — his expression morphed into one of concession, followed by a look of empathy which was solidified with successive, approving nods of his head and raised hands.

   I exited the restaurant hurriedly, and, in the lobby, I leaned against the wall, loosened my tie, and released a long exhale. Enveloped by perspiration, I removed my phone from my pocket, looking around the foyer to check if anyone had noticed my rather obvious mental disintegration, but, thankfully, nobody was staring at me. (Aside: As I looked up, panting, I quietly admired the impressive lierne vault above me.)

   I immediately dialed the Hartmann Hotline.

   As usual it clicked after a single ring, and I held my breath as I was greeted by a sage German voice — not unlike Herzog’s — which said: 

   “Remember, all that exists is this moment. The past, the future — these are mere constructs, they do not exist: all that exists is now. All we have is now. Notice your breaths. Maybe you’re breathing through your nose, perhaps through your mouth. Notice where you feel your breath the most. Focus on that. And remember, chaos in our minds is not a reflection of reality. These are anxiety-filled times; you are well-equipped to deal with them.”

   When the voice ceased a prolonged beeeep followed, and I ended the call with an unintentionally loud exhale framed by circled lips as I reached into my trouser pocket and fished out two loose Ativan I’d stuffed in there earlier, before our taxi arrived. I placed the two pills into my mouth, fixed my tie, re-entered the busy restaurant.

   As I returned to the table, I raised my eyebrows and smiled apologetically, before taking my seat and reaching for the glass of Nebbiolo, which washed down both pills.

   “All okay?” asked William, concerned probably not for me but for the mere idea of a fellow diner shitting his pants and returning to a table afterwards.

   I smiled, still a little choked. I managed to force out a few labored words: ‘Okay. Good,” I nodded, mildly red-faced. “Great.”

   “Now,” William resumed. “Where was I?”

   “We were talking about immigration,” I said as, surprisingly, I found myself returning to a calm state almost immediately after ingesting the pills and consuming the wise words of Friedrich Hartmann. (Aside: This is America.)

   “Well,” began William, before hesitating. “No, I wanted to talk about something else, uh, Venu—”

   “I think an article on immigration is a great idea, actually,” I said.

   “You do?” asked William, surprised by my U-turn.

   “Yes, yes,’ I nodded enthusiastically.

   “Good. But I don’t want an opinion piece,” William replied. “I’m fed up with the unholy bombardment of opinion pieces adding to the nonsensical Sturm und Drang we’re experiencing these days. It’s all deceitful, partisan, self-serving, lazy journalism. And it’s not only blogs on the internet; the heavyweights, they all resort to it now. For goodness sake, they’re using emojis on the BBC. Emojis, Lukas! I don’t know what’s happened to journalism. It’s dead, in the reportage of Western issues. Foreign Correspondents – they’re still well-versed in the art of old-fashioned reportage. They’re the real journalists. But pick up any paper, click on any US newspaper’s website covering national news, click on a link on Facebook and you’re guaranteed to find overwrought and melodramatic – often factually scant, might I add – articles laced with ‘I, ME, ME, I, ME, WE.’ It’s a shambolic state of affairs, Lukas.”

   I shuffled in my chair uncomfortably as I took another sip of my wine.

   “You do know that my next interview—”

   “With the porn star.” A curt interjection.

   “Porn star and an industry legend. Yes, my interview with Alfie B. Lee . . . it is something of an opinion piece.”

   “Well,” said William, shrugging his shoulders and looking down at his dinner plate. “It’s a popcorn article, isn’t it?”

   “Is it?”

   “Yes,” he nodded firmly before looking me in the eye. “It’s a popcorn article, Lukas. It’ll entertain; it’ll help boost sales and subscriptions. It’ll please the shareholders. He’s a big name. He’ll grace the cover of The Cutter and, I’m sure, we’ll attract new readers. But we’ll have you back to real journalism once this publicity stunt is wrapped up.”

   I thought to myself: Ouch.

   And then I thought to myself: Miniature God damn camels.

4. The drinks | Losing Le Ché . . .

AFTER DINNER, THE four us sat at the hotel bar. The elegant glass bar countertop underlit by neon-blue light gave the place a false vibrancy, because this was countered by the lazy jazz playing at a low volume, emitted from multiple wall-mounted speakers, and with the bar being only half full the atmosphere was unquestionably relaxed.

   Stephanie brought up the breaking news of a murder which had happened not far from our house on Rutherford Drive.

   “It’s scary as hell,” said Stephanie. “To think that it happened so close to where you guys live. Seriously. It’s, like, how many blocks from your place?”

   “It’s a couple blocks away,” Karen said with what I thought was an affectation of concern. But she followed this with “He was just a kid,” with sadness in her voice, which led me to believe that her worry was genuine.

   To be precise, they were saying he was Leighton Le Ché, a pornographic actor who was hot property within the industry, having only starred in a handful of videos which had quickly become some of the most popular on major porn sites (I had consumed all of them as part of my research).

   The angelic-looking performer had been found that morning in his Coldcut apartment which overlooked the Dalloway River — the dividing line between the north and south sides of the city — with multiple stab wounds to his cherubic face. His well-toned torso was gashed and sliced, and on his left wrist (which bore the tattoo Forever Young—how prescient he was) were what appeared to be two puncture wounds; deep bite marks, although this last detail was mere conjecture. A quick Google search would lead you to grainy images taken by the cleaner who’d found the teenager’s blood-spattered and eviscerated body. The revelation that he was in fact seventeen when acting in his first video — ergo, underage — was causing a stir. (Aside: I’ve been sexually active since I was thirteen.)

   “It’s the viciousness that I don’t understand,” said Karen as she rested her elbows on the countertop and sipped her fifth martini of the night. I detected a warble in her voice. “The poor kid suffered a terrible death.”

   “Rent boys are always at risk of meeting such an end,” said William as he sipped his scotch.

   “Not a rent boy,” I corrected Bill. “He was an adult performer.”

   “And the difference is?”

   “Don’t be so heartless, Bill,” said Stephanie, who was the only one of us who wasn’t drinking alcohol. “He was some mother’s son.”

   “She’s right,” said Karen, her face still draped with concern, sadness.

   “And what was with those bite marks?”

   “Bite marks?” asked William.

   Stephanie rested her elbow on her husband’s shoulder.

   “There were two holes on his wrist.”

   “Come on,” I said. “Sensationalist nonsense.”

   “Oh yeah? Why so, detective?”

   “Those photographs are blurry as hell, and even if there were puncture holes on his wrist, I doubt they’re the result of a bite. Who knows what drugs kids are taking these days.” (Aside: I don’t do drugs, apart from prescribed medication.)

   “Well, we live in fucked-up times. Who’s to know?” replied Stephanie. “Karen, you’ve read about the elite and all that Satanism stuff; the sacrifices, the pedophilia, right? I sent you articles, lots of them.”

   “I never got around to those,” said Karen.

   “There’s some fucked-up people out there. Powerful people.”

   Stephanie removed her cell from her handbag and proceeded to show us all what she referred to as a ‘video on the occult,’ but which in fact was a mixture of scenes from the movies Eyes Wide Shut, The Hunger and The Brotherhood of Satan. Afterwards, she moved on to a video called Dogs Do Funny Things, and as Karen and Stephanie made thrilled noises like puppies whimpering as they watched the cute canines, and while William sat in solemn thought, I sipped my whiskey silently and willed the end of the evening.

   I thought to myself: Bill’s a powerful person.

   And then I thought to myself: This is your life, Lukas Lazaruk.

5. The email | Wake up dead man . . .

POPULAR OUTWARD OPINION had led me to believe that despite the simultaneous stresses, the quotidian challenges and the all-round steady disruption of one’s personal goals, one’s time and, yes, one’s happiness, marriage and children was a beautiful, rewarding, and mostly pleasant experience. The positives, I’d been told, always — or eventually — outweighed the negatives. For me, a perennial question mark hovered obstinately over this viewpoint and, generally, above my head. Like a bothersome and hungry dog, it followed me most places, and I could only hope that others didn’t notice its presence affecting my demeanor.

   That very question mark floated above our bed as I lay next to Karen, who was sleeping on her side, as usual, with her backside nestled against me, as usual. I watched the question mark with exhausted eyes. If I’d had an outer-body experience there and then, I would have been excused for shrieking.

   I’d think to myself: Jesus, you’re getting old. How many grey hairs have become lodgers on your property? Look at those eyes; the dark hollow beneath them. Those lines like roads on a map — evidence of life’s obligatory traumas — are becoming deeper, too. They’re settling in now, the bastards. And the flab; when did you allow its entry into the club? You are thirty-six. Thirty-six. Your youth is gone. There’s no denying it, now, despite what your mind thinks; its pitiful attempts to convince itself otherwise. You are no longer young. You are growing older, and instead of finding more answers, you are stumbling upon more questions. And that question mark is still there.

   Is it ever going to leave?

   I turned my head to the left and looked out the window beyond Karen. The streetlights lining Rutherford Drive told a lie: they offered a mirage of warmth, but outside and beyond the glowing lampposts was the deep darkness of the night (Aside: The place where my youth once reveled) and it was cold enough to make your teeth dance and play a tapping tune. Summer was a distant memory. Over the past few weeks it had been mostly wet and windy, and now, as November marched defiantly towards December, the nights were growing frostier, and snow was on standby awaiting the order to invade Coldcut.

   Sometimes I’d think to myself: How apt the city’s name is for winter.

   Conceding defeat in the battle for sleep, I quietly removed the bed sheets, slid my legs out of bed and sat up; my feet blindly finding their way into the opening of the loafers on the forgiving carpet. I reached for my phone on the bedside locker, grabbed it, stood up, sighed, and sluggishly navigated my way through the darkness to the bedroom door. I didn’t think to use the phone as a flashlight, which was an indicator of how tired I was. As I opened it, the door squeaked (it always squeaked) but it wasn’t loud enough to stir Karen, and I exited the bedroom, leaving my wife comfortably alone.

   I thought to myself: Does she prefer the bed without my hefty presence?

   The question mark followed behind, dutifully.

   In the bathroom, I scrolled through a Tumblr page called Busty Blondes Only, viewing precisely seven explicit GIFs before I experienced a weak climax and lazily pressed the circular flusher, sending the expelled semen to the underworld; potential offspring ejected from the dance once again.

   Afterwards, at the kitchen counter, I drank a glass of orange juice. The light from my cell phone illuminated my face in the otherwise darkened room.

   Now wide awake, I opened my NewsToDay app and saw that the recent rioting in Caracas had left thirteen dead. A young woman had fainted in the soaring heat as hundreds of people fought over pasta. More riots, more looting, more calls for Maduro’s head. The people were desperate. The attorney general’s office had said that the homicide rate had soared to approximately 60-a-day judging by recent figures.

   As I read the article my hands began to tremble. I closed my eyes and attempted to control my breathing.

   But it was no use.

   Unable to relax, I closed the browser and dialed the number for the Hartmann Hotline.

   One single ring, and then that calming German voice:

   “The mind is akin to a puppy; it is in need of training from its master. Without that training, it will run wild. Without that training it will defecate everywhere, it will mount people without much consideration; in short: It will embarrass its owner in public. Be the master of your mind—”

   The sage voice was interrupted by a woman’s pre-recorded message: “Your Hartmann Hotline account balance is low. Please top up again online or at your local pharmacy to continue to receive life-changing advice.”

   After the line went dead, I placed the phone on the counter. With jittering hands, I opened the pantry, reached for the highest shelf, and blindly searched with my hand, the feel of the dust as I swept from left to right irritating my palm. Eventually I felt the cylindrical bottle of the emergency stash of Ativan, and I popped one immediately, washing it down with a mouthful of the sweet juice.

   I thought to myself: Is this juice from concentrate?

   I took a deep breath and exhaled, followed by another deep breath, and a longer, calmer exhale, before picking up my phone once again and returning to the news app: Feminist anti-pornography campaigner June Fuller was making headlines yet again, this time for her attack on the gaming industry, which in her latest interview she had described as ‘a breeding ground for the objectification of women, a hive of gender stereotyping . . .’ Fuller had also touched on the brutal killing of Leighton Le Ché, calling the “male-dominated industry” the perpetrator, accusing the patriarchy of being responsible for the teenager’s death, and pointing out the ease at which the actor was able to perform professionally despite being underage.

   I took another sip from the glass.

   I thought to myself: I bet this orange juice is from concentrate.

   Then I thought to myself: What is concentrate?

   After which I thought to myself: Concentrate.

   I checked my email, and after I deleted the wave of subscription emails I received daily — along with an email from a personal assistant of one Prince Shalom Mufahsa, who informed me that I had one million dollars coming my way (ka-ching!) — I clicked into my junk mail, and I was greeted by something that almost made me drop my glass of OJ made from concentrate:

   I had received an email from Leighton Le Ché.

XXX

My initial thought was that I was misreading the name of the sender, but I wasn’t mistaken. Leighton Le Ché – the porn-star kid who’d been murdered not far from our house on Rutherford Drive – had emailed me.

   I sat at the kitchen table and opened the email, which had been sent three weeks earlier but only made it into my spam . . .

           Lukas Lazaruk, the man who writes for Coldcut City’s finest magazine, The Cutter. It’s my magazine of choice, and that includes retro issues of Playboy and Playgirl (or The Liberators, as I like to call them).

   I enjoy your articles. I was particularly fond of your piece on Venezuela. The honesty in your presentation of its people was deeply moving (and, apart from physically, I’m rarely moved: tears are not welcome immigrants here). I know the hardship of the poor. I know the struggle of poverty. The opening chapters of my life were written by the pen of poverty. And I know from reading your articles that you believe in the freedom to choose, which is important.

                                                      You may know me, you may not. I’ve reached the nauseating heights of fame over the past eighteen months. It’s funny – fame. How it changes the behavior of those around you (bien entendu!). But we’ll save that for another episode . . .

    I’m an adult performer; a pornographic actor. Or as they say – a porn star. I sleep with women (and men) on camera, and I’ve made a generous sum doing it. Some people may not approve of this way of living (my Boomer parents certainly don’t), but society will judge, because that’s what society does . . . it’s what people do.

   And wouldn’t life be boring if they didn’t?

   But my choice is my choice; it’s my life to ruin my own way, as a famous singer once put it. That’s the beauty of what you believe in, Lukas . . .  That freedom to choose. The freedom to be entrepreneurial; to come from nothing and make something of yourself. I chose to screw on camera, and now I’m making a lot of money doing it. There’s demand for me in the market, and there’s only one of me. That means the price goes up, right?

   It’s funny, perhaps you do know me. Perhaps you’re one of those who won’t admit that they consume pornographic material. The ones who warn the public about its dangers, like those preachers who moralize about sinning, but after the sermon they drink a fifth, do a line, and peg a rent boy. They’re the best ones. I appreciate how disturbed a person must be to put on that front. Interesting to note: The majority of people who watch my videos are men who would never admit it (and I’m not just talking about the straight videos) . . . Speaking of men, I had something of an encounter with a very powerful, well-known man recently . . . But we’ll save that for another episode too.

   But Lukas (I’m inebriated writing this). Lukas . . .

   I like you. I like your writing style. I like your honesty. At least I believe that you’re an honest man (like me). And honest men are regularly loathed. As one of the Hitchens brothers said: being genuinely unpopular is almost invariably a sign that your mind is alive. My mind is alive, Lukas, and I need to keep it that way.

   I can’t speak for your personal life, Lukas, but I believe in your integrity as a journalist (and I know that you’re interviewing The King soon).

   Lukas, I want you to report on me.

                     I need you to write a story covering recent anonymous threats made against my life. I want you to report that Leighton Le Ché (the enfant terrible who’s coming for Alfie. B Lee’s throne) is in grave danger. And the hopeless cops aren’t taking me seriously (when I reported the threats, one of the pigs definitely knew who I was and, I’m surmising, didn’t relish the shame he felt, which made him an intractable – as well as incompetent – turkey).

   Lukas . . . I need you to write a piece on The Cutter website for me. A.S.A.P. That way, if there’s talk about it, I’ll feel safer . . . I want you to understand that they are vampires.

           (I climbed to the roof of my apartment building earlier tonight and I screamed at the top of my lungs: ALL YOU PEOPLE ARE VAMPIRES!!!)

           I want you to expose the vampires, and keep me safe . . .

           Can you do that for me, Lukas?

           There will be blood, Lukas. And like oil, there’s only so much to suck before it eventually runs out.

   I don’t want it to be my blood.

   I don’t wish to die.

   I want you to XXXpose the vampires.

                                           Take care, Lukas.

Sincerely,

                                Leighton Le Ché

I sat still for several minutes. The phone locked itself and I was submerged in the darkness of the night.

   I thought to myself: You should go to the police.

   Then I thought to myself: But where’s the fun in that?

   After I returned the carton of OJ to the fridge I made my way upstairs to the bedroom. I opened the door and thought I heard Karen sniffle, as if she’d been crying. I quietly said her name, but there was only silence. When I climbed back into bed I felt strangely alone, oddly older; feelings that were becoming more frequently experienced as of late.

6. The boy | Trouble in paradise . . .

THE NEXT MORNING, I sat at the kitchen table reading the latest issue of The Cutter. My most recent piece — my first since my incredibly popular article on Venezuela last year (which I try to avoid discussing) — was the longest article in the edition. In journalism we strive for quality over quantity, but magazine real estate is something of a dick-measuring contest. To have the story that’s taking up the greatest number of pages was something I always enjoyed. And rightly so; it was only the second time I’d had the pleasure, the first being the article which we shall not name that covered the ongoing crisis around the Maduro leadership and food shortages and inflation and tariffs and malnutrition and garbage and rat-eating. But all these things were not the reason for my ongoing avoidance of discussing my time there.

   My latest Cutter concoction could be considered much less harrowing than the last one, depending on your outlook on life. I’d spent a month meeting with a range of workers from Coldcut City, getting a glimpse into their everyday, their ‘nine-to-fives’, their daily discourses, their hopes, their dreams, their disappointments, their quotidian ups and downs. My piece was inspired by the works of Raymond Carver; those doors ajar, that overheard conversation, the usual, the desperate, the hopeful, that moment. The main prose was interrupted by snippets of these people’s lives; something akin to Humans of New York, but far more pessimistic . . .

   Veronica, 52, Cashier at Foo-Foods

   7am rise.

   Pee.

   Wash face.

   Feed cat.

   Breakfast alone (oatmeal on weekdays, pancakes on weekends).

   Momentary reflections at kitchen table with cigarette.

   Roll-on deodorant.

   Dress.

   Coffee and cigarette.

   Sometimes cry silently.

   Look outside.

   Sometimes rain.

   Umbrella.

   Bus.

   Feel someone’s breath on neck.

   Sit patiently.

   Arrive at work.

   Clock in.

   Speak to Janice about trivial things.

   Beep. Beep. Beep.

   $4.49, please.

   Lunch alone.

   Stock shelves.

   Beep. Beep. Beep.

   $17.75, please.

   Have a nice day.

   Clock out.

   Later, Janice.

   Bus.

   Breath on neck.

   Patience.

   Home.

   Pet and feed cat.

   Cook dinner.

   Cigarette and reflections on childhood dreams never realized.

   Dinner alone.

   Television.

   Light entertainment.

   Ice cream.

   Sigh.

   Sometimes sob.

   Sleep.

   Repeat.

   As I read my work Evan entered the kitchen, dressed appropriately for the frosty November morning: thick green Aran sweater under a grey fleece jacket. It was Saturday — school’s out. His gangly figure slid into a chair at the table. He was looking more and more like me at his age as he got older, which I found somewhat unnerving: thick brown hair; piercing, intelligent blue eyes; petit nose; lightly freckled cheekbones; sun-tanned skin. It was like looking back in time in the present moment: a surrealist scene every other day – me looking at me, as if to say What have you done to me? What’s with you whacking off more times than when you were a teenager? What’s with the blubber? What’s with the anxiety attacks? What’s with your failing marriage? What’s with this all-round pathetic tellurian existence?

   “Hey, buddy,” I said.

   “Hi,” he said. Always hi, never hey.

   I thought to myself: I envy your youth. (Aside: I read once that adults are forever chasing the feelings they experienced during childhood.)

   “Everything all right?”

   “What kind of question is that?” he replied.

   I lowered the publication that had contributed significantly to the payments on our house and two cars, and I sat forward.

   “Do you wanna . . . talk . . . About anything?”

   I was expecting an eye roll, perhaps some panicked darting of the eyes to mirror my internal feeling at that moment, or a sigh. But this was Evan, my strangely sober and bright fourteen-year-old son with a current IQ of 138, whom – as I’d recently told my therapist, Dr. Lillard – I found rather intimidating.

   “At school the other day, we were told that we’re no longer permitted to physically engage with other kids.”

   “Physically engage? As in fight?”

   “No,” he said, as he sat forward and rested his chin on his thumb; an erudite pose (not an affectation). “No physical engagement, period.” He raised his hands, a little more animated, as if he were only now realizing the scale of this injustice. “We can’t hug, or wrestle . . . They said we shouldn’t place our hands on others without their consent.”

   Evan frowned and lowered his hand from his face.

   “It’s disconcerting.”

   “Uh,” I said, shuffling in my seat. “Yeah, it is.”

   “They’re dehumanizing us.”

   “That’s a bit dramatic,” I replied.

   “It’s true,” he said matter-of-factly.

   “You know, you should consider running for student council.”

   “That could begin a path to politics,” he replied.

   “Well, there are worse things you could involve yourself in.”

   “Politics gets in the way of progress.”

   “Well, you know,” I said. “In order to influence the outcome of the game, you’ve gotta be involved in it, right?”

   He shrugged his shoulders.

   “The planet would benefit from an accelerationist march: the end of politics. The technological singularity will ensure the survival of Earth.”

   I thought to myself: Whoa.

   “Well,” I said, unsure how to respond. “This is the first I’ve heard about no physical contact at school.”

   “They told us on Thursday.”

   “I’ll talk to your mother about it. We’ll speak to Principle Dolan, too.”

   I thought to myself: Is this a result of Evan’s recent incident? Is the school singling out his class because of what happened?

   Even slid out from the chair and stood up.

   “I like your new article,” he said.

   This came as a surprise.

   “You read it?” I smiled. (Aside: My son can reduce me to rubble.)

   “Yes,” he said. “Ordinary people are interesting.”

   I watched him as he slowly walked out of the kitchen and into the backyard. The sunlight challenged the pervading chill of the day. He lifted the lid on the barbecue and picked up a book he’d placed on the grill. Then he sat in the tire swing which hung from the tentacled maple tree, and he gently rocked back and forth as he read, each breath confirmed with an accompanying frosty exhale.

   My brilliant son, who terrified me.

Later, after Even had left the house and Karen was taking a bath, I watched an X-rated video titled Milking with Mindy. A wave of guilt washed over me as I jolted once, twice, as my heart returned to its normal pace and my appendage deflated sadly.

   I thought to myself: This can’t continue.

7. The psychologist | Men are visually stimulated

MY FINGERS PRESSED into the arms of the leather chair like a cat kneading the carpet. I’d been seeing Dr. Lillard for a couple of weeks. He was a cliché: balding, rounded specs, thoughtful expression, regular notetaking.

   I disliked Dr. Lillard like one might dislike a neighbor’s kid: for no identifiable or rational reason.

   “I find myself trying to please my son,” I said. “Isn’t it usually the other way around? Isn’t the son supposed to be anxious to please his father? On Saturday he told me he enjoyed my latest article for the magazine. I beamed as if I’d just won the Pulitzer.”

   Lillard scribbled on the page. He grimaced, then looked up at me, over his lowered specs. Behind him stood a towering bookcase. Almost everything in the room was some shade of brown.

   “You’ve said previously that you find Evan, er, intimidating. It’s not unusual for parents to be eager to please their children, you know. They want to be liked, okay? For better or worse, parents have become closer to their children over the past few decades. Friendship permeates the father/mother-child relationship, okay?”

   “He was caught . . . engaging with one of his friends at school.”

   A dense quiet filled the room.

   “Lukas,” began Lillard eventually. “Children are curious creatures.”

   “I don’t care if my son is gay, for the record. I just . . . I don’t know how to broach the subject. And Karen definitely doesn’t know how to deal with it.”

   “His sexuality?”

   “His sexuality, his intelligence. His lack of a need for parenting. But him. I don’t know how to engage with him.”

   “Be a parent, Lukas. Love him, be there for him, guide him”

   I sat up.

   “That’s the problem; I don’t think he’s the one who needs guidance.”

   “Why do you say that?” asked Lillard.

   “I don’t believe I can guide him. I don’t think he needs it. He’s abnormally smart and weirdly mature for his age. He’s confident and comfortable in his skin. And he’s probably very comfortable with his sexuality.”

   “And why does this upset you?”

   “Because I don’t feel comfortable.”

   I spoke those words with additional volume, and they hung in the air solemnly, like a slowly deflating balloon.

   Dr. Lillard embraced the silence and waited for me to continue.

   “I feel like I’m . . . getting lost. I’ve been feeling lost and I’m . . .” I raised my hand as if reaching for something. “I’m trying to fill that which I’m losing.”

   “With pornography.”

   “I don’t know. Maybe? Is that what that is? I’ve been married eight years, boredom kicks in. I don’t know.”

   “Men are visually stimulated, Lukas. The lure of pornography is, er, quite a natural one. But you said it’s becoming a daily occurrence. As studies continue and findings are shared, it has become clear that pornography has a negative effect on the mind which naturally seeks novelty, okay? And this effect permeates into personal relationships; it can have a devastating impact on them, in fact. And that’s not to mention the moral implications here, which we’ll ignore for now, okay?” Lillard tapped his pen against his knee as outside the clouds broke and sunlight dazzled the room filled with books and leather couches; the cliché continued. “There are those who have a healthy relationship with pornography, yes, many couples in fact. But if this is a solitary issue, and it’s becoming a crutch-”

   “I don’t know what it’s become. It just . . . is. And the panic attacks . . .”

   “Yes,” said Lillard, the overly educated, useless sack of pubic hair. “Yes, these recent anxiety attacks. They’re still happening?”

   “At times, yes. I pop a pill, I call the Hartmann Hotline. Both seem to help.”

   “The Hartmann Hotline?”

   “Friedrich Hartmann. He’s this German-American clinical psychologist. His voice . . . there’s something about his voice that I find calming . . . comforting. Like Werner Herzog’s. It’s like Herzog whispering in your ear, telling you everything’s going to be all right.”

   This didn’t appear to please Lillard, who I imagine sensed competition. He placed his pen on his notebook and sat forward, frowning as he leaned towards me.

   “Three things, Lukas, okay? One, I want you to keep note of how often you’re finding yourself compelled to view pornographic material. Two, this Hartmann Hotline, it sounds exploitative. I’d try to avoid it if I were you, okay? Three, consider opening up to Karen. You’re in your mid-thirties, er, you’ve been married eight years. Many people in your situation can feel lost at this time in their lives. You’re at that in-between stage. And as for Evan, he’ll open up to you when he’s ready.”

   I thought to myself: “In-between stage”, is that what a doctorate in psychology from Harvard gets you?

   Then I thought to myself: Should I have told him that a dead kid emailed me?

8. The mail | An impressive package . . .

AFTER MY MONDAY morning session with Lillard, I returned home and, before entering the house, checked the mailbox. You know those clean, picture-perfect depictions of suburban life you see in American movies and sitcoms? That’s Rutherford Drive. The ideal place to raise a family; the friendly neighbors, the well-maintained lawns with sprinkler-systems, the apple pie, the sparkling white teeth, the respectful kids, the charming mailbox. The one and only stain on the neighborhood’s name was the Le Ché murder that had happened nearby.  

   I reached into the mailbox and retrieved bills, junk mail, and something unexpected: a small parcel with my name scribbled on it in thick black ink.

XXX

In the kitchen I tore the parcel open to find a leather-bound diary and a sheet of paper. On the piece of paper was scribbled a letter in the same handwriting as the on one the parcel.

   I read it . . .

   Lukas Lazaruk,

   King of The Cutter. I don’t know if you received my email. If you did, I suppose you chose to ignore the situation that an innocent young specimen finds himself in (the demise of the species writ large). Ab initio, I wish to make it clear that I’m not some idiot kid, a babbling Gen Z-er with too much social media and video game consumption. I read voraciously: I read myriad books on countless subjects. I have plans. I can be great. And yet, you ignored me.

   But perhaps . . . for some reason, you didn’t get my email? Maybe you’ve changed your email address? Or my SOS wound up another reject in your junk mail? I don’t know . . . I believe you’re good. I believe you’re a good person and an honest, objective journalist.

   To be frank: I need your help, Lukas.

   I’m a young man working in the adult entertainment industry; I’ve achieved a certain enviable level of fame. And recently, people have been issuing me with death threats. At first, I thought it was funny – a sign of significance. But now . . .

   THEY SENT A BULLET TO ME IN THE MAIL.

   The police are doing nothing, the wretched pigs.

   I think it’s Alife. ALFIE B. LEE – THE PORNO KING. He knows. He knows things that I know, and he knows that I’m coming for his throne. And he wants me dead . . .

   In my email I told you that these people are vampires . . . I mean it, Lukas. They suck the life out of the pure . . . They hate freedom . . . They hate the freedom to choose.

   I’m scared. Shady characters have been lurking outside my building.

   I’m doubtful that I’ll make it to my 20s.

   Lukas, I’ve given you my diary, my manifesto, my Statement for the Species. If something happens to me, I want you to show the world that I was more than a sex toy. I want you to tell my story and share my philosophy.

   I want you to write about me in The Cutter.

   Please.

Sincerely yours,

                                Leighton Le Ché

It initially hit me that this parcel had arrived now, a mere four days after Le Ché had been found sliced and diced. Had he posted it on Thursday? Perhaps he’d mailed it on Friday, right before he returned to his apartment to meet his grisly end. I placed the letter on the kitchen table and picked up the leather-bound notebook. I rubbed my hands along the smooth surface before removing the wrap-around strap and opening to the first page, which read:

Property of Leighton Le Ché: famed, never tamed, and likely to be maimed.

I licked my thumb and turned the page to the first entry . . .

Diary of an enfant terrible – May 5

Where to begin? The start is obvious, and unless we’re talking about nature, beauty, or Grace Jones’s cheekbones, what’s obvious tends to be dull, so let’s not go there now. No. Let’s begin at the present, and why I’ve decided to put my thoughts down on the page…

The provenance of this diary lies in my recent (and dare I say, rather brilliant) decision to enter the world of politics once I’ve conquered Hollywood – after I’ve snipped my pornographic umbilical cord. From the kinky camera to the cinema, and on to the White House: this will be the trajectory of my life. And not only shall I be entering the World of Washington (the Land of Lobbying); I will announce my candidacy for the presidency. I will shake up American Politics like an asteroid smashing into earth! But why this notebook? Why keep a record? Well, this will serve as an insight into the mind of Leighton Le Ché for those who are brainwashed by the propaganda machine. You see, I will not be smeared: Leighton Le Ché will not be anything other than what he is and will be: American. Porn star. President.

   How could I be smeared, you may ask? Isn’t it simple? Isn’t it obvious? That’s how it works. Everyone in the political realm is smeared. Everyone is a nut ready to be cracked open, chewed up and spit out like thick, chewy tobacco. Dirty laundry will always be discovered, eventually. And then, voila – exposition!

   But what do I have over all the others?

   That’s easy. You see, all my laundry is dirty. I have nothing to hide – there is nothing to be exposed!

   No matter who’s in the White House, the other Team will be desperate for someone who can challenge the so-called commander-in-chief. Someone charismatic. Someone shocking. Someone famous: this will be me, Leighton Le Ché: American. Porn Star. President.

   My career has and will be played out on camera. There’s no shady business; no dubious dealings. The only palm greasing I’ve been involved in preceded a celluloid-captured hand-job. Yes, Leighton Le Ché, famous for his catchphrase ‘Le Ché all the way’. Famous for his career in the adult entertainment industry and his impending conquering of Hollywood. And as everybody knows, once one has conquered Hollywood, Washington is but a firm kick on the door away!

   The American public is familiar with me. The people of this nation have accepted me with open arms. Many have pleasured themselves watching my physical jousts with fellow performers (both male and female). Many will soon pleasure themselves less salaciously in movie theatres across the country when I make my Hollywood debut in the latest screamer by arthouse legend, Pascal. But I’m not just a pretty face and a delicious dong: I’m no idiot. I’ve read the greats: from Bastiat to Braudel, Homer to Hegel, Nietzsche to Nabokov. I understand the world. And so, I’m the perfect candidate: Well known, well read, well liked, and (as the celluloid attests) well hung. Soon I will be the perfect man for the Opposition, whomever they may be. They’ll need me, and they’ll know it and understand it.

   For there is much to admire about Leighton Le Ché.

   You see, the adult performer is the most honest person . . . While the average Joe or Jane works their nine-to-five, while many routinely wear a mask just to get through each working day, the adult performer has the most dignity, the most amour propre; the greatest ownership of their body, their person, their passion, their destiny, embracing both phallus and fate. It’s demonstrably incontestable that the pornographic actor is the bravest person in the Western World. And thus, my campaign will lead with the bravery of the individual. And to ensure that this American ship resets its course for its original destination before it sinks.

   It may seem preposterous. It may sound nonsensical. But believe me. The enfant terrible who came from nothing, who made his name unclothed and unashamed, will against all the odds rise to the most powerful position in the world, and return this country to its original form.

   Think about what’s come before me. Leighton Le Ché will set this country free.

XXX

I took the diary and placed it on the dusty top shelf of the pantry, next to the emergency stash of Ativan. I faced an internal conflict: Do I go to the police with this potential evidence in the Le Ché murder case? Or do I keep this journal and read it in full before I conduct my interview with Alfie B. Lee?

   A snitch, or a scoop?

9. The tears | All the president’s men . . .

TEARS FOR FEARS. Karen’s favorite band. Everybody Wants to Rule the World, Shout, Mad World, Head Over Heels – these songs have sound-tracked our relationship since we met sixteen years ago.

   Early 2000s.

   The towers had collapsed around us two years earlier, two days before my father died. He watched live on TV the shattering of New York from his hospital bed and wept. I was eighteen years old, a freshman at University of Coldcut, and both my parents were dead. What does an eighteen-year-old do? I didn’t grieve; I put my head down and worked hard at university. I studied and partied and two years later a Freshman turned up on campus whose beauty was unrivalled.

   Karen arrived, sound-tracked by the opening guitar riff of Rule the world.

   Welcome to your life

   Karen arrived.

   There’s no turning back

   Clutching ‘Ways of Seeing’ by John Berger.

   There’s a room where the light won’t find you

   As the United States invaded Iraq, Karen arrived.

   Holding hands while the walls come tumbling down

   Memories were made.

   All for freedom and for pleasure

   As bombs were dropped.

   Nothing ever lasts forever

   The American Dream was pursued.

   Everybody wants to rule the world

   Just like in a Hollywood movie.

XXX

I detected the sound of sobbing as soon as I entered the house. Lillard, the fiend, had recommended that I start exercising as a way of distracting myself from other, unseemly, distractions. I’d managed an extremely slow-paced jog that lasted precisely twenty-three minutes, and as I shut the door behind me, red-faced and short of breath, that familiar sound which had been returning more and more as of late made its presence known from upstairs. (Aside: An emotional woman makes me amorous.)

   I climbed the stairs as the sobs continued.

   “Honey?” I called.

   No reply.

   I pushed open our bedroom door. Karen was curled up on the bed, crying loudly, shaking with each exhale. Balls of tissue paper surrounded her – snowballs of sorrow. My fears that Karen was entering a new dysthymic period were becoming more and more warranted.

   I placed my hand on her slender hip.

   “Sweetie. Hey, hey . . .”

   I rubbed her shoulders. I’d learned from experience that any attempt at talking her out of these episodes would be futile. I wrapped my hands around her, and curled myself to match her fetal position as I rubbed her back.

   More sobbing.

   And then, unexpectedly, words.

   “He’s so young.”

   I sat up, wiped hair from Karen’s eyes. Her face was red, wet with tears.

   “Evan’s not . . . he’s got the brain of an exceptional adult, sweetie.”

   She closed her eyes. Tears crept down her temple into the crevices of her hair.

   Through a crack in the curtain, the sun suddenly shone on the two of us lying there on the bed in the middle of the afternoon, as if we’d been summoned by God to explain the mess we’d made of things.

   I sat over Karen again, still rubbing her hair. She hadn’t moved. The sobbing had transitioned to sniffling.

   “I’ve found the whole Evan thing difficult, too,” I said. “But I spoke to Dr. Lillard about what happened at school last week; I took your advice.”

   “My advice?” Karen said.

   “Yes. Honey,” I said. “If that’s Evan, that’s Evan. He’s our son. He’s young and curious and while it’s a little earlier than expected, it’s something that was going to happen sometime. He’s way ahead when it comes to everything else, so I guess this is natural.”

   Karen closed her eyes, swallowed a breath.

   “What did Dr. Lillard say?” she said, stuffy-nosed.

   “Pretty much what I just said, sweetie.”

   “We haven’t had sex in six months, Lukas.”

   Non sequiturs were Karen’s specialty.

   I froze like an antelope as a lioness stared me down. Karen, the apex predator, didn’t move.

   “Yeah, things have been, um . . . I don’t know. Couples go through these kinda things, right?”

   “Ever since last year,” she said, looking ahead, tissue in hands. “Ever since the Venezuela trip for your article. Things have been . . . wrong.”

   I could feel another anxiety attack simmering in the pit of my belly.

   “And you know it. I know it – I’ve known it. Something’s been so wrong. And I know it. I’ve known it. You know it . . .”

   “Sweetie . . .”

   “We should’ve talked. Instead of . . .” Karen rubbed her nose with the tissue. “I wish we’d talked,” she said.

   “Hey, hey,” I said as I brushed back her hair affectionately. “We can talk. We can still talk.”

   I felt another tremor begin deep in my stomach; a rumbling of anxiety hellbent on upsetting the balance within and without. It took every ounce of mental strength to resist it.

   “We can still talk,” I repeated as I released a deep, Wim Hof breath.

   “I don’t know,” said Karen, still not looking at me, still staring at something absent from the physical world.

   Another stroke of the hair, a gentle swipe, and I whispered in her ear, “I love you.” But she’d fallen into a deep sleep.

   Or maybe that’s what she wanted me to think.

XXX

After leaving Karen in the bedroom, I returned downstairs and parked myself on the plush L-shaped leather sofa which angled around the living room. The walls were populated with works by modern artists Karen admired: Big Orange Sunset by Brett Whiteley (I think the word sunburst is more apt for this piece, but I’m the words guy and they’re the artists); Paul Klee’s Three Houses and a Bridge with its shapes and shades of yellow; CY Twombly’s Winter; and Kirchner’s Berlin Street Scene. Karen told me of the latter: “His work was denounced by the Nazis as degenerate, and they destroyed clusters of it. When living in the Swiss mountains, he became irrational, paranoid; convinced that the Nazis were soon to invade. After destroying his most recent work before the fascists could, one June morning he stepped outside his small house overlooking Frauenkirch on one side and Davos on the other, raised a pistol to his head and pulled the trigger . . . When those in power denounce works of art, it’s usually because they’re offended by what they see, which is usually something within themselves.”

   Words like these were what still attracted me to Karen, but I couldn’t remember the last time we’d had a deep or interesting conversation. The fine art student I’d fallen in love with on a sunny day on campus seemed farther and farther away as the years passed like a speeding train.

   Looking at the works within the frames on the walls, I wondered if pornography could ever be considered art. It’s a media-making instrument with one goal: to arouse the viewer, or is it? And are works of art instruments? Do they have any function? What are people drawn to more? Would the average guy rather gaze open-mouthed at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, or at two women embraced in mutual masturbation?

   With thoughts returning to pornographic material, I remembered Lillard’s advice: seek distraction. So, I reached over to the coffee table and returned to my latest article in The Cutter . . .

   Pete, 26, Barista at Café Coldcut

   Wake up.

   Crushing blow of reality.

   Pit in stomach.

   A cog in the wheel.

   Piss.

   Rinse face.

   Brush teeth.

   Dress.

   Catch the first train at The U, 5:30am.

   Open café.

   Full prep.

   Good morning, Saskia.

   Nod and listen as Saskia talks about her cheating boyfriend.

   First customers.

   Americano.

   Latte.

   Cappuccino.

   Hot chocolate, extra whip (at 6:30am, really?)

   Think about customer’s likely date with diabetes.

   Think about universal health care.

   More coffee.

   Clean machine.

   Relentless queue of caffeine addicts.

   Think about the scientific religion that has replaced the organized ones.

   Think about hubris.

   Think about history.

   Think about getting things wrong.

   Think about personal ambition.

   Enough of this café.

   Soon you’ll figure things out.

   Americano.

   Latte.

   Cappuccino.

   Allow Saskia a five-minute cigarette break.

   Think about the mathematical equation for your existence.

   Think about disinformation.

   Think about taking a break from social media.

   Think about Erin, whom you miss deeply.

   Think about what went wrong.

   Lunch.

   Check social media, despite previous considerations.

   Return to café.

   Greet manager upon arrival.

   Privately curse manager’s negative attitude.

   Think about online education.

   Americano.

   Latte.

   Cappuccino.

   Monotony.

   Think about sex.

   Phallic steam wand.

   Vaginal mug.

   Anthropomorphic penetration.

   Think about what led you to this moment.

   Think about personal responsibility.

   Americano.

   Latte.

   Cappuccino.

   Remove apron.

   End of shift.

   Catch 2:30pm train at The U.

   People-watch during train ride.

   Home.

   Masturbate.

   Disappointing-but-not-unenjoyable climax.

   Watch YouTube videos.

   Meet Derek.

   Drink beers.

   Talk confidently about issues you’re not qualified to discuss with any degree of authority.

   More beer.

   More talk.

   More beer.

   Hug Derek.

   Tell Derek you love him – as a friend.

   Think about Erin.

   Oh, Erin.

   Why did you leave, Erin?

   I miss you, Erin.

   I love you.

   Get home.

   Look up online education.

   Register for course in digital marketing.

   Promise yourself you’ll complete this one.

   Brush teeth.

   Undress.

   Go to bed thinking of the possibilities ahead of you.

   Feel hopeful.

   Sleep.

Bored, I switched on the TV. The Le Ché murder was getting more coverage; that beautiful face had encouraged increased media scrutiny. (Aside: Attractive victims always make for a better story.) I checked the TV guide and was surprised to see that an hour-long special titled ‘Death of a Rising Star: The Le Ché Murder’ would follow the news.

   I thought to myself: Was the word ‘rising’ a euphemism in its usage here?

   Then I thought to myself: Why in the heck is Leighton Le Ché, a teenage porn star, getting so much media coverage?

   The picture on the TV cut to a press conference. Coldcut Mayor, Jonny de Fiore, stood to the right of the podium, looking, as he always did, like an Italian mobster. A tall, broad black man stood behind the podium, as the feverish clicking of cameras accompanied his words. Title graphics told viewers that this was Detective Reginald Glass of the Coldcut Police Department.

   “It would be improper of me to go into any level of detail, or to respond to the many salacious theories, or rather conspiracy theories, surrounding Mr. Le Ché’s death,” he began. “It should go without saying that the CPD treats every homicide case with the same degree of professionalism and integrity, regardless of the victim’s background. At this time, I would encourage anyone in the Rutherford area, and anyone in the wider Coldcut area, who has any information, to come forward.”

   An eruption of voices spewed in the direction of Detective Glass as he left the podium.

   Was there something I’d missed? Why the media frenzy? Had Le Ché emailed someone else? Had he made copies of his notebook and passed them on to other journalists? Had I missed a major scoop? Why hadn’t I looked into this in more detail, anyway?

   The answer was obvious: My mind was focused on everything apart from Leighton Le Ché and my upcoming interview with Alfie B. Lee: My marriage, which seemed to be a gentle nudge away from collapse, my son’s sexual antics in school and his potentially problematic precociousness, my ongoing panic attacks and overindulgence in pornographic material. All of this had gotten in the way of my journalistic instincts; I’d been contacted by a young man who was murdered a short time later, and I’d barely looked into the life of Leighton Le Ché.

   I was a joke.

   As I lifted the tablet from the coffee table, preparing to carry out research that could be done by any schmuck, my phone buzzed and showed me the name ‘Bill’.

   “Bill, how are you?”

   “Lukas, my boy,” he brattled. “This Le Ché story. It could be the biggest thing to happen since Watergate.”

   “What, uh, what am I missing here, Bill?”

   “Where have you been, boy? They’re saying there’s a connection to the President. The President, Lukas, boy.”

   “What?”

   “Are you telling me that you’ve succumbed to the disease plaguing your profession? Why aren’t you on top of this?”

   “Bill, listen, Karen, Evan . . . things have been a bit crazy. What’s this about the President?”

   “Scandal, Lukas. Nixon-style destruction. Rumors, yes. But smoke, fire . . .”

   “Glass mentioned rumors,” I said.

   “Detective Glass couldn’t see through a windowpane, Lukas. Incompetent ninny that he is.” Bill was interrupted by a tremor of coughs, before he resumed: “There are rumors that this Le Ché streetwalker was somehow connected to the President. Don’t ask me how, that’s not my job. It’s yours, Lukas.” Another fit of coughs followed, before he ended with, “So bloody well do it!”

   After the line went dead, I immediately opened my inbox and re-read the email Le Ché had sent me:

   These people are vampires . . . recent anonymous threats made against my life . . . Leighton Le Ché is in grave danger . . . I had something of an encounter with a very powerful, well-known man recently. But I’ll tell you about that another time.

   A recent encounter with a very powerful, well-known man.

   Surely not.

   Le Ché, I didn’t know much about the kid, but perhaps he was fame crazy. Perhaps the taste of celebrity through his sexual screen time gave him an unquenchable thirst for the spotlight. He’d said he was coming for Alfie B. Lee’s throne. Le Ché wanted to emulate Alfie’s success; he said he knew something that Alfie knew. He claimed Alfie wanted him dead. Could he have begun to spread rumors before he was offed?

   And if so, who did the offing?

Diary of an enfant terrible – May 14

American elites have failed the American people.

   And these failures shall eventually part the water and pave the way for Leighton Le Ché to take up the reins and rectify the fiascos conducted by the corrupt cabal and credulous citizens. One may ask how prepared I am for such a career shift. Well, treated in the same simple way in which an adult performer prepares for and carries out a scene, the running of a country needn’t be complicated: Does Leighton Le Ché plan each and every marvellous manoeuvre that occurs from one frenetic frame to the next? Of course not! Like the invisible hand that guides the free market, the impalpable mojo guides the movements. Only certain moments in the pornographic movie must be orchestrated; upheld by supporting structures which allow for the organic fluidity of what happens in between. The adult performer, therefore, without diplomas, degrees, or direct experience, intrinsically knows more about economic laws and political theory than the lunatic lawyers and lobbyists who’ve come to run – and who are hellbent on ruining – this country. And let us not get started on Europe, that carrion flower in much need of watering.

   Yes, democracy has failed because that is its destiny. When you have Socrates and Plato on your side, it is not difficult to be confident. Democracy, you see, is the arena of voices. The greater the democracy, the louder and more numerous the voices. The more numerous the voices, the greater the confusion. The greater the confusion, the more rapid the descent into madness before, finally, collapse. For how can reason prevail in a madhouse? And what is the greatest way to bring about this collapse – to accelerate it? From within, of course! That shall be the devastating but liberating nature of Leighton Le Ché’s trajectory; even if Leighton Le Ché isn’t the one to bring about such a turn of events.

   For if, for some reason, Leighton Le Ché isn’t permitted to fulfill his destiny in bodily form, he will, in fact, fulfill it spiritually; from the words written in this diary will grow the movement of the darkly enlightened who will bring about the collapse of this cannibalising creation.

   It’s clear: One way or another, Leighton Le Ché will liberate the masses from their propagandist trap.

10. The sister-in-law | Boys will be boys (but not my boy)…

EARLIER, STEPHANIE HAD called Karen, who then relayed to me that her sister would be joining us later in the week.

   “Why? Why does she need to crash here?” I asked Karen as she cleaned up the mess of discs and controllers belonging to Evan’s Playstation from the living room floor.

   “She didn’t go into the specifics,” responded Karen, red-faced, baboonish, I thought, contrary to her usually pale complexion. “Something happened with William. She was upset.”

   Karen gathered up the discs; all seven of them. I stood and watched.

   “How upset?”

   “Upset enough to stay with us, Lukas,” she said. “She’s upset. She’s coming over, that’s it.”

   I exhaled an audible sigh at the thought, but I was happy to see Karen up and keeping busy.

   I thought to myself: Why me? Why this? Why now? Why?

   Then I thought to myself: Maybe this will be good for Karen.

   “Could you help me, please?” Karen said, exasperated, looking around the messy room. “These damn discs. I told him not to leave them lying around like this. You remember how much they cost, don’t you? You need to discipline him.”

   “I know, you’re right,” I said. But the fact of the matter was I was the one who had left the discs on the floor after a two-hour binge of Grand Theft Auto while Evan was outside on the tire swing reading Atlas Shrugged.

   “I’ll talk to him about it. Sternly.”

XXX

Later, I watched Evan as he lay on the cotton sheets in his bedroom which lacked posters or anything else that would suggest this room belonged to a fourteen-year-old kid; books, books and more books; a writing desk where he’d spend hours typing away on his laptop, and a record player he’d received for his previous birthday. On the desk was a framed picture of the cover for The Smiths’ single ‘Hand in Glove’, which featured a naked man with his back to us, a photograph taken by famous photographer Jim French, as Evan had explained to me. I had thought Evan was simply a fan of the band; a blatant clue existed on his desktop all along.

   His pillow was lost some time during his deep sleep, so he was face down on the mattress. My son’s mouth resembled a slice of pizza that had been folded over itself; the tip of his tongue sticking out from between his tomato sauce lips like a piece of pepperoni.

  I thought about him as an adult. What would be different? How messed up would things be? I worried about his future because I worried about his father; his old man’s anxiety and recent proclivity to watch pornographic movies at least four times a day, and his father’s impending week-long interview with a pornographic actor: I’d invited myself into the world of what it was that could surely destroy me. But this was the world in which Leighton Le Ché lived, the world in which my mind had lost itself over the past few months. If I was going to overcome this period, I needed to venture fearlessly into the belly of the beast.

   As I thought about all of this, Evan opened his eyes, and he startled me when he asked, “Dad, if a story is based on a dream, does that make it true?”

   I thought to myself: I have no answers in this life that will satisfy you.

11. The psychologist | Massive attack . . .

DOCTOR LILLARD SCRIBBLED notes in his pad as I rambled about my father.  

   It was Lillard’s opinion that most of the present issues in people’s lives were shaped by events from their past, specifically their childhood. At the beginning of the session, he’d asked me about my father and our relationship over the years. My usual instinct is to avoid getting into anything below the surface of my father’s life. Even Karen doesn’t know much about him. He died when I was eighteen, a couple of years before Karen and I met. She’s always known it’s a sensitive subject; the more she attempted to extract information from me about my father the more I’d withdraw. Not that this suggested anything sinister; I would simply shut up shop – here’s your change, now get out, please, I’ve somewhere to be. I was in the middle of telling a story about my father’s relationship with my mother, who died when I was nine, when Lillard interrupted.

   “You said your father’s best friend, er, Wally?”

   “Wally, yes. Wally Rodriguez.”

   “Wally would stay with you and your father a few nights a week?”

   “They’d hang out, drink a beer. You know . . . Sometimes Wally would help me with my homework when my father was working late . . . Freelancing had its perks, but it also meant late nights.”

   “Would you say Wally was like an uncle to you?”

   I took a second and thought about it.

   “Well, you could say that. But he was never Uncle Wally. He was always Wally, Dad’s buddy.”

   “And when he stayed over, where would he sleep?”

   I sat up. This wasn’t a question I’d ever considered.

   “I . . . I don’t know. The couch, I guess? I’d go to bed before them, obviously.”

   “There was your father’s bedroom, which he’d shared with your mother before her death. And yours, correct? It was a small place?”

   “Yeah, we’d moved out of Brentwood after my mother died . . .” My expression contorted as a thought occurred to me. “I’m not sure where you’re going with this.”

   Dr. Lillard’s expression didn’t change; it never did – the bore. He fixed his glasses with his finger before asking, “What do you think I’m suggesting, Lukas?”

  And so it began, again: a flurry in the stomach, a rhythmic, pulsating wave over my entire body. Suddenly my breaths escaped me; each one a prisoner I needed to recapture to satisfy my lungs and return to a regular breathing pattern. Lillard – the sadist – immediately noticed my discomfort.

   “Would you like a glass of water?”

   I nodded my head as I reached into my trouser pocket in search of The Bottle. I managed a labored ‘please’ as I popped the cap and emptied two pills into the palm of my hand. My shaking hand clutched the glass offered by Lillard as he returned to his seat, and I drank a mouthful of water along with the two pills.

   “Concentrate on your breathing,” Lillard said monotonously as he looked at his notepad.

   I thought to myself: Way to state the obvious, shithead.

   Then I thought to myself: Oh God! I can’t fucking breathe!

   I gasped. Loud, harrowing gasps like some sickening creature from a horror movie. I reached out an arm to Lillard who stood up.

   For once his expression changed. He looked concerned, almost repulsed.

   “Jesus,” he said as I grabbed his forearm with my hand and pulled him towards me.

   He placed a hand on my back and began making quick breathing sounds, as if I was his wife about to give birth.

   “Breathe, Lukas. Breeeathe.”

   I thought to myself: I’m not in labor, you sorry excuse for a psychologist.

   Then he inhaled deeply through his nostrils, and I followed his lead.

   “Breeeeathe,” Lillard bellowed.

   And I did. Through my nose: deep, lung-filling breaths. Deep breaths like the ones I’d take as a kid every Saturday morning when warming up before the kick-off of that week’s soccer game.

   My father on the sideline. Fresh cut grass. Shin pads. Mud and grass. Deep breaths. Life-affirming. My father. Me scoring a goal. My teammates surrounding me. Hands either side of my cheeks. Hands rustling my hair. Smiles. Happiness. True happiness. Never again. My father clapping his hands proudly. Never again. Cheers and smiles. Never again. Deep breaths. The freshly cut grass. The grass and mud. Breathe. Breeeeeeathe. Dr. Lillard. Back in the room. Slowly. Through the nose, out the mouth. Dr. Lillard. My hand on his wrist. Dr. Lillard, the bastard. Slowly. Slowly. Return to a normal breathing pattern. My days on the football field.

   I thought to myself: The happiest I’ve ever been.

   Dr. Lillard.

   “Okay, okay, okay,” as he placed his hand on my shoulder. “Okay,” he said like a reassuring father. Like my father.

   Wally. My father smiling at me. Breathe. Breathe. Okay. Okay.

   Finally, I found my regular breathing pattern once again.

   I thought to myself: This is embarrassing.

   I placed fingers either side of my nose.

   I exhaled through circular lips.

   “That’s the worst one yet,” I said.

   I saw tears in my eyes.

   “I know how unpleasant they can be,” said Lillard.

   I thought to myself: Like hell you do.

   “Let’s revisit this in our next session, Lukas.’

   I nodded my head: Sure.

   And then I left.

12. The flashback | Shostakovich’s Symphony No.5 in D minor . . .

I’M IN CARACAS.

   A small, sweltering, suffocating room lit by red neon lights. I sleep on a stained, almost springless mattress with no bedsheets. Dust balls populate the discolored carpet. I’m sweating. The single matchbox window is hidden by a scruffy white curtain. I wear a white vest and green khaki shorts. Along with a shiv I purchased the previous night, my computer, wallet, passport, a bottle of cheap liquor, and a pack of cigarettes are my only possessions. I’m writing my piece for The Cutter; the one that will garner me plaudits, awards, and warm, enthusiastic handshakes, all while I experience crippling attacks of anxiety.

   I hear unrest outside.

   This is a reliable constant.

   Food shortages are widespread, despite the government stating otherwise. People queue for hours for a loaf of bread, for gas, for cigarettes. This, I tell myself, is what I read about the Soviet Union.

   My article centers around a young mother and her child. I’d spent the previous week with them, and it’s the mother’s experience which crystalizes the experience of the majority here.

   This is my last night in Caracas, a moment in the turbulent present.

   I’m paranoid. Fearful. The previous evening, I was threatened by members of a local gang. Fifty bucks was enough to stop them from cutting off my testicles.

   I clutch the shiv.

   I write my article.

   I swig from the bottle.

   The door, it opens.

   I grab the shiv.

Then I woke up in a cold sweat, tears in my eyes.

   I looked outside at Rutherford Drive: calm, peaceful suburbia over two thousand miles away from Venezuela.

   I turned to Karen who was asleep, unaware, detached.

   I took deep breaths.

   I quietly wept.

XXX

The following morning, I awoke to the deafening sound of Shostakovich’s ‘Symphony No. 5 in D minor’ blaring through the house, invading every room like merciless NKVD officers gathering the unfortunate ones destined for the Gulags or firing squad. The suspenseful opening strings, the minor sixths to minor thirds, the horrors of Stalin’s Great Terror echoing through the rooms of my suburban home.

   As the music permeated the property, I recalled the time when Karen and I purchased the vinyl. It was just after Evan was born. Karen had recently taken a liking to classical music, and one of few things I’d told her about my father was his love of the Russian composers: Rachmaninoff, Stravinsky, Tchaikovsky, Rimsky-Korsakov, Prokofiev, Shostakovich. (Aside: My father’s tastes, not mine).

   The memory I possessed was of a sunny-day stroll through a market. Exquisitely fresh air. Deep inhales through the nose. Sunshine. Evan in his stroller. Smiles. Karen fingering through records and revealing the recording by the National Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Sir Georg Solti.

   Happiness.

   As I descended the stairs, as the first movement continued — Moderato — I found Karen sitting alone at the kitchen table with her back to me, wearing her white bathrobe, head bowed, arms outstretched, hands flat on the table. The curtains were shut, diluting the morning sunlight scarlet red, giving a strategically lit, dramatic movie-set feel to the scene before me.

   I thought to myself: This is new.

   I slowly approached my wife from behind; the woman I loved, whose behavior as of late was arguably as unpredictable as her mid-life-crisis husband’s.

  “Karen?” I asked tentatively, but I couldn’t compete with the march section of the first movement.

   The percussion continued as I took uncertain steps towards Karen, whose head was still lowered, who remained sedentary in the fiery frame of a film reel.

   I reached out a hand as I got closer, as Solti demanded the recapitulation section: returning themes and strings.

   I touched her shoulder, and Karen turned to me – eyes sad, bulging, red.

   “I’ve lost him,” she said, before she began to sob. “I’ve lost him,” she repeated, as I placed my hands either side of her head and rested it against my hip.

   The first movement ended, and Karen’s muffled sobbing momentarily replaced the orchestra. I grasped my wife and, mentally, I reached for the past.

13. The detective | Connectivity issues . . .

“IS THERE A reason why people aren’t interested in how the world functions?”

   Evan asked me this as I was lulling on the couch, half asleep, body aching, feeling old. He’d presented to me another test of my philosophical prowess (or lack thereof). Again, I found myself perturbed, unprepared for such a deep question.

   “How do you mean?” I asked groggily. An open window gave access to the sounds of chirping birds.

   He was sat across from me; the two of us either side of the room, the space between us filled by a floor-to-ceiling window, the dull daylight filling the room, and the oak-wood coffee table crowned with Karen’s art books: The Expressionists, The Fauvists, The Cubists. Me slouched, Evan upright, posture perfect, expression earnest, eyes piercing.

   “The world,” he said, each word landing like a dull punch to the skull. “People aren’t interested in how it functions.”

   I was in no mood for one of Evan’s intellectual bouts.

   “Are we talking physics here? What, Evan? What do you mean?”

   “Human action,” he said. “Civilization.”

   I shook my head. “Evan, buddy, I’m going to be honest, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

   “There are a priori truths about human action, a priori economic truths; economics effectively being the study of human action-”

   “Evan,” I said. He sat quietly, respectfully, palms on thighs, waiting for me to continue; he eagerly wanted his father to pass on to him wisdom that would bolster his bodily and spiritual journey through life. I hoped that he’d interrupt my own interruption argumentatively, but he was too bright for that, too sincere, too hungry for knowledge. I had no idea what to say. Had I leaned further back into the couch, I’m certain it would have swallowed me whole.

   I stood up, a movement that even surprised me. Even still sat on the couch, his eyes remained locked on mine earnestly.

   “How about a game of catch?” I said. My son, a singular adolescent, did not alter his expression.

   “Distraction,” he said, quietly. The word was so soaked in disappointment that I expected Evan’s person to leak all over the floor.

   “What?” I said.

   “People just look for distraction: TV series’, reality shows, video games, sports… catch. I didn’t think you’d give in so easily.”

   “I just want us to have fun, buddy,” I said. And yes, it sounded that pathetic.

   He stood up straight, looking at me; those eyes which would turn water to ice.

   “That’s the problem,” he said as he walked towards and then past me, out into the back yard.

   I stood alone in the dull light, accompanied by silence. Even the birds, it seemed, had had enough.

XXX

I’d fallen once again into a deep sleep; awakened from it by loud thuds on the door. I must have been dreaming about death because each thud on the door seemed to me a nail in my coffin. The dim light outside had now become darkness, and the glow from the streetlights gave the living room an eerie orange tint.

   The knocks continued as I sleepily made my way towards the front door. Other than this disruption the house was dead quiet; I had no idea where Karen was, or Evan. And still there was no sign of Stephanie.

   When I opened the door, I found a familiar face standing in front of me: empathetic expression, big ears, clean-shaven jaw.

   “Mr. Lazaruk?”

   I paused a moment, a little nervous; you never get used to an unexpected call like this.

   “Yes?”

   “My name’s Reginald Glass. I’m a detective with the CPD. Could I borrow a few minutes of your time?”

   “Of course; what’s this about?”

   I thought to myself: I know what this is about.

   “May I come in?” Glass asked. He was wearing a two-piece russet suit, and an incongruous bolo tie decorated his plain white shirt.

   “Sure,” I said, holding open the door for him.

   Glass stepped inside and awaited my lead.

   I took him through to the kitchen where, after flicking on the lights, I offered him a seat at the Castilian-made dining table which sat in the middle of the kitchen, surrounded by the picture windows that offered a panoramic view of our spacious backyard. I took a quick look outside to see if Evan was on the tire swing, but through the darkness I could make it out, hanging in the air unattended.

   Glass pulled out a chair and sat down, chirpily knocking his big brown knuckles on the sturdy tabletop as he looked around the room.

   “Beautiful home,” he nodded.

   “Thanks,” I said. “Water? Anything?”

   “I wouldn’t say no to cup of cocoa right now,” he smiled.

   “Uh,” I raised my hands before approaching the pantry.

   I thought to myself: Cocoa? Who does this guy think he is?

   “I think Karen might have bought some for Evan once,” I said

   “Your son,” he asked, or stated.

   I moved boxes and packs of snacks as I searched for the hot chocolate.

   “Uh, yeah. Evan.”

   I quickly turned around as a thought entered my mind.

   “Jesus, this isn’t about Evan, is it?”

   Glass smiled reassuringly, “No,” before becoming serious. “I’m sorry if I startled you.”

   I resumed my search.

   “This is about the Le Ché murder; I’m sure you’ve heard about it, living so close to the crime scene.”

   “Uh, yeah,” I said, still searching for, then finding, a flask of cocoa. “Got it!”

   I turned triumphantly towards Glass, holding the cocoa like I was in an advert for the brand.

   “How do you like it?”

   “All milk, please,” he smiled.

   I poured milk into a cup, added the hot-chocolate mix, hit the microwave, and moments later placed a steaming cup in front of the detective.

   “Well, hospitality at its finest,” he smiled. I found his frequent smiling disconcerting.

   “So,” I said, sitting down across from Glass as I held a glass of water. “The Le Ché case–”

   “I read your Venezuela article,” he said amiably, all teeth. “It was a wonderful piece of writing.” His deep, stuffy voice filled the room. “It’s the best thing I’ve read in The Cutter, that’s for sure.”

   “Thank you,” I nodded as I felt my stomach clench. I looked at Glass’s broad shoulders, his massive hands making the cup look like one from a little girl’s tea set; his blotch-less caramel skin.

   “It broke my damn heart, that’s for sure,” he smiled again, paradoxically. His earnest eyes met mine.

   “Well, thanks,” I said. “It was a privilege to write it.”

   “It must have been harrowing,” he countered.

   “Well, for a journalist . . . it’s, ah, it’s the moment we’re looking for . . . Unfortunately.”

   “Suffering for approbation?”

   I sat up. No one, not even that over-priced sack of shit Dr. Lillard, had ever captured my experience like this. “Yeah,” I nodded. “Other people suffer, we document their pain, we get rewarded. It’s kind of twisted, huh?”

   “Those people would suffer in darkness. Real journalists like you shed light on their struggle.”

   In a moment of unadulterated embarrassment, I felt myself well up, on the verge of tears. My stomach twisted and my heart began to race.

   I stood up.

   “Could you excuse me for a moment?” I managed to say to Glass, as his expression changed to one of concern.

   “Of course.”

   I rushed to the downstairs bathroom and rinsed my face with cold water. I looked at myself in the mirror as water dripped from my face. Strangely, I appreciated my handsome features in that moment: strong jawline, penetrating blue eyes, dark skin; I may have gained a few pounds and a battalion of grays but there was a reason why Karen, so beautiful, had found me physically attractive over the years.

   I patted my face with the towel and pulled the bottle from my pocket, popping a couple of pills and drinking straight from the faucet. One more deep breath, a reassuring glance in the mirror, and I opened the door, returning to the kitchen with rediscovered pep.

   “Excuse me,” I smiled.

   “I’m sorry,” said Glass as I slid into my seat.

   “For?”

   “My good sense tells me that would be PTSD . . . I served: Afghanistan. Two tours. Witnessed some terrible things. I should’ve known better than to bring up your article; for that I apologize.”

   “You could tell?”

   “I know the feeling,” he smiled. “That . . . sudden rush.”

   He sipped from his cup of cocoa and sat back in his chair; he was so big I worried the chair might give way beneath him; not fat, but broad, and, I gathered, muscular.

   “We, uh, already had the boys in blue call here the other day,” I said. “My wife spoke with them.”

   “Yes.” Glass sat forward, still clutching his cup of cocoa. “Mr. Lazaruk, I’ll get right to it: the reason I’m visiting you is because I believe you could help us crack this case.”

   I picked up my glass of water and sipped from it.

   Glass annexed with a smile (which now didn’t seem so amiable): “Believe it or not.”

   I looked outside at the darkness. I eyed the front door of the house from where I sat, urging the arrival of Karen or Evan. At that moment I’d even take Stephanie.

   “Why . . . would you say that?” I asked.

   “Hear this . . . I once took an evening course in journalism.”

   “Is that so?”

   He leaned closer; the chair creaked beneath his hefty presence.

   “I happen to be close to some of Coldcut’s finest, and I know some of the hacks, too.”

   “I hope that doesn’t include me,” I smiled nervously, because when did being in the presence of a police officer not render one timorous?

   Glass didn’t reply. I sat waiting for him to get to the point.

   He sat back in his chair.

   “Lukas, I want to ask a favor of you, if I may be so bold.”

   “What kind of favor?”

   “My contacts tell me that you’ll be interviewing Alfie B. Lee for The Cutter magazine. Would my contacts be correct?”

   “Hey, I’m not one to give away a Cutter cover story,” I said.

   “Trust me, I won’t narc,” smiled Glass. I liked him, which irked me for a reason I did not know; or maybe it was because I knew that he could find out about Le Ché’s contact with me and come down hard. But what did I do wrong, technically? I was certain I hadn’t broken any laws.

   This was America, after all. The land of the free.

   I sighed.

   “I’ll be interviewing him in December. Next month, yes,” I said. “What does this have to do with the Le Ché case?”

   “He’s someone we’re interested in. A couple of my boys have been over to Promenade to speak with him, but no joy. That’s all I can say right now.”

   “Alfie doesn’t live in Promenade.”

   “He doesn’t?”

   “No. He did, and it’s not far from where Succulent Studios is based.”

   “Succulent Studios; they have a way with words, these cats.”

   “It’s part of the charm.”

   “The owner of Succulent Studios is . . .” Glass removed a small black notebook from inside his jacket and flipped the pages. “Donald Dunphy, right?”

   “Donald ‘The Duck’ Dunphy – that’s right. He’s a person of interest, too?”

   “That, I can’t divulge . . . But Alfie, he’s no longer in Promenade?”

   “People at the Cutter were trying to reach him for months when we first decided to run with an Alfie B. piece. He’d parted company with his agent, and as it turns out, the most affluent neighborhood in Coldcut no longer has its movie-star resident.”

   Glass nodded his head, smelled the cocoa in his cup. He smiled again, this one tainted with incredulity.

   “How did he do that?”

   “What?”

   “Go from smut star to Hollywood superstar?”

   I shrugged my shoulders.

   “He’s got something people like.”

   “That something special.”

   “Yeah. And a huge–”

   I shrank in my chair, immediately regretting the crude joke in the company of a stranger – a CPD detective no less – thankfully stopping myself before completing the sentence, which I hoped somewhat mitigated the damage.

   Glass didn’t laugh, just held on to the incredulous smile and drank from his cup.

   “And how did you finally get in touch with him?”

   I sat up again, crossed my arms self-consciously.

   “Me? I didn’t. The people at The Cutter did. I haven’t spoken with the man.”

   Glass nodded his head silently.

   “So, you think Alfie was involved in Le Ché’s murder?”

   Glass stared at me, before saying, “Like I said, he’s a person of interest.”

   “What’s all this about some connection to the president?” I asked.

   The detective jolted as he laughed, singular.

   “Baseless rumors,” he said as he tipped the cup and finished off his cocoa. He smiled politely and rose to his feet.

   “Well, I best be on my way.”

   I stood up.

   “But . . . You said I could help you crack the case.”

   “That you could. And I’ll be in touch before you interview the man next month . . . assuming you don’t have a problem with that?”

   “Depends on what you’re asking me to do.”

   Glass grinned.

   “Don’t worry; there’ll be no bullet-proof vests involved.”

   I walked him to the front door, where he stood illuminated under the porch lights like a black saint. Before he left, I asked, “Do you have any leads so far? Who have you spoken to?”

   “Le Ché’s former roommate . . . Interesting character. Goes by the name Monique. And a few others.” He looked around, took in the quiet neighborhood lined with towering, detached houses. “Rutherford Drive: The American Dream, huh?”

   I managed a disingenuous smile.

  Glass’s face darkened; like a sudden cloud blocking the sun on an otherwise bright day. He raised a finger to his forehead and looked me square in the eyes.

   “I’ve seen fellow jarheads take a bullet straight through the skull; bodies eviscerated by IEDs. In my time on the force, I’ve visited some terrible crime scenes . . . Makes you wonder . . . about values . . . about morals . . . about God.” Glass looked away and pushed his chest out as he took a deep breath. “That poor Le Ché boy. How it ended for him . . . how we found him. That’s something that will never leave me.”

XXX

Shortly after Glass had left, I watched a video called Ultimate Slut POV Compilation and, following a short depressive slump, I started researching the life of Leighton Le Ché. If I was to get to know more about him, I would need to visit the roommate Glass had mentioned.

14. The roommate | The end of an affair . . .

THE FRONT DOOR was bright pink and woodchipped, decorated with an iron number ‘7’. I pressed the circular white button framed by a dusty black rectangle and a buzz followed. As I waited for an answer, I looked around the neighborhood I’d found myself in: litter scattered along the street, garbage cans overflowing, wire fences surrounding gardens, children playing. The smell of marijuana permeated the air; the sky was turning purple as dusk beckoned.

   The door opened, revealing a towering figure: black, boney facial features, humpy shoulders, slightly hunched, black weave, Adam’s apple, age difficult to determine. I couldn’t tell if they were pre- or post-op. Tight pants might have given it away, but this person wore a brown turtleneck and a wavy beige skirt.

   “What’s happenin’, honey? You Desiree’s cousin?”

   “Uh, no. No, I’m not Desiree’s cousin. I’m sorry to intrude. My name’s Lukas Lazaruk, I’m a writer for The Cutter magazine.”

   “Ain’t never heard of it.” Monique looked at me, unimpressed, eyelids disapprovingly half-closed.

   “I’m here to–”

   “I know why you here,” Monique said, looking beyond me at the street outside. “So why don’t you slink your bony white ass inside before people start talkin’?”

   It was as if I’d entered a rainforest; exotic plants surrounded me at every angle. I was certain I heard the clicking and chirping of cicadas, and my rational assumption was that this was playing through someone’s phone. I moved the large leaves of a plant out of my way and looked in the living room, equally overpopulated with greenery. A haze of smoke hung in the air, the light from the mostly covered window making the plume more prominent; a thick smog permeating the room. Sitting still on the sofa was a skinny white man, mid-40s, sunglasses covering his eyes; an air of ‘baked’ about him. He didn’t turn to look at me.

   “Sorry, you have company,” I said.

   “Oh, pay no mind to Billy Bones. He got more secrets than a wise guy. His wife don’t know he’s here, so he ain’t here, if you know what I mean, honey.”

   “I guess I do,” I said.

   “Please,” the tall guy — or woman — or whatever, said. Gesturing for entry to the kitchen, away from Billy, who remained in his smoky slumber.

   I entered the dimly lit, green-tiled kitchen. On my left was padded seating attached to the wall, tucked under a round glass-top table. On my right was the small kitchen complete with a small bar; the blinds at the window pulled down and shut, which I suspected was their usual position. A cheap-looking, three-winged fan was attached to the ceiling. Condition: chipped, broken.

   “Your name’s Monique, right?” I said as I slid myself into the booth.

   “Monique Molasses, and thrice as sweet, honey,” Monique said as he (she?) assembled some concoction by the kitchen sink, lowering their (safest bet) head into the open fridge every few seconds for additional ingredients. “You here ‘bout lil’ Leighton.”

   “That’s right,” I said.

   Monique turned to me with a devious smile, “‘lil’’ meanin’ his short ass only, if you know what I mean, Double L.”

   “Double L?” I asked as Monique laughed incongruously to (I’d finally settled) herself.

   “You said your name was Lukas Lasertop?”

   “Lukas Lazaruk.”

   “Double L’s easier. And cooler too, shugga. Sounds like a jazz partner for my nigga Coltrane: Tonight: Trane ‘n’ Double L take us on a wild ride through dead-end street. Oh hell yeah.”

   I smiled and linked my fingers. Monique Molasses turned her towering figure — enhanced by the two-inch heels she wore — towards me.

   She placed a tall, skinny glass under my chin, filled with what looked like tomato juice.

   “What’s that?” I asked.

   “Honey, that’s a Bloody Monique,” she said as she parked herself next to me on the padded seating, placing a second, identical beverage on the table, only hers possessed a long red straw.

   “What’s a Bloody Monique?”

   “Sometimes it’s my black ass after the poh-leece beat six shades ah shit outta me. But that,” she pointed her long-nailed finger at the glass in front of me. “That’s the best funkin’ drink you’ve never tried, honey: a Bloody Mary with a kinky twist.”

   Monique winked at me and smiled, before her expression changed to one of impatience, and she raised her voice to a piercing falsetto: “Drink up!”

   Against my better judgement, I reached for the glass and took a tentative sip, experiencing an initial explosion of tomato hot sauce, followed by a strange-but-not-unpleasant cocoa flavor. A distant memory greeted me: kissing Karen’s lips which were coated with a spicy enhancement balm. An adjoining recollection of Karen and I making love (shortly after meeting – that universally amorous period in every relationship) ordered a gush of blood to my groin, before I withdrew myself from the sexual reverie and returned to the room, erectionless.

   “It that… chocolate?”

   “Maybe . . . Maybe funkin’ not: That recipe dies with me, shugga.”

   I nodded my head in surprised approval.

   “Never once has nobody liked a Bloody Monique.”

   Monique crossed her legs and lay back on her elbows, looking me up and down.

   “You said you work for The Cutter. What’s that?”

   “A very popular magazine.”

   “You writin’ a piece on lil’ Leighton?

   “Not exactly,” I said as I surprised myself by reaching again for the glass filled with bold red liquid.

   “Leighton was a fan of the magazine,” I said, without thinking, “or so I’ve read.”

   Monique slowly shook her head. “I dunno. Maybe. Never seen him readin’ it.” Her expression suddenly changed; her facial adjustments were so exaggerated it was as if she were entertaining a child; this one was clearly ‘sad’.

   “My poor baby… They fucked him up somethin’”

   “You lived with him until his death?”

    Monique sat up, agitated, and her voice became more masculine: “Nigga you know this. If you here and you know my name, you know this.”

   “I’m making sure the information I have is accurate,” I smiled. “Fact-checking is important in my line of work. Or, at least, it used to be.”

   Monique returned to resting on her elbows, and her more effeminate disposition.

   “I lived with Leighton for three years. Back when we was both hustlin’, livin’ like trailer trash. And then in that fancy-ass neighborhood when Leighton was makin’ bank.”

   “He took you with him?”

   “He trusted me. He didn’t trust many niggas, and why would he? And I thought I had a fucked-up childhood . . . Anyways I wasn’t livin’ offa his ass. I’ve got my own income.”

   “Being?”

   “I satisfy demand in the male market, honey.” Monique leaned forward and locked her cherry-red lips around the cherry-red straw, sipping from it, before laying back on the leather seat. “And there’s always demand in the male market, shugga.”

   I took another mouthful of my drink and reached into my pocket for my notebook.

   “Did Leighton have any enemies?” I said, pencil in hand.

   “You aksin’ the same questions as the poh-leece.”

   “Journalism and criminal investigation have a lot in common.”

   “I know that. I ain’t retarded, honey. All I’m sayin’ is, you aksin’ the same questions. You want to know this, go talk to the five-o. Aks me somethin’ different.”

   “Okay” I said as I tapped my notebook with my pencil. “Was Leighton Le Ché the pornographic actor the same person as Leighton Le Ché your roommate?”

   Monique smiled broadly, widening her eyes and letting her mouth hang open as she sat up and retained her upright pose.

   “Fuck up, motha fucka!” she said.

   “Excuse me?”

   “You good,” she purred, waving a finger at me. She reached for her glass and mixed her drink with the straw. “Holy shit, you good.”

   “Well?” I raised my pencil-holding hand.

   “Leighton wasn’t zactly what you saw on screen, nah. Most porno actors ain’t. For starters, he wasn’t gay. Hell no. Those scenes just paid well, nigga. Better than the straight shit. You know how much demand there be in the gay industry? Shit, all those straight-ass niggas hungry for some man-love gotta relieve theyselves with somethin’.”

   Monique’s expression shifted again, and her voice took on a somber, almost childish melancholic cadence.

   “He was in love.”

   “Leighton had a girlfriend?”

   “He had a lady friend. She was married.”

   Monique sat forward eagerly. I noted her long eyelashes, her big brown eyes accompanied by subtle crow’s feet.

   “I think her husband did it. I think the nigga found out and funked Leighton up somethin’.”

   “What about the president?”

   “What about the president?”

   “Have you turned on the news lately?”

   Monique lay back abruptly, drink in hand.

   “Nigga please. Like my nigga Kanye says, don’t pay attention to nothin’ you see on the news. The news is good for one thing: fannin’ the flames of racial tension. Divide ‘n’ conquer shit. They say racism’s errywhere. They be full of shit. Mose people are good people; that comes from experience, shugga. The news media havin’ erryone at each otha’s throats. Spreadin’ their fear. Spreadin’ that profitable paranoia. Nah, not me – I don’t watch no funkin’ news, Double L. And you shouldn’t neither.”

   Monique had blazed her way through her drink, and she slurped the last vestiges from the bottom of the glass.

   “What’s this shit about the president?”

   ‘I don’t know,” I said. I looked over at the room where Billy Bones still sat in the same position as before; the smoke still hung in the air like a loitering teenager on a Rutherford resident’s convertible. “Apparently Leighton has some connection to the White House.”

   Monique sat up again. Again, she set her voice to falsetto.

   “What?!”

   She kicked her high heels in the air and pushed herself up, approaching the kitchen again as she prepared to fix herself another drink.

   “The POTUS? What the hell is that shit?”

   “You know anything?”

   Monique turned to me with a stern look on her face.

  “I know it’s bullshit.”

   “Why do you say that?”

   “Nigga, it don’t take no genius to know what’s going on here.”

   I sat forward, picking up my Bloody Monique and waiting for her to continue.

   “They been tryin’ to get that nigga outta office for years now. This is some fucked up, conspiracy theory, 9-11, CIA-planning, off-the-chart shit right here. Ain’t no way lil’ Leighton had a connexion to the president.”

   Monique suddenly broke into a fit of laughter, bending over and producing long, hyenic wails.

   “Oh my nigga! What shit is this?!

   “How do you know there’s no connection?”

   Monique turned to me, that unimpressed expression punctuated by half-closed eyes on her face yet again, “Because I would know,” she said sternly, before pouting, not sarcastically: “We shared errything.”

   “So,” I said, “what about the woman Leighton was seeing?”

   “Well,” Monique’s eyes fluttered, two big butterflies, trapped, “I say we shared errything, I . . . didn’t know who she was. I just knew that she was. Comprende?”

   “He never told you her name?”

   Monique put the finishing touches on her second Bloody Monique and joined me back at the glass-top table, sitting herself next to me again, her muscular thigh on display having crossed her legs.

   “Nah. He’d only bin seein’ her a couple months. I heard him talkin’ to her over the phone, I heard him say somethin’ about her husband. I saw a sweetness in him durin’ that time. He was sweet, naturally. But after he met her, he was ‘specially syrupy-dryupy.”

   “I’m sure the police have looked into Leighton’s call history.”

   “Maybe. But Leighton didn’t make no regular calls. He used that Anonymo app; no history. And one ah those VPNs too. So the five-o’s gonna have they work cut out.”

   Monique uncrossed her legs and lay back on the seat, releasing a long sigh. After a moment she sat up again, and I noticed tears in her eyes.

   “I miss him,” she said as she looked at me. “The devil wouldn’t do so much damage like what was done to lil’ Leighton.”

   I frowned unintentionally.

   “Would you describe the Leighton off-screen as . . . bookish? Did he ever share, um, a journal or anything with you?”

   “A journal? You mean, like, a diary?”

   “I mean a diary, yes.”

   Monique shook her head, the slurp from her straw like water exiting a kitchen sink.

   “Leighton wasn’t stupid, but he wusn’t no Einstein neither.”

   I scribbled in my notepad and looked up again at the physical powerhouse in front of me, effeminized by clothes and false eyelashes.

   “Did he mention anything to you about death threats?”

   A tear trickled down Monique’s cheek. She wiped it away quickly, angrily.

   “Nah, no, nothin’. Why? What did you hear?”

   “Just, rumors, that’s all. When someone’s murdered so . . . violently, so unexpectedly, it’s . . . a natural question to ask.”

   “Erryone loved lil’ Leighton. I loved Leighton.”

   “Everyone except his lover’s husband?”

   Monique sipped from her straw.

   “That’s mah theory, Double L.”

XXX

I left the house, mildly intoxicated and with a taste of chili on my tongue, having indulged in a second Bloody Monique. The day had quickly grown darker, a not-unpleasant chill embraced my body as I walked across the garbage-strewn street towards my car, which was illuminated by the orange glow of a lamppost it was parked under. An unmistakable, rejuvenating winter scent hung in the air.

   As I sat outside Monique’s house, in the driver’s seat of my car, I imagined Leighton Le Ché: pop-star features, toned physique, heart-melting smile. I thought of the blurry images from the crime scene which had been uploaded to the internet by the unscrupulous cleaning lady. I placed myself in his apartment, looking over the young performer’s mutilated remains; the thick pool of blood on the glossy wooden floor surrounding him; his half-naked body mangled into a work by Picasso: punctures, gashes, lesions; his twisted mouth open (The Scream), a look of sheer horror on his blood-spattered face (like, I had read, Camus’ expression as the car embraced the tree trunk); the Forever Young tattoo on his left wrist; his hand fixed into a grasping shape, as if he’d been reaching out for help.

   I’m black and white; dressed for a funeral. I lower myself to my knees, my slacks quickly becoming stained with the young man’s blood. I take off my suit jacket and place it on the floor. I roll up the sleeves of my white, now bloodstained, shirt. I place my hand under Le Ché’s head, feeling the lacerations on his scalp, the still-warm blood and minced flesh squelching between fingers and matted hair. I lift his head towards mine.

   I see Evan.

   Evan bloodied and horrified, his eyes on mine, disappointed, longing, terrorized. I cradle him and we resemble Repin’s Ivan the Terrible and His Son Ivan on 16th November 1581, which Karen had showed me recently. I kiss Evan’s forehead and mouth his name as I weep.

   To my surprise, perhaps because of my semi-drunken state, I returned to reality finding myself sobbing quietly, making sounds like a steam train beginning its journey: chsh chsh chsh chsh chsh. A knock on the driver window startled me out of my unexpected sorrowful sojourn, and I lowered the window as I saw Monique Molasses, now wrapped up in a bold purple bathrobe, looking like an Amazon queen who’s just enjoyed a post-battle bath.

   “You okay, Double L?” she asked, with what sounded like genuine empathy.

   “Yeah, excuse me,” I said, drying my eyes with my sleeve. “We recently had a death in the family. You know; it just hits you every now and then.”

   “Oh, I’m sorry. We all been there, ain’t that the truth.”

   “What has you out here?” I asked.

   Monique held out a big hand. Between her fingers was a picture of a teenage Leighton Le Ché.

   “I wanted to give you dat,” she said. “Dat’s who was taken from us; a sweet kid. His parents didn’t give him no chance, but he made somethin’ of hisself, even if that was sellin’ his sweet ass. That’s somethin’, ain’t it? In this world, we gotta do what we gotta do.”

   I looked at the picture: Le Ché posing next to some girl around his age; fourteen, fifteen, both pretty, vibrant, possessing that childhood happiness and optimism that’s often elusive in adulthood.

   “Just ‘cuz he did what he did. Just ‘cuz I do what I do, it don’t make us bad people. We ain’t hurtin’ no one. Lil’ Leighton didn’t deserve no end like that.”

   I looked up at the towering figure standing beside my car.

   “No,” I said. “He didn’t.”

   “You figure this shit out, Double L.”

   “I’ll try my best,” I said.

   I raised the window as Monique walked away. In my mirror I could see that she was wearing purple slippers to match her bathrobe. I took my cell phone from my pocket and dialed the Hartmann Helpline:

   You are not alone in your struggle. Each of us is engaged in a battle with life, but a battle that needn’t be fought. For life – time – is unchangeable. So, let go. Remember, you cannot change the past, but you can bargain with the future. Let go, do what you can do, because that’s all you can do. Heaven and Hell are not some biblical end game, but a state in the living future. You make the decisions which lead you to one of them.

   Dissatisfied, I hung up the phone and placed the picture of Le Ché inside my jacket pocket. I put the keys in the ignition and considered how Monique, who undoubtedly cared about Le Ché, really didn’t know him as well as she thought she did.

   I put my foot on the accelerator, and for the first time in a while I possessed no urge to consume pornographic material.

15. The Owner | The sweet taste of normality. . .

AFTER I RETURNED from Monique’s, I found myself once again in an empty house. Karen’s whereabouts: who knows. Evan: not to be found outside in is mid-air second bed. Perhaps he was with a school friend. Perhaps that school friend. Evan’s perspicacity, his precociousness, his unnatural maturity, all of this meant that Karen and I gave him as much freedom as possible. A recent acceptance on Karen’s part was that Evan’s demand for emancipation was an upcoming inevitability. This, along with the incident at school, was what I surmised had led to Karen’s current state of despair: her child had outgrown her maternity; her maternal love had no identifiable place to call home.

   And homelessness is always a tragedy.

   In the living room I lay on the L-shaped sofa with a copy of The Cutter in my hand. I returned to my latest piece, which I’d found had been a serotonin booster any time I dipped into it:

   Sarah, 28, Product Specialist at Mushi Cosmetics

   7:30am rise.

   Check social media.

   Wash, pat dry, and apply make-up to face.

   Post picture on social media with the caption “Ready for today!”

   Drink homemade vegan smoothie.

   Write 140-character insult directed at POTUS.

   Post on social media about the importance of mental health awareness.

   Take a moment to daydream about being married, having kids.

   Post on social media about not needing no man.

   Commute to work on The U.

   Make mental note while on train about the male gaze and constant objectification.

   Listen to podcast on gaslighting.

   Make mental note: you’re a strong woman capable of anything that a man is capable of.

   Arrive at work, take over from Justine.

   Spend the first three hours mostly standing around. Average three customers per hour.

   Make mental note: Justine is a skank.

   During lunch write 140-character insult directed at POTUS.

   After lunch spend forty minutes applying makeup to customer’s face.

   Make mental note: Girl, ain’t no amount of makeup gonna help your ass.

   After customer leaves, swipe right on some profiles.

   Wait for shift to end. Deal with no more than seven customers before clocking off.

   On the U home, refuse seat offered to you by man.

   At home, watch latest TV series.

   Swipe right on a few more profiles.

   Daydream about being married, having kids.

   Make mental note: All your friends are single mothers.

   Watch a few more episodes of latest TV series.

   Before bed, write 140-character insult directed at POTUS.

   Sleep.

The sound of my cell phone distracted me from the article. Bill’s name shone on the screen. I lifted myself from the couch and answered as I began to circle the living room, which – when it came to familial affairs – hadn’t seen much living lately.

   “Bill, how are you?”

   “Well, Lukas, boy.” He sounded frail, distant. “As Lord Tennyson said. ‘tis held that sorrow makes us wise’. Thus, I’m growing ever wiser.”

   “Stephanie?”

   “She’s left me.” His voice did sound mournful. If it had been me, I wouldn’t have quoted Tennyson; I’d be paraphrasing Alice Cooper: “The most joyous times of the year are Christmas morning, the end of school, and any time Stephanie leaves.”

   I switched on the patio light and looked at the tire swing hanging somberly from the maple, motionless. If it could breathe, a cloud of air would signal each released breath; the news had confirmed that snow was indeed coming.

   And when did the news tell a lie?

   “Karen said you guys had a fight. We’ve been waiting for Stephanie to come over.”

   “She’s headed West for a few days with that ghastly creature.”

   “She was having an affair?”

   “No, Lukas. The miniature camel.”

   “Oh.” The retarded monkey.

   “She’ll return next week to gather her belongings. She’ll be staying with you, I believe.”

   “For a couple days . . .”

   Bill sighed. I had never understood his love of Stephanie. Of the two sisters, Karen was both the brightest and the most beautiful. Stephanie, younger, much younger than Bill, in my mind had always been a trophy wife for William Hitchens: Master of Print Media. An attractive lady. A desirable figure. A certain fieriness that undoubtedly attracted Bill to her. But she was also occasionally vapid. Regularly dramatic. She’d dropped ambitions as a writer (fiction of the Mills and Boon variety) for the comfort of the kept woman. Bill paid all the bills; Stephanie picked up the cash and the clothes. She shared certain commonalities with her sister; this is inevitable. But apart from the epochal overindulgence in everything fashion, Karen was (or had been until recently) a smart, conscientious, caring, grounded, determined, and successful mother and wife.

   “And Karen,” Bill said. “She’s . . . how is she?”

   While Bill and I kept each other’s company regularly due to family ties, I wouldn’t consider him a friend. For him to ask after Karen was out of character. Perhaps a mere case of the wounded beast seeking empathetic connection in its moment of weakness.

   “Karen’s fine,” I lied.

   Two years ago, Karen quit her job as Creative Director at one of Coldcut’s biggest advertising agencies. Could this also be playing a role in her current lowly state? Perhaps. But she’d quit the position she’d held for six years to focus her time on herself and her passion (art), and to refocus her energy on her relationship with Evan. This before the school incident. Before Evan’s unquestionable emergence as a highly gifted child who, it seemed, had no need for parents apart from financial support (and even that was likely to change soon).

   Karen’s artistic pursuits over the past two years consisted of expressionist attempts; works which for all I knew were terrible or masterful. She’d lock herself in her upstairs studio for hours: secluded self-expression to be eventually shared. She had been scheduled to hold an exhibition, but suddenly canceled it and ceased painting six months ago. No one in the house had entered her studio in half a year. I had no idea of the whereabouts of the key to the door. This was not unlike my recent inability to access Karen, for Karen to access me: A locked door, a missing key.

   “The great Cormac McCarthy,” began Bill with his patented brattle. “He said that he’s never been able to understand women. I do wonder if it’s a gargantuan failure of the male of the species, or if women are simply inscrutable by nature.”

   The sisters would be reunited in a matter of days, and, I was hopeful, would lift each other up, even if it meant a frivolous shopping spree (what other kind was there?). Karen had told me about their close relationship as kids. Karen, younger, but more mature. Stephanie, older but sharing plenty in common with her younger sibling: fashion, boys, art, ice skating, running. The two sisters were separated by three years but united by all these things, particularly as children.

   “Stephanie had talked about taking up ice skating again,” Bill added incongruously. The Webb sisters were champion athletes during high school. Stephanie had even represented the United States once in ice skating at the Winter Olympics. Karen won countless medals in numerous running events. She was, in fact, the most decorated athlete at her high school.

   “Lukas,” said Bill. “May I ask a favor of you?”

   “Uh, sure, Bill.”

   “Would you join me at the house for a brandy?”

XXX

Bill’s house is a thirty-minute cab ride from Rutherford Drive. On the journey through upper-middle-class suburbia I sat in the back seat and passively listened as the driver talked about the president and yet another impeachment, and from my pocket I retrieved a miniature whiskey and sipped from it while silently nodding my head and willing the end of the ride.

   As the cab crept beside the Dalloway River, I focused my eyes on the dark water – a flowing abyss. I thought about Karen, how long it had been since we’d embraced. I tried to pinpoint the moment at which things seemed to change. Then, abruptly, thoughts of last year entered my mind.

   Venezuela.

   I’m in Caracas, in a sweltering, suffocating room. I write my notes, I swig from the bottle. I hear a noise outside my door. I clutch the shiv, with thoughts of the night before on my mind, having almost lost my manhood. My heart races. The door opens, I spring to my feet. I swing my arm in a single violent movement. The shiv enters a chest. A soft hand grasps the chest. Terrified eyes look into mine, searching for something – meaning? – as my body immediately feels scorched and I tremble—

   “Jesus!” I cried, as the cab driver fell silent. I looked at him, becoming aware of my surroundings once again. My body attempted to assuage the tremors I was experiencing as I unscrewed the cap of the miniature and downed the remaining contents. Red-faced and sweaty, I raised my hand apologetically.

  “You high, man?” he said, features twisted into an expression verging on disgust accented with a splash of fear.

  “As a kite,” I smiled back.

   I thought about Venezuela. I struggled to remain calm. My person, I was certain, was about to dissolve into nothingness.

XXX

Bill poured me a glass of his finest brandy as I leaned back in an expensive Barcelona chair; an attempt at appearing calm. But the latest Venezuela flashback had rendered me once again disheveled in Bill’s presence; I could not recall the last time he saw me defined by insouciance.

   Bill’s weighty figure sat in the pricey leather recliner across from me, causing it to squeak. He was a man who had literally and metaphorically lived off the fat of the land.

   “The quiet sense of something lost,” said Bill as he clutched the crystal tumbler with his sausage-roll fingers. More Tennyson? He tipped his glass to me, then to himself, before sipping his brandy.

   “I dreamt about the fall of the West,” he said. His forehead was moist with sweat; a greasy dinner plate, his grey hair – usually neatly combed – had fallen around his cheeks so as to frame his chubby features. A brattle followed. “I hesitate to make predictions, Lukas, boy. But a premonition… And was it biological warfare, nuclear war, pestilence, famine, climate change, robot ascension, an asteroid? Negative, Lukas. It is the death of truth that leads to the West’s decline.”

   A gentle cough this time. (Aside: When a loved woman deserts a smitten man, apocalypse usually ensues.)

   “Anyhow,” said Bill, jolting upward; an excited movement that was a physical non sequitur, “should the ship sink to the stygian depths, at least we’re in good company, my boy.” He held up his glass and took care of the contents of his glass is one quick motion.

   “Bill,” I said, sitting forward, the brandy having calmed me somewhat. “I’ve something about the Le Ché case to share with you.”

   Bill, a fallen tree again, merely looked at me with no degree of interest.

   “The kid contacted me before he was murdered.”

   This, the sweeping wind to rejuvenate the Anglo-American giant: “He what?”

   “I don’t know why, but Leighton Le Ché emailed me shortly before he was killed. I didn’t see the email until after he died. Then, I received a package in the mail.”

   “What kind of package?”

   “A diary,” I said.

   “Ah, the diary,” said Bill. “The lost art of reflection. Marcus Aurelius’ wisdom swept away like a-”

   I removed my phone from my jacket pocket. I flicked to some images of the diary and showed them to Bill.

   “Diary of an enfant terrible,” Bill said aloud. “I was once an enfant terrible, believe it or not.”

   I sat on the side of unbelief.

   “Well,” said Bill, handing me the phone and resting back in the recliner. I was surprised by his lack of animation following this revelation. “Who does it indict?”

   “Nobody,” I said. “It’s all philosophical mumbo jumbo.”

   “The catamite thought himself a philosopher?”

   “Again, catamite’s not quite accurate here, Bill.”

   “Well,” said Bill, before changing course. “What’s the nature of the diary?”

   “He saw himself as more than an adult performer. He held high ambitions.”

   “Eager for a foursome, was he?”

   “He vowed to conquer Hollywood.”

   “Not unreasonable; from one cesspool to another.”

   “And eventually run for the presidency.”

   Bill broke into a broad smile.

   “How brilliant,” he said. “Had he ambitions to break the speed of light too?”

   Bill rose clumsily from his chair, weighty figure that he was.

   “Why give you the diary if it doesn’t possess incriminating evidence? Why no mention of the White House?”

   “Because that’s a rumor started on the internet. He did mention an encounter with a powerful figure, but that’s it. No names, no details. I’ve no idea who he could’ve meant.”

   Bill stood by the open fireplace, lifting the poker and prodding the ash from the previous night’s fire.

   “No names. Apart from Alfie B. Lee,” I said.

   “The porn star,” said Bill.

   “It’s been a while since he performed. But yes, porn star, actor; he’s set to star in the new Pascaal movie with Eli Devereaux.”

   “Devereaux?”

   “New kid on the block. Oscar nominated last year after his first major role.”

   “How the jesters have soared,” said Bill. “I sometimes long for the monarchy, Lukas.”

   I returned to the Barcelona chair and my drink. Bill turned and rested his frame against the Greco-Roman mantel depicting Zeus. (Aside: Karen told me how Zeus morphed into an eagle to abduct Ganymede.)

   “And what does it say of this Lee character?”

   “Le Ché said he’d been threatened. He believed Lee was involved.”

   “Why?”

   “Because Le Ché was ‘coming for his throne’, as it says in the diary.”

   “More delusions of grandeur.”

   “There’s nothing in there that would hold up in court.”

   “So why give it to you, Lukas, boy?”

   “He wanted me to write about him in the magazine. Show the world that he wasn’t just an adult performer.”

   From the mantel, Bill took the bottle of brandy and filled his glass.

   “So,” he said as he returned to the recliner, “it’s a useless document.”

   “It appears to be,” I said.

   I thought to myself: Was Le Ché after nothing more than fame?

   “Whatever of the diary,” said Bill. “There’s still something there: Lee. Now your interview with the porn star is more than a popcorn article.”

XXX

After returning from Bill’s – thankfully sans panic attack – I found that a scene which had been cut out from the film of my life had been unexpectedly reinserted: In the kitchen, Karen and Evan were hugging.

   I dropped the car keys onto the island and greeted the two of them.

   “So, you guys have been up to something, huh?”

   Karen turned to me, beaming. I could’ve sworn in that moment that she was an angel – backlit, glowing, peaceful, beautiful. Evan didn’t muster a smile but offered a tepid greeting before retiring to the tire swing outside, book in hand.

   I approached Karen, short of embracing her. A genuine smile defined my features.

   “Can’t remember the last time I saw that,” I said.

   “We had a good day,” Karen said, looking outside at her son who lay in the tire swing, one sinewy leg dangling in the air, the other tucked under himself. Karen’s eyes possessed renewed energy. Her face glowed. “We went for a walk, we had ice cream.”

   “Wow,” I said. “I would’ve thought he’d scoff at the mere mention of ice cream.”

   I moved closer to her.

   “He did, at first,” said Karen as she moved towards me.

   I took her hand.

   “What prompted the breakthrough?”

   The gravitational pull was strong now; I placed my hand on Karen’s lower back and, instinctively, she placed her hands on my hips. A strange feeling of familiarity descended upon us.

   “I told him what the school told us. About Evan and Jonah,’ she said.

   I sat on the stool, taking Karen’s hand in mine.

   “You told him?”

   “I’ve felt so disconnected from him,” Karen said as she sat on the stool next to me. “I haven’t known how to deal with this and . . . I felt I had to. I know we wanted to let him approach us but . . .”

   “What did he say?”

   “He said it was none of my business, and that it was inconsequential, to use his word.”

   “Damn, he’s good.”

   Karen almost laughed.

   “That’s what he said. And I told him that he was right, it wasn’t my business. And I . . . parked my feelings. And then we had ice cream.”

   Our fingers linked; this was an affectionate gesture that had been absent from our lives for months.

   “He’ll figure things out,” I said. “He’s too bright not to.”

   “I know,” said Karen. “I just wish I knew how to feel about everything.”

   “Ice cream’s a useful tool,” I said. Karen smiled, and as I moved my hand to her face, I kissed her on the lips, something which was returned by Karen.

   That night came the unfolding of a wholly unexpected, momentous event: We made love.

16. The Cutter | throw away your television . . .

IT HAD BEEN weeks since I had stopped by the office. My position, while not official, was essentially editor-at-large (despite having never been an editor of the magazine), but with the perks of a full, fat salary. I generally came and went as I pleased. I sometimes generated ideas for other, usually junior, writers to work on. My close association with Bill meant I was regularly able to run with the articles I wanted to write, although the Alfie piece had been something of a struggle. For one thing, Melissa’s position on pornography was that it was the scourge of humanity – she despised Alfie and his ilk.

   The Cutter offices are located on the tenth floor of the Carter Building in the heart of downtown Coldcut; not far, in fact, from the McDonald hotel overlooking the Dalloway River, where Bill, Stephanie, Karen, and I had met recently for dinner, during which conversations about Le Ché, immigration, and miniature camels had ensued.

   The façade of the Carter Building was plainly North American, non-European (which had once depressed me, but as I aged I’d come to accept function over fancy, which, in a way, was not completely dissimilar to my recent penchant for pornography): Stark grey steel and stone, rigid verticality, stern personality; a Soviet-communistic charm; a place for workers to come and go – nothing more.

   Inside was far more uplifting: Comforting beige marble tiling, decorative cornices, and the relatively premature addition of gaudy Christmas decorations (it was November 20). Tinsel lined the reception area. Plastic, gold-plated bells hung above the elevators. Fake snow framed doorways. (Aside: Christmas, was, in fact, my favorite time of the year – when I wasn’t experiencing mental disintegration.)

   As I waited for the elevator to arrive, I felt a strange sensation: happiness. A flurry in my stomach, a euphoric release of dopamine. Karen and I had made love for the first time in six months. The embrace, the passion, the connection, the simultaneous release; it was the perfect physical reconciliation. For the first time in months, I felt hopeful.

   I found Melissa in her office, not before I’d passed reception and said hello to Janet and received inquisitive stares and greetings from a handful of colleagues; it had been weeks, after all. I knocked on the door which bore the words: ‘Melissa Borowitz – Editor (Don’t bother me unless it’s brilliant or licentious.)’.

    “Come on,” she said.

   I opened the door and entered. She was typing on her laptop. I took in the office to inspect it for recent additions to the walls. Melissa collected and decorated her office with European movie posters; a film enthusiast she certainly was. Fellini, Bergman, Fassbinder, Tarkovsky, and, more recently, some guy named Tarr. There was, as expected, a new framed poster: “Behemoth”, by the European who’d become something of a legend in America and whose latest movie was to star Leighton Le Ché: Pascal.

   She looked up at me for approximately two seconds, before returning to her computer.

   “Lukey,” she said. “Nice of you to let us know you haven’t blown your brains out.”

   I took a seat at her desk, looking at the new addition to the office.

   “Speaking of which: another sad bastard film?”

   Sans verbal response, Melissa raised a single hand and a single accompanying finger.

   “I see you’ve got a new plant, too.” I pointed to the windowsill behind Melissa; on it was a potted plant with shamrock-like, auburn leaves, which matched Melissa’s hair (and on that day, her fingernails).

   “It’s an Oxalis. Their color comes up best in bright light, hence its position. Something else that comes up well in bright light is my mood, which you’re currently darkening.”

   “It’s great to see you, too.”

   Melissa stopped typing and produced a heartfelt smile.

   “It is good to see you,” she said, her tone completely shifting. “I was worried about you. I called the house. No answer. How’s Karen? Evan?”

   “They’re . . .” I locked my lips and shook my head. “Fine.”

   “And what exactly is going on with Bill? I don’t hear from him in months, then out of nowhere he calls me the other day and says your next piece will be on immigration. Then he starts rambling about this Le Ché kid. Tells me you’re writing a piece on the murder.”

   “Bill said that?”

   “He did.”

   “I’m not.”

   “You are, according to Bill.”

   “He means the Alfie article – it’s an addition to it.”

   Melissa rolled her eyes.

   “That creep.”

   “He’s influential.”

   “Yes. Like most influential men, a creep.”

   “Generalization?”

   “Men think with their dicks, Lukas. It’s been true and it is true, and that’s okay. I’m not trying to say women are the same as men, or that men have periods too, like those third wavers. We have our ways, you have your ways. It’s perfectly acceptable to generalize in this instance.”

   I considered my recent pornographic pilgrimage and conceded by shrugging my shoulders and nodding my head.

   “People have been looking for you,” she said.

   “People being . . .”

   “How should I know? Ask Janet.”

   Melissa, in her 90s-style, baggy sweater and hooped earrings, morphed her expression into one of empathy again – her, I believe, natural expression.

   “But Karen’s okay? Evan? Really? You. You’re okay?”

   “I’m fine.” I sat forward. “They’re fine. What’s with all this concern?”

   “Bill told me.”

   “Told you what?”

   “That you’re seeing a shrink.”

   “Jesus.”

   “What? You expected him not to say anything? The magazine’s paying for it.”

   “Yes, in fact, I did. It’s a little thing called confidentiality, Melissa.”

   Melissa pulled open her desk drawer, removed a cigarette and lit one up. Not before pushing herself towards the window and opening it.

   “Please. I think every person who works for this magazine has seen Lillard. Bill’s practically keeping the man in business,” she said, cigarette dangling from between her lips.

   “You’ve seen Lillard?”

   “Oh, I’ve seen him all right.”

   Melissa produced a mischievous stare and smile combination.

   “No . . .”

   “Let’s just say the chaise longue wasn’t just used for psychoanalysis. . .”

   “Lillard?”

   “And I haven’t needed a shrink since.”

   I waved cigarette smoke away from my face, while secretly longing to take the cylindrical carcinogenic from Melissa and suck it down to the butt.

   “So, you’ve got the Alfie article,” she said, exhaling smoke in the direction of the open window. “Which is being enhanced by the Le Ché murder. There’s a connection?”

   “Not exactly. Just . . . it’s the industry. And this kid’s murder is getting a lot of attention. It’d be a missed opportunity if we didn’t include it in the piece.”

   “What about the rumors?”

   “What rumors?” I asked.

   “Subreddit rumors.”

   “Jesus. Melissa. Reddit? Really?”

   “Bruce inside says there was a picture on Reddit of Leighton Le Ché and the vice president in a . . . Dr. Lillard-therapy-type position. It’s since been pulled.”

   “So now it’s the vice president? First it was the president, now it’s the vice president.”

   “What do you care?”

   “I care about journalistic standards. Photoshop, now deepfake, it’s getting harder and harder to take anything at face value. Verification and fact-checking have never been more important. You really think the president, or the vice president, played between the sheets with a male teenage porn star?”

   “Influential men: creeps. We’ve been over this.”

   “You’re better than this.”

   “Jesus, Lukas. I’m speculating. I’m not telling you to write it up.”

   I stood up and looked out the window. Melissa leaned forward and continued to enjoy her cigarette. Outside it was cold, but sunny. The threat of snow had passed, apart from some scattered sleet showers on the outskirts of the city during the night, leaving behind that unmistakable scent of rain on asphalt. Below us was the busy mid-day, downtown activity like any other North American city.

   “Lukas,” she said, “that Le Ché kid was butchered for a good reason. Maybe he was mixed up in drugs, maybe he sucked the president’s – or vice president’s – ding-a-ling. He wasn’t killed for nothing.”

   “I’m not ditching the Alfie article for this.”

   “I never told you to.”

   I reached out to the leaves of the Oxalis. Melissa quickly slapped my hand away.

   “Besides,” she said, turning away from the window and dropping the cigarette into a cup half-filled with black coffee, “it took us months to set up the interview with the creep.”

   Melissa got back to her computer as I continued to look out the window.

   “What would you do if you had potential evidence related to a murder?”

   Melissa sat forward and frowned, turning her features into a scrunched up ball of paper.

   “What do you know?”

   I stood up, fixed my trousers.

   “I’ll be in touch,” I said.

   “Lukas,” called Melissa. “If you have a scoop, don’t fuck this up!”

   I stopped at the door, looking back at Melissa with a smile.

   “The wall could use another movie poster.”

Before I left the office, I stopped at reception and asked Janet about any messages that had been left for me.

   “There’s been a few calls. Nothing urgent. Although a man was here this morning, about an hour before you came in. He asked for you by name.”

   “Who was it?”

   “A,” Janet, late-thirties, looked through her notes; her pigtails gave her a strange and mildly upsetting infantile look, “Mr. Paul Broadford.”

   “Never heard of him.”

   Janet leaned forward and lowered her voice to a whisper: “I think he was intoxicated.”

   I nodded and wished Janet a good day. Still, I possessed that strange feeling. I felt good. It was good to make love to my wife, and it was good to be back at The Cutter, exchanging hellos and jokes with the people I worked with. The time spent in the company of nude figures on computer and cell-phone screens was time spent in isolation. Karen had once told me of the Post-impressionist painter Paul Cézanne, who had said: “If isolation tempers the strong, it is the stumbling block of the uncertain.”

XXX

The embrace of your wife, the alluring smell of her perfume, a subtle kiss on the cheek, her hand placed suggestively on your hip. All these things I’d either a) grown accustomed to, or b) not missed during our frigid period. But now, following the resumption of copulatory relations, Karen greeting me after my arrival home made me swell with happiness, and excitement.

   As Karen prepared dinner and Evan read from the apparent comfort of the tire gently rocking from the maple outside – as, apparently, a semblance of regular familial life had resumed – I sat on the couch in the living room and switched on the television. As I flicked channels, I encountered the familiar face of someone I had yet to meet, but would be getting to know soon: Alfie B. Lee was on The Daily Talks Show with Cindy Fox, debating Australian anti-pornography activist Jane Fuller. The caption on the screen read ‘Le Ché Murder: Is Industry to Blame?’

   I raised the volume and put my feet up on the leather ottoman.

   Fuller was her usual self: a joyless expression resting on the pale face wont of distinct features; her neat, short hair resembling that of the teenage boy; her breasts unharnessed; her use of makeup scant.

   Lee’s confident demeanor was complemented by his good looks complete with strong jawline, thick head of dark chocolate brown hair, arresting green eyes, and a healthy complexion.

   The exchange unfolded thusly:

   Fuller: What we’re hearing from Mr. Lee is the same gobbledygook that’s been spouted by the adult entertainment industry for nigh on decades: deflection, deflection, deflection. There is no – there has never been – a willingness to take responsibility. This industry has manipulated and endangered vulnerable young people for decades and it’s about time we put an end to this monstrosity once and for all.

   Fox: Mr. Lee, as a former adult performer, you’ve been a vocal supporter of measures to protect the industry and those who work within it. Doesn’t Leighton Le Ché’s death suggest that the industry is failing its workers?

   Lee: Good evening, Cindy. And it’s a pleasure to see you, Jane. You’re a delight, as always. Let’s be clear from the start: There is no evidence to suggest that this homicide has anything to do with the adult entertainment industry. What we do know is that Leighton Le Ché was a performer who had achieved considerable success in recent months. As for his personal life, that’s a bit of a mystery. I think, unfortunately, we’re witnessing Ms. Fuller exploit the tragic death of a young man in an attempt at bolstering her vendetta against anyone who has the audacity to see the world differently to her.

  Fuller: Vendetta. Always the performer, Alfie. Here’s the reality, Cindy. This is someone who has made a fortune off the objectification and manipulation of not only women, but men and boys such as the tragic Leighton Le Ché. This boy, and I say boy, because he was a child when he began his career, was welcomed into an industry that preys on the naïve, on the emotionally fragile, and profits from the physical and emotional humiliation experienced by performers. And let me be clear: This isn’t only a charge against the sex industry; Leighton Le Ché was failed by all of us, because we haven’t tackled this scourge on our society.

   Lee: A “scourge” that has provided countless individuals with a career and often a lucrative one. Cindy, this isn’t the 70s. This isn’t seedy, shady men pimping out young men and women. This is women and men claiming the rightful ownership of their bodies and their lives. Enjoying what they do and doing it on their terms. They’re often adept businesspeople working in a protected and regulated environment. No one’s holding a gun to their head – they’re in control on a level playing field. Isn’t that what feminism is supposed to be about – the freedom for women to do as they please?

   Fuller: Cindy, I’m afraid this is Alfie’s skill on display yet again: more deflection. Don’t dare try to make this about feminism, Alfie. This is about an unhealthy industry – a product of patriarchy nonetheless – which for decades has been making our society unhealthy. This is about powerful men like Alfie B. Lee who have been getting away with it for too long, and it’s about time we put a stop to it.

   Lee: Can I remind viewers that I haven’t performed in the adult entertainment industry for almost four years now. As everyone is aware, I’m a regular Hollywood actor just doing what he loves to do. Which reminds me: Legendary director Pascal’s Dangerous Seasons starring yours truly and the man of the hour Eli Deveraux hits cinemas next month. Go see it, folks!

   Fuller: You’re complicit!

   Lee: Whoa, Cindy, is that libel?

   Fox: Mr. Lee, if you’ve so distanced yourself from the industry, why do you continue to campaign for less regulation and appear on shows like this to discuss cases such as Leighton Le Ché’s?

   Lee: Because I care-

   Fuller: Oh, give me a break!

   Lee: I care, Cindy. This is the industry that gave me the career I now have. This is the industry that has saved people from a life of crime or drugs or violence. This is an industry that has come a long way from Deep Throat. This is an industry that is about the American way: freedom. Isn’t that what this country is all about? Of course, we have a non-American here telling us how to live our lives.

   Fuller: Xenophobia. Another charming moment, Alfie.

   Lee: If the truth is xenophobic, then I guess you’ll have to call me a xenophobe, Jane. Americans value the truth over any insult you can hurl at them.

   Fuller: Cindy, I’m sure your viewers are smart enough to see through this performance. A young man is dead because of an industry that has damaged our young for too long—

   I turned off the TV.

   I had grown tired of the endless debating which rendered this country forever divided. Suddenly, I wanted to scrap the Alfie B. Lee interview, forget about Leighton Le Ché, and live the life I’d currently found myself in: Happy wife, bookish child, porn-less world.

17. The psychologist | The world of pornography

BEFORE I LEFT the house for my session with Lillard, I spent two hours writing preparation notes for my Alfie B. Lee interview. Since Karen and I made love a few days earlier, I hadn’t experienced a single urge to consume pornographic material. However, the newly reestablished happy family wasn’t without its hiccups: While consumed by my note-making, I’d reneged on my promise to Evan that I’d collect him from the second-hand bookstore located downtown. When he got home sullen faced and chilly, his ears covered by his furry blue trapper hat, he asked me what had happened.

   “Evan, your aunt is going to stay here for a few days.”

   “That’s why you didn’t pick me up?” he asked, carrying a stack of books crowned by, I think, Plato’s The Republic.

   “No, uh, but you should prepare yourself.”

   “For Stephanie.”

   “Yes, you know . . .”

   “I know,” he said, balancing the books effortlessly with one hand as he reached for the fruit bowl with the other, opting for an apple. “Stephanie’s a walking complex; her unhappiness manifests itself in impulsive spending and air-headed discourse.”

   “Well,” I said, unsure how to respond, “I’m glad I’m not the only one who’s noticed.”

   Evan stared at me, expressionless; his ice-cold, beautiful blue eyes unapologetic in their judgmental naturalness. It was a few seconds before he replied. “My life goal is to avoid middle-age melodrama,” he said, before placing the apple in his mouth and leaving the room with his tower of literature. I thought I heard him manage to enunciate the words ‘it’s pathetic’ with apple in mouth before he left, but I couldn’t be sure.

XXX

Dr. Lillard was in Freudian mood. I hadn’t asked for his opinion, and it was my understanding that these supposedly therapeutic sessions were designed for me to divulge, and for him to consume and thus offer advice. This, however, didn’t stop the overpriced sack of shit from indulging in a smarmy intellectual jerk off in my presence.

   ‘Your father and mother, Lukas. This is a subject we must delve into, so that we tackle your issues, er, head on, okay?”

   He sat cross-legged and laced-fingered in the undoubtedly expensive leather armchair. The usual backdrop of the towering bookshelf secured this supposedly erudite scene.

   Everywhere, brown.

   “The id, as you may already be aware,” continued Lillard, “is the primitive condition, it is instinct. It seeks pleasure. We could speculate that this which prompts your visual stimulation is purely the reason for your pornographic proclivities. Then we have the ego, which, in Freud’s words, is the part of the id that is modified by the direct influences of the external world.”

   I thought to myself: I’m sitting on the chaise lounge which was likely the scene of Lillard’s and Melissa’s erogenous dance.

   “The ego seeks pleasure too, okay?” said Lillard. “But it pursues a realistic strategy to attain the pleasure it is in quest of. It has no concept of, er, right or wrong; something is good as long as it delivers what’s desired.”

   I thought to myself: Does this overpriced troglodyte simply regurgitate textbook definitions?

   “And finally,” Lillard marched on. “Finally, we have the super-ego, which, er, incorporates the morals and values of the society in which one grew up; the morals and values we learn from our parents and others during our childhood and adolescence.”

   Lillard leaned forward in a quasi-excited manner.

   “Your mother died when you were twelve, Lukas. Your father when you were eighteen. These are terribly destabilizing experiences for someone so young, okay?”

   I shifted uncomfortably on the chaise lounge, eager to resist, but mindful of being open to the Harvard graduate’s opinion, as little as I valued it. (Aside: I read an article recently which observed that most qualifications are, technically, purchased.)

   “Tell me about your relationship with your mother before she died.”

   I thought to myself: As opposed to my relationship with my mother after she died, dickhead?

   I ventured deep into my memory like a descent into an icy cave. My childhood was something I rarely revisited, like a neglected relative in a care home.

   “It was pretty normal,” I said after a moment’s consideration. “She didn’t over-mother me. We didn’t spend much time together in terms of activities. I remember her and my father arguing a lot. At the time I thought that’s just what parents did. But my relationship with her was just your regular mother-son story. It’s not something I think about very often.”

   “Did you mourn her death?”

   I paused in a genuine attempt at considering the quack’s question.

   “I don’t think I knew how to mourn,” I placed my hands behind my head; a move designed to display faux nonchalance. “I remember crying in the car after her funeral. But I remember crying only because everyone around me was doing it. And then I just . . . got back to being a kid.”

   Lillard nodded. The sound of his pencil scratching against the page irked my ears. Maybe he was taking notes, maybe he was drawing a phallically shaped doodle, the fiend.

   “And your father. How did he respond to your mother’s death?”

   Again, not a topic that regularly populated my days.

   “Uh, he worked a lot more. I remember that. I remember he’d spend the day at the office and then work in the evenings. Before he became self-employed full time.”

   I had planned on stopping there, but something within me – the id? – made me say the following: “And Wally would stay with us a lot.”

    “Wally,” said Lillard as he, I assumed, continued drawing his phallus-shaped masterpiece. “Your father’s . . . friend.”

   I sensed that my swallow was audible.

   “I think I know where you’re going with this, doc,” I said in my supine position, staring at the white, pimpled ceiling. “But you’re wrong.”

   “Lukas, let me offer you my thesis here.” Lillard closed his notebook and placed it on his lap. “It’s my belief that your father and this, er, Wally character . . . that they were in fact lovers, and that you knew and still know this. But you’re unwilling to accept this reality, and this unwillingness to accept the nature of your father’s being is resulting in a) your vulnerability in your son’s presence, and b) your escape into pornographic material.”

   “When I was fourteen, I walked in on my father fucking a prostitute,” I blurted.    (Aside: Silence is the great leveler.)

       As Lillard mentally reached for his textbook so he could formulate a response, I physically reached for my phone as it vibrated in my pocket. I’d received a message from Evan which read, A drunken imbecile called to the house. He was looking for you. His breath could intoxicate a congregation.

   For a moment I both relished and regretted my son’s idiosyncratic, quasi-autistic brilliance: I envisaged for him a lonely future.

   Lillard hummed and tapped his finger on his chin: the cliché continued.

   “Doc,” I said as I swung myself around, lowering my feet to the beige, carpeted floor, “the Freudian in you may want my father to have fucked his best friend, but it’s a baseless theory. My father was a lonely guy who hooked up with hookers after my mother died. He had a drinking buddy. My father isn’t the reason I have difficulties with Evan or why I’ve found myself watching porno regularly.”

   Lillard robotically opened his notebook as he looked at me like I’d just taken a leak on his PHD.

   “But Karen and me . . . We made love the other day. And . . . I haven’t had the urge to look at pornography since. So . . .”

   Lillard frowned, his eyebrows a reproach.

   ‘Lukas,” he sighed. “This is far deeper than you and Karen resuming a physical relationship – which is a positive step, of course. Let’s not dismiss that. But you know, and I know you know, that this is an ongoing issue. Something of greater significance lies beneath the surface, okay? The foundations are . . . rickety.”

   I suddenly became teary-eyed. My heart experienced the well-communicated sinking feeling – like a sudden drop during a rollercoaster ride – before it began to race. My breathing increased; my hands began to tremble.

   I thought to myself: Is this what it was like when the Incredible Hulk transformed?

   I placed my head in my hands. Lillard reached over, nervously, and handed me a glass of water as I pulled two pills from my shirt pocket and chucked them into my mouth, before gulping the water down. I released a long breath as I looked at Lillard, tears in my eyes demanding escape, but my stubbornness forbidding their release.

   “There’s something much deeper,” said Lillard, as I cursed him mentally.

XXX

On my return home – and to my immense surprise – I found that Karen had locked herself away in her art studio. Had our embrace and her reconnecting with Evan reignited the artistic flame within her? I checked in on my son, who was alone in his room typing at his laptop, his elbow resting on a book, which, I think, was titled The Ethics of Liberty.

   In the kitchen I poured myself a bourbon, straight, and pushed aside thoughts of my session with Lillard. I reached to the dusty top shelf for Le Ché’s diary and parked myself on a chair.

Diary of an enfant terrible – June 19

The world of pornography is a peculiar tableau of the mind; its composition an amalgamation of the darkest, dirtiest, and kinkiest thoughts of the collective – thoughts which are mostly, but by no means wholly, men’s. On any descent to debauchery, one will encounter the extent of these thoughts, deep beyond the exosphere of your standard embrace between the lady and the gentleman (I use both terms lightly); below the thermosphere where the compilations and gang-bangs exist; down into the mesosphere where the feast of fetishes begins; onwards through the stratosphere where neologisms such as ‘docking’ and ‘futunari’ and animated atrocities will greet you, before you fall helplessly into the troposphere, where man, simple man, should he dare to venture, will become forever ashamed and dismayed: This is what the world has created. This is what the people want. This is the collective consciousness.

   This is the homo sapien reality.

   And you – who has gotten your grubby mitts on my diary – are one of those who once was an innocent ape dragging its knuckles along the land.

   And now look at you.

   So, what is this? Is it healthy, or unhealthy? Are we in need of the Russian Soul? Has the West fallen into irredeemable decline? I, like my ghastly mother, tend to see the positives in the peril; the moral decline of the West has allowed for my ascent to fame and fortune. The moral decline of the West (expedited by the emergence of twentieth century democracy, which will fail us, but with each failure arrives an opportunity, remember), has carved out a path for the further ascendance of Leighton Le Ché. For if reality TV stars and actors – forever trained in the delicate art of deceit – continue to hold sway over public opinion; if the emergence of social media has brought to light the plight of journalism and created bespoke news, it’s only natural that a creature as controversial as a reality TV star can wear the filthy crown of the presidency. And what creature could be more controversial than the pornographic actor? However, as already alluded, moral decline gives rise to immoral figures. And democracy is the perfect place for immorality to reign supreme. Those elevated to positions of power are a reflection of those who elect them: Leighton Le Ché, therefore, is a creation of the American people. Leighton Le Ché wasn’t created by his free will, nor was he created by the union of flagellum-wagging sperm and eager ovum. In fact, I never wished to be Leighton Le Ché.

   Society willed me into existence!

18. The phone | A boy is a gun

A NOTE ON the kitchen counter greeted me the next morning. From Karen, it read, Gone to pick up art supplies with himself (he actually agreed to come along!). See you soon. Love you x

   Another wave of that ephemeral sensation called happiness. Knowing that Karen was happy – or was at least warmed by the embrace of something resembling happiness – alleviated certain worries I’d experienced over the preceding months. But Lillard, the fiend, was right: my issues ran deeper than the state of my marriage.

   To take my mind off all things related to my personal existential dilemma, I revisited my latest Cutter article.

   BooBoo Jones, 21, Aspiring Actress/Activist

   Wake up.

   Wash face.

   Apply make-up.

   Take selfie.

   Post selfie to Instagram.

   Tape video recording of ‘Imagine’ by John Lennon–

   The opening of the front door withdrew me from the magazine. Accompanying sounds included the rustling of bags, the knocking of shoes against the wooden floor, and – to my shock – dual laughter.

   Karen and Evan entered the kitchen, both smiling broadly. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d seen the two of them together with genuine expressions of joy defining their faces; Evan wearing a smile was most disarming.

   I placed the magazine on the countertop and, not wanting to be a party pooper, applied a wide smile to my face.

   “Look at you two,” I said. “You get everything you needed?”

   Karen placed three paper bags on the countertop.

   “And then some,” she smiled, looking at Evan, who looked back at her as if they were both privy to information that I was not.

   “Meaning?”

   “Oh,” said Karen, changing the subject (intentionally?), “I was on the phone to Stephanie earlier. She’ll be here on Friday.”

   I widened my eyes and looked at Evan in an attempt at making a jocular father-son connection. He ignored my exaggerated stare and reached for an apple.

   I thought to myself: My son’s lack of reciprocity can render my presence on this planet inconsequential.

   Evan reached into one of the bags and pulled from it what I believe was a work called Kyoko’s House, before making his way outside – apple in mouth, book in hand – and parking himself in the tire swing, one leg either side as if he were perched atop a camel (not a miniature one).

   I turned to Karen. Her complexion screamed rejuvenation; her aura of contentment verging on bliss was palpable. Was this a simple result of the resumption of fucking? I knew I was no Casanova between the sheets; I’d been using the same moves for the last ten years. No, the precursor to our embrace was surely her reconnecting with Evan. Now she was smiling, now there were no depressive slumps, now I didn’t feel as if every gesture I made could lead to matrimonial disaster: this wasn’t dualism, for Karen there was no yin and yang, only one or the other. That, surely, was a ticking timebomb.

   I thought to myself: I wish to speak with Dr. Lillard, please.

   “When Stephanie arrives,” said Karen, “I’d like the four of us to have dinner together. I was thinking Italian. How’s that sound?”

   Her chirpiness was now alarming.

   “Uh, sure,” I said, “Stephanie, Italian, and the retarded monkey. Sounds great.”

   Karen laughed, a laugh that erupted from deep within her, escaping every northern orifice; I’m certain I heard guffaws exiting her ears.

   “Oh, you,” she said as she placed a hand on my chest. She then positioned the other one on the other peck (condition: non-solidified). “I really think this will help you and Steph patch things up.”

   One of her hands softly fell from my chest and, to my immense shock, found its way down to my crotch, ending with a firm grasp of my meat.

   “I know we’ve gotten on top of things,” she whispered in my ear with an erogenous tone. “Everything can be fixed.”

   I looked outside and found Evan standing by the patio door, staring at me: that persistent disconnected stare, as Karen’s hand still gripped my manhood, and she kissed my neck. What followed was not a reflective act, but instead an instance of inaction. In the proverbial sense, I froze. I looked at Karen, and when my gaze returned to the patio door, Evan was gone.

XXX

Later, as I sat in my office making further notes for the upcoming Alfie interview, a knock arrived on the door. It was Evan, who, after waiting for my verbal permittance of his entry, edged into the room and said, in monotone, “A man dressed as a woman is at the front door looking for you,” before he lowered the book in his hand and added, “Maybe he wants to play catch.”

   A distinct lack of witty retort followed, and Evan simply turned and left the room, leaving the door open for me.

   I thought to myself: How did Monique find out where I live? And why is she here?

I found standing in the hall the tall and powerful person who resembled an Amazon queen. She was dressed in a faux-leather pants, high heels, and a hooded zip top which was low enough to reveal implants that would be appealing to any straight man when observed through framed hands like those of a film director.

   From Monique’s ears hung what I assumed were faux crystal dangles. The jewelry and the hooded zippy didn’t exactly complement one another, but who was I to judge? Her eyes were exploring the interior design of casa de Lazaruk.

   “Monique,” I said, attempting to subdue any hint of rapprochement that was eager to escape from me.

   “Double L, you making bank, huh? I think I found me on Wisteria Lane.”

   I smiled amiably.

   “How . . . did you know where I live, Monique?”

   Monique’s expression quickly changed. She was a heart-on-the-sleeve type of guy – I mean girl.

   “Did I aks you that when you showed up at my house?”

   “Well, I suppose-“

   “You embarrassed, Double L?”

   I placed my hands in my robe (style: Playboy, the Heff, my “work robe”), and this time produced a genuine, apologetic smile.

   “Monique, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be hostile. It’s just, my wife isn’t used to strangers showing up on our doorstep and, well, I guess I’m just as surprised. We’re not listed.”

   “Nigga, erry’one’s listed. Some people just might not know it.”

   I clasped my lips together and internally noted my need to acquire a better understanding of technology and the internet. Although I knew that no matter how much I attempted to learn about the realities of this disturbingly and rapidly connected world we live in, the younger generation would always be many steps ahead. Evan would always be many steps ahead, sniggering at the old, clueless fools.

   “So,” said Monique, that unimpressed expression unchanged, “you gonna invite me in for the Double L special?”

   “That,” I said, withdrawing my hand, “is simply a bourbon and ginger ale, I’m afraid. Nothing as exciting as a Bloody Monique in this house.” I raised my hand towards the kitchen and let Monique lead the way. I quickly scanned downstairs for any trace of Karen’s presence, but I guessed that she was painting in her studio where, I hoped, she would remain until Monique left.

   In the kitchen, Monique sat at the island, running her basketball-player hands over its marble surface as I began to fix us both drinks.

   “This reminds me of lil’ Leighton’s place,” she smiled. “When the dolla came rollin’ in he got a pad near here.”

   “I know,” I said as I placed a whiskey and ginger ale with ice and a wedge of lime in front of Monique. “His death has caused quite a stir around the area. Something like that is . . . uncommon.”

   “You got a straw?” asked Monique. I took one from the cupboard (eco-friendly – purchased by Karen) and handed it to her. She picked up the glass – long, perfect (fake) nails polished purple – and placed the straw into the contents before gently sipping, tilting her head as she savored the taste. “Not bad, Double L. No Bloody Monique, but this shit’s welcome in my joint any day.”

   I sat down opposite Monique and enjoyed a mouthful of my mixture.

   “So, Monique. What has you here?”

   Monique ventured into the pocket of her zippy and placed on the countertop a flip phone – something from the mid-00s.

   “What’s this?” I asked.

   “That’s something I was told to give to you.”

   “By Le Ché?”

   “Nah, he dead, remember?” Monique laughed sadly. “Yeah, lil’ Leighton’s gone.”

   “Monique,” I asked. I sensed that she was likely high. “Who told you to give me this phone?”

   “A man,” she said. “A sorry-looking muthafucka.”

   “Why?”

   “He’s been trying to find you.”

   “Why would he go to you in order to find me? We hardly know each other.”

   “Shit nigga I don’t know,” said Monique, strangely frustrated, her vocal cords producing inherent masculine tones. “You think I want any of this shit? You think I wanted lil’ Leighton cut up like a piece a steak?”

   Cue tears.

   “These drugs,” said Monique, raising a long finger to her eye, capturing a tear or two. “Sorry. They mess with mah hormones, you know, Double L?” She took a deep breath and let it go slowly. “What I mean is, it ain’t easy trying to be who you really is, you know?”

   I didn’t say anything in reply.

   “That ain’t me lookin’ for no sympathy neither,” she said as she lifted the glass and helped herself to more bourbon. “I think that’s true no matter who you be. Me, it’s a little more tough, right. Yeah, ‘course it is. But you, you and middle-class America and even my niggas back in the hood – you think they find it easy bein’ theyselves? You think they bein’ theyselves? Nah, Double L. We all gots roles to play in this game. Most of us can’t just be.”

   A tangent, but not an irrelative one. I considered my own secret history. The things I kept from Karen. The pornography. Venezuela. My sins. I thought about Evan. And here, across from me, this male living as a woman, living as she believes she’s supposed to. There wasn’t, I believed, a genuine lie within her.

   I sat forward; an earnest yet agitated movement.

   “Monique, I need you to tell me who gave you this phone. And for what reason.”

   “A fat-ass white boy,” she said immediately. Her effeminacy had been reapplied. “He said you an’ me an’ him, we was in this together.”

   “In what together?”

   “Nigga I don’t know,” she said again. “I don’t know what’s happenin’. All I know is Leighton is dead and some shit is goin’ down. He said to remember the name of my cocktail.”

   “A Bloody Monique?”

   “That’s the shit, Double L.”

   I placed the flip phone on the countertop.

   “You said you believed the husband of Leighton’s lover might be behind the murder. I need you to find out who this woman is.”

   “Ain’t you the journalist? That’s yo’ job.”

   “I have no leads whatsoever, Monique. You knew Leighton. Think what he might have said, places he might have visited. Think who that woman could be.”

   Monique sighed, then sucked.

   “I’ll think, Double L. I’ll try.”

   I picked up the flip phone and opened it, the screen lighting up instantly. No password; immediate access. I thumbed through the features, opening messages: none.

   “I looked up lil’ Leighton,” said Monique, her words imbued with unexpected vim. “I’d resisted; I didn’t wanna read no bullshit about him. I didn’t wanna see no pictures ah him. I’ve heard all about that.” Her mouth narrowed and framed the straw, a slurp followed, the wordless signal for a refill. I failed to carry out my bar-man duty; the sooner she left, the better: I didn’t need the third degree from Karen.

   Monique placed her glass on the countertop, not physically indicating the desire for a top up.

   She continued: “Some stoopid shit out there. This shit ‘bout the POTUS. The VP… All this bull shit. And niggas eat that shit up. Mostly sad-ass white boys. They call ‘em incels, right? At least that’s what I’ve read . . . Sad asses. They say Leighton kept a diary.”

   A hyenic laugh followed, and I lowered my glass and paid close attention to Monique’s words.

   “Shit, Leighton didn’t keep no diary.”

   “What makes you so sure?” I asked.

   “Nigga I knew him!” Falsetto engaged. “He wasn’t the kinda nigga that put his feelings on no paper.”

   “But if he was,” I interjected, “keeping a diary isn’t something most men would . . . share with others.”

   “If he was,” said Monique, wide-eyed, “I’d know. Leighton didn’t keep no secrets. Not from me.”

   “Apart from,” I said, “his lover.”

   “That was different.”

   “Different how?”

   “Love is the drug, Double L,” she said. “You know this.”

   The conversation was now accompanied by the sound of classical music emanating from Evan’s bedroom. A few weeks earlier, he’d entered the house carrying under his arm Symphony Op. 21 by the composer Anton Webern. Not that I knew the work or the man; Evan had given me a history lesson after I’d asked what he’d purchased, which culminated in the tragic faith that awaited the composer in his Allied-Administered homeland of Austria: “A rare genius,” said Evan, “shot to death by a US yokel.”

   The haunting strings, the sparse horns; the soul-twisting, atonal symphony now permeated 6 Rutherford Drive, rendering me restive. Abrupt are thoughts, and none more so than the unpleasant ones: visions of Venezuela greeted me. The shiv. The blood. Those terrified eyes.

   I began to feel nauseous. I felt as if accusative fingers were being pointed in my direction. Monique, on the other hand, didn’t seem to take notice of the music, but could detect the sudden apprehension coursing through the person sitting opposite her, like rioting inmates causing internal bedlam.

   “You okay, Double L?”

   An anxiety attack this wasn’t, but it could be considered a close cousin.

   “I’m fine,” I said, staggering my way to the stool and parking myself there, trying to control my breathing pattern. “I’m just . . . a little . . . tired.”

   Monique stood up (likely a center in high school). She approached me and placed her hands either side of my face (hand size: 10+ inches; Jordan’s are 11+).

   “You on uppers or downers, Double L?”

   I attempted to speak, but all that left my mouth was a labored breath.

   I pointed towards the pantry.

   “Ati . . . Ativan . . . Top . . . Sh . . . Shelf.”

   Monique approached the pantry and opened it. A recent shopping trip had rendered it full. The Austrian composer’s work continued to play.

   “Take . . .  a snack,” I said, amiable host that I was.

   I thought to myself: I’d like to breathe now.

   “Oh, Double L,” Monique said, reaching (not that there was a need to stretch) to the top shelf and locating the bottle of pills. She eyed up the contents of the pantry and selected a Twinkie. She unscrewed the cap and tapped a couple of pills into her hand before passing them to me and returning to her stool, opening and engulfing the Twinkie in one bite.

   I chucked the pills into my open (and suddenly dry) mouth, washing them down with the whiskey and ginger ale.

   “I used to get that shit. Anxiety. That shit cripples yo’ ass.”

   “I’m,” I began, trying to control my breaths and considering a call to the Hartmann Hotline, “overcoming it.”

   “Sure looks like it, honey.”

   “Why don’t,” I said, “you . . . have another . . . whiskey.”

   Monique zipped up her top and stood up.

   “Nah,” she held up her hands and inspected her fingernails, “I got some business to ‘tend to, if you know what I mean, Double L.”

   She winked at me and offered a mischievous smile. I couldn’t help but smile back.

   “You’re your own woman, Monique,” I said as my breathing seemed to finally calm. “I respect that.”

   “That’s all any nigga needs: the freedom to be theyselves.”

   I picked up the phone, which felt as if it weighed a hundred pounds. “This phone,” I said, with slightly labored breaths, “This better not be some kind of set-up.”

   Monique – with her exaggerated expressions fully applied – appeared to be deeply offended by the comment.

   “What you take me for, huh? Why you gots to soil this?”

   “This? What is this?”

   “It’s us in this together, Double L. It’s you an’ me an’ that drunk-ass white boy against the people who did this to lil’ Leighton”

   I sighed, a release of concession.

   “This guy,” I said. “You trust him?”

   “He’s sincere.”

   I looked at Monique as she turned to leave the room. Before she exited the kitchen, she said, “Remember, my patented cocktail, Double L.”

XXX

After Monique left and I had gotten over my minor mental paroxysm, I made my way to Evan’s room. As I walked up the spacious, ornate stairs, I felt as if I were, in fact, ascending a narrow, claustrophobic staircase, each step leading me up a narrower and narrower passage. I felt, again, as if I may dissolve into another anxiety attack.

   I knocked on the door, thankful for the absence of Webern and his denunciatory symphony. I could hear typing on a keyboard.

   “Yes?” said Evan. I pictured gritted teeth, eye rolling.

   “Can I come in, buddy?” I instantly regretted the addition of the term of endearment.

   “Yes,” repeated Evan.

   I opened the door to find my son turned towards me, and behind him, on the screen, a video of two men engaged in a sexual act.

   “Uh,” I said, raising a hand directed at the monitor.

   Evan looked at the screen, and then at me.

   “What do you want?”

   “You shouldn’t be, uh, watching that. Evan.”

   “I’m not watching it,” he said. “I’m conducting research.”

   “Research?”

   I looked closer at the image on the screen; one of the men was Le Ché.

   “What do you want, Dad?”

   “Evan, as your father-”

   “If you’re going to lecture me on the dangers of pornography, you might want to lower the volume on your phone when you venture to the bathroom in the middle of the night.”

   Silence, the great leveler.

   “I’m researching,” Evan repeated firmly. I believed him.

   “That woman–”

   Evan coughed a laugh, raised his eyebrows, “Sure.”

   “That’s Monique. She’s helping me with my next article–”

   Evan leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and his jaw on his hand.

   “Why do you feel the need to explain yourself?”

   “Do you know who Leighton Le Ché is?” I asked.

   Evan turned to the screen and back to me, his usually inquisitive blue eyes now dully half closed.

   “No,” he said. Sardonic he certainly was.

   “His death is going to feature in my next article,” I said.

   Evan applied a faux smile, “I’m sure it will entertain.”

   I self-consciously gripped and twisted the doorknob. A beat of uncomfortable silence followed.

   “If there’s ever anything troubling you–”

   Even pressed the space bar on his laptop, resuming the muted video. He kept looking at me.

   “Uncomfortable?”

   “Concerned,” I said.

   “Maybe you and Mom should lay off the physical activity in your son’s presence.”

   “Jesus, Evan, I’m sorry about earlier–”

   “I’m genuinely researching,” he said, not in an attempt at convincing me, but, I believe, to get me to leave.

   “Stephanie will be here the day after tomorrow. You’ll be joining us for dinner.”

   “I can’t wait,” he said, picking up his pen and pad. “Anything else?”

   “No,” I said, looking at the screen, then at my son. “No, nothing.”

As I lay my head on the pillow – next to Karen who was fast asleep – I looked to the bedside locker, on which rested the old flip phone given to me by Monique.

   I awaited a phone call from a stranger, and I wondered what, exactly, I was getting myself into.

19. The meeting | The abyss also gazes into you

THE OLD FLIP phone began vibrating at precisely 7am.

   I reached to the bedside locker as Karen shifted and turned away from me (Aside: Karen had recently called out another man’s name while sleeping).

   I opened the phone, answering it.

   “Yes?” I said in a groggy voice.

   “The Épée, 9am,” The voice was throaty, the tone no-nonsense.

   The call ended as quickly as it had begun.

   I thought to myself: At least a public space diminishes the chances of assassination.

XXX

The Épée is the nickname for The Monument of Hope, located in downtown Coldcut next to the Dalloway River. The nickname is apt: the vertical structure of dizzying height resembles the largest weapon used in fencing. It’s also loathed by Coldcut residents for having no cultural or historical relevance to the city, and for looking like a giant needle. Another locally coined appellation is “The Big H”.

   I arrived early to assess the area; to see if there were signs of police activity, undercover or otherwise. For all I knew Glass had Monique deliver me the cell phone, and all these people were setting me up for something that I didn’t want to know about. Phantom paranoid susurrations sounded in my ear every other minute.

   I thought to myself: Paranoia is not a good addition to anxiety.

   But what had I to be worried about? All I had in my possession was a diary that contained the ramblings of an unsound mind and zero incriminating evidence. Was that “withholding information”? And as for Venezuela . . . best not to incite an anxiety attack. But who could possibly know about that?

The reality was it was 9am on a Saturday morning, and downtown Coldcut was scant on footfall. I sat at a bench across from the Épée and pulled my foot up to rest on my knee. I watched the scene before me: the wide stainless-steel sculpture poking the cloudy empyrean inquisitively (did it represent human insolence, or curiosity, or excess, or arrogance?); behind the sculpture a backdrop of a road and haute couture storefronts; bait for the social climbers (bait, at one time, for Karen); in front of the sculpture, a foreground of concrete pavement and the occasional panting jogger. But no one who looked like someone I was supposed to meet; nobody who matched that voice. But I knew that when I saw him, I’d know it was him.

   At 9:10am, a chubby, sweaty-looking man carrying a coffee cup and wearing a baseball cap (Dallas Cowboys), a Kiss t-shirt, and denim jeans waddled towards me.

   I thought to myself: That’s not him.

   The man sat down next to me. His stubbled cheeks were red, his breathing audible, and beads of sweat populated his forehead. (Aside: It wasn’t a sunny day.) He raised the coffee cup to his mouth and took a quick sip, like one would from a hip flask.

   “The cocktail,” he said in that gravelly voice.

   I looked at him again.

   “Excuse me?”

   “Monique: what’s the name of her cocktail?”

   So it was him. I could smell alcohol on his breath.

   “Bloody Monique,” I said. “A Bloody Monique.”

   “A Bloody Monique,” he repeated, before smiling and reaching out a hand.

   “Paul Broadford,” he said, that hard, raspy voice apt for a drill sergeant. “Nice to meet you.”

    I shook his hand. If my grip were to be considered firm, his was an assault.

   “What’s this about?” I said, rubbing my knuckles after he’d released me from his grasp.

   “You know what it’s about,” Broadford said, looking at the scene before him, the one I’d been taking in moments earlier. A car slowly crawled by, passing us, and paranoid whispers returned between my ears. Broadford continued: “The question is, why is it about what it’s about?”

   “Did you come to my office, and my home?”

   “I believe that’s affirmative.”

   “So why all this secrecy if you had tracked me down to my workplace and where I live? Monique . . . the cell phone.”

   “Two reasons. One: To be honest, I cannot be one hundred per cent sure I called to your office or home. I have a problem with recall. It’s a recent issue. Nothing serious. It’s related to blackouts I’ve been experiencing. Or not experiencing, you could say. It’s something I’m looking into. Two,” he said as he looked me in the eye with what resembled a glower. “Our privacy has likely been compromised.”

   When he spoke, he sounded like a chainsaw on standby.

   “What does that mean?”

   “You and I are . . . connected. Compromised. Infiltrated, potentially.” The smell of alcohol disappeared as he looked away again. His eyes followed another passing car.

   “I’m sorry, what are you talking about?”                                                                       

   “Le Ché,” he said, sipping again, not looking at me. “It all comes down to Le Ché.”

   “How did you know Monique and I knew each other?”

   “Monique and me, we have a . . . complicated relationship,” he said, before taking a breath and holding it in. “I’m in love with her,” he exhaled, “but there’s the small issue of her still having a penis.”

   I may have shaken my head.

   “I’m sorry, but what does this have to do-”

   “I needed to contact you. You weren’t anywhere I looked, damit. Then the cops got involved. There’s a ninety percent chance your place is bugged. I had no alternative other than to ask Monique to set this up.”

   “But how did you know-”

   He turned to me with a finger extended in my direction.

   “I know every single individual who enters and leaves Monique’s home. I’m her . . . you could say I’m her bodyguard. Like the movie . . .”

   He looked away before again turning to me quickly, raising a leg onto the bench.

   “But all of that stuff doesn’t matter, Lukas.”

   He raised both hands, as if preparing to break news to me, taking a breath for a more impactful delivery.

   “You’re in deeper than you know,” he exhaled – an unsurprisingly alcohol-fueled breath.

   “Hold on,” I said. “Who are you?”

   “Paul Broadford,” he smiled and, again, held out a hand for me to shake. This time I didn’t accept it.

   “But who is Paul Broadford? What do you do?”

   He turned away, lowered his leg, scratched his head. That sudden burst of energy dissipated as quickly as it had arrived. The gentle sound of an electric car greeted us as it passed by, being driven by, I was certain, a famous actor whose name I can never recall. Broadford sat hunched forward; elbows rested on knees.

   “That’s complicated.”

   “You’re not filling me with trust here, Paul.”

   “Ex-NSA, ex-military” he said, looking away from me. “Served in Afghanistan, two tours. Then on to the big leagues on home soil. But when Snowden blew open all that bullshit, I resigned.” He set his eyes on me once again. “They don’t like it when you do that.”

   The broad Texan (likely played defense in his youth) sat up straight. “A few subsequent knocks and kicks to the balls at the hands of Lady Life, and here I am.” He turned to me again and smiled. “Battered but not broken. Bruised but not beat, damit.”

   I thought to myself: Just leave. Now.

   “You worked for the National Security Agency?”

   “‘Where intelligence goes to work’ – Even the national intelligence agency needs a damn tagline. Everything is advertising. PR. Brainwashing. Indoctrination. You’ve read Bernays, I’m sure?”

   “I’m familiar with the man.”

   “I fought for this country abroad, Lukas; protected it on home soil. Only to find it rotten on the inside.” He tilted his head back and enjoyed a chug of whatever was in the coffee cup. “And they know everything. You know that, don’t you? They know what you do; your digital footprint is inerasable. So long as you don’t rattle the cage, that’s fine. You can go on playing happy families. But lash out, and they will destroy you. They tried to destroy me. But I’m a shit house.” Here, gorilla style, he beat his fist on his broad chest.

   “Paul,” I said, “I’m heading west next week, and I’ve got a lot of prep work to do. What exactly are we doing here?”

   “Don’t you know?” he said through gritted teeth, looking at me as if I’d performed some unpardonable transgression. “You’ve read both volumes of Le Ché’s diary, haven’t you?”

   “Le Ché’s diary?”

   “Jesus Christ, Lukas. Don’t play me for a fool – I know you have Le Ché’s diary. Why do you think I was trying to track you down in the first place?”

   “How could you know that?”

   “How? The little shit emailed me. Got me involved in this clusterfuck. You think they don’t monitor my email? They know I’m connected, despite not being connected. They know you’re connected.”

   “What did Le Ché say . . . in his email?”

   Suddenly, as if we were on a movie set, a passing station wagon veered off the road and drove towards us, passing the Big H and heading straight in our direction as the engine revved like a wild beast.

    Broadford instinctively pushed me from the bench on which we were seated.

   “Go!” he shouted, as he leapt and tumbled out of the way of the vehicle, which crashed into the bench before coming to a halt.

   I got to my feet – shaken, elbow hurting – and approached the car. Looking inside, a woman sat slumped forward, her head against the erupted airbag. Her eyelids were flickering, her mouth agape; like something from a horror movie.

   As I was about to open the passenger door, Broadford grabbed me from behind by the shoulders.

   “What are you, an idiot?” he said as he pulled me away from the vehicle. “Come on!” He began to run.

   My heart racing, I looked back at the scene: the curb-mounted vehicle subsuming the bench, the smoke rising from the hood, the surreal movie-set feel to it all.

   I thought to myself: What is going on?

XXX

We were sat opposite each other in the confines of a booth in a cheap downtown diner. Red and white candy-themed interior; ashtrays on tables despite the prohibition of smoking; out-of-action jukeboxes mounted to the walls; laminated out-of-date menus with stickers covering the items that were no longer served. The chatter of conversations around us, the dull daylight falling on the table.

   Broadford had ordered eggs and bacon.

   Me: a coffee. Black.

   I massaged my left elbow, which was mildly scraped following Broadford’s (heroic?) push. The brawny Texan had managed to save his coffee cup and the contents within, and he sipped from it as he awaited the arrival of his food.

   “God damn secret service cucks!” he growled through gritted teeth, striking the table with a clenched fist. “When an agency uses the initials ‘S.S.’ you know something’s stinkin’ in that centralized cesspit.” He pointed a finger at me. “Damit, Lukas, these people want the truth evaporated.”

   I sat there, sans response, feeling within my being that an anxiety attack would occur at any moment. Out of the ether – from which thoughts tend to appear – my mind presented to me a scene from a classic adult film I’d watched before my recent abstention, The Adventures of Rumpelforeskin. Suddenly, the feeling of impending mental disintegration passed like a weak orgasm.

   I thought to myself: Okay.

   “If that doesn’t convince you that this is a mother of a cover-up, then . . . I dunno, Lukas. They tried to kill us. The fucks!”

   “Paul,” I said, “I don’t know what happened out there. But I’m not going to jump to conclusions-”

   “You’ll be “jumpin’” off a bridge, Lukas, if you don’t wake up and smell the gawd damn tequila.”

   “What were you saying? About Le Ché’s email?”

   “What about it?” He said, his eyes shifting around the café, his face red, his nostrils flaring.

   Diner: china shop. Broadford: bull.

   “You said Le Ché emailed you. He emailed me, too.”

   “Gawd damit, Lukas, I know he emailed you. I know you have his diary.”

   “You mentioned two volumes . . .”

   “What?” I wasn’t sure if he was listening to a word I said. His eyes continued to scan the diner.

   “There’s a second diary, you said. I don’t have the second volume.”

   “What do you have, Lukas?”

   “I received an email and a letter from Le Ché, and a single diary.”

   “No mention of the president?”

   “No.”

   “Not two volumes?”

   “One diary with lots of philosophical ramblings and zero incriminating evidence against the President of these United States.”

   He still wasn’t making eye contact with me.

   “Does your copy include an October 14 entry which incriminates a handful of public figures in a sex trafficking syndicate?”

   “What? Jesus, no.”

   “There’s a second diary, Lukas”

   A young man, probably seventeen, arrived with Broadford’s eggs and bacon, setting down the plate in front of him.

   Broadford picked up his fork. Before the kid could leave, the Texan grabbed him by his skinny black wrist.

   “Whoa,” I said.

   The kid squirmed. The café hushed.

   “Taste it,” Broadford said, pulling the kid closer to him so he spoke into his ear. “Eat a piece of damn bacon and some egg or by gawd I’ll burn this establishment to the ground.”

   “Get offa me, mister!” the kid said.

   “Paul,” I said.

   “There’s nothin’ to worry about here, Lukas,” said Broadford as he reluctantly loosened his grip on the boy’s wrist.

   The kid stood next to the table, massaging his hand. Broadford raised the fork and handed it to the boy.

   “Taste it,” he demanded.

   “Mister, what’s wrong with you?”

   “I want you to taste my damn bacon and eggs, boy. What’s the problem here? If there’s nothin’ wrong with the bacon and eggs, why won’t you try the damned things?”

   “Paul,” I said again, reaching out a hand, “I’ll try it.”

   Paul sighed through his nostrils. His heart rate was certainly in three-figure territory. He looked up at the boy and permitted his leave with a nod of his head.

   “Jesus Christ,” I said as I took the fork from Broadford’s hand and worked some bacon and egg onto it. I swallowed it quickly and raised my hands.

   “Open your mouth,” he said.

   “What?”

   “Show me you’ve swallowed it.”

   I opened my mouth wide enough so he could see the back of my throat.

   Broadford stared at me for a moment without saying anything, then took the fork from my hand. “All right,” he said. “Thank you.”

   “You must be fun on dates,” I said.

   “I’ve had a number of attempts on my life, Lukas,’ he said as he fed the bacon and eggs into his mouth and chewed. “I don’t appreciate the sarcasm.”

   “Anyway,” I said, noting stares from other diners aimed at our booth, although low conversations had resumed, “the second volume.”

   “You call yourself a journalist?”

   “Excuse me?”

   “The dairy’s been all over the internet, Lukas; a redacted version of both volumes.”

   “I’ve been trying to avoid the internet . . . And these rumors . . .”

   “They haven’t been pulled out of thin air. Two redacted volumes of Le Ché’s diary were uploaded to a subreddit, then widely dispersed across the web. Implications galore, but the names are redacted. That hasn’t stopped people spreading rumors; some of them, in fact, accurate. There’s been barely any mention of this in the mainstream apart from initial whisperings. The content’s been pulled from most sites, but it’s still up there in the dark crevices.”

   “Rumors,” I reconfirmed.

   “Damit, Lukas, they came from the kid’s diary. I’ve got the unredacted versions. He’s named names. The president, de Fiore, that actor Alfie Lee. Some twisted sex ring. These mutants destroying this country. You think the kid was just making this stuff up? Christ, Lukas, tell me you’ve seen the photos of his body chopped up like sashimi. That’s a gawd damn kid who knew too much.”

   “Mayor de Fiore, too? In the diary, Le Ché mentioned a powerful person . . .”

   “No shit,” said Broadford, washing down his food with a glass of water, followed by another sip of whatever was in the coffee cup. He held up his hands, like he had at the bench by the Big H, as if ready to unload some life-altering information. “The cops know that Le Ché made contact with you. That means the feds know. You can bet your precious life on it. And as far as they’re concerned, that means you’re privy to sensitive information. Directly involved, too; not some internet vagrant looking for this stuff. The kid contacted you.”

   The boy passed our table, balancing a couple of plates on each hand, almost dropping them as he wearily watched Broadford.

   “But, how can any of this be verified?”

   “Listen to me, Lukas. The ones who run the show will decide whether or not these claims need to be verified. If this is what’s needed now, they’ll let it all come out. If the time’s not right, it’ll be swept under the rug. Judging by Le Ché’s date with a cheese grater, they’re not ready for this to come out. You and me, we’re targets. We had direct contact with the source.”

   He raised both hands, shaping his arms and squinting an eye, like he was holding a rifle. “That puts us in the sniper’s scope.”

   I looked into Broadford’s mad eyes, and they looked into mine.

20. The arrival | A wife is a gun. . .

STEPHANIE’S ARRIVAL was imminent.

   Thankfully, I wouldn’t be there for the majority of Stephanie’s stay – at least, I hoped that she’d be gone by the time I’d wrapped up the Alfie interview in California and made my return to Rutherford Drive.

   As I sat in the kitchen reading The Coldcut Daily, Karen entered wearing a light blue denim shirt covered in a variety of paint stains. Her legs: sans coverage. This combination of shirt and skin reminded me of our fervent college days, and, instead of this memory giving rise to sexual attentiveness, it prompted a lugubrious internal shift resulting in a sudden melancholic mood.

   “You’ve been in the studio a lot lately,” I said.

   Karen, reaching for the coffee jar, turned to me.

   “Is that a problem?” she asked.

   “No,” I said, smiling (a smile that was not genuine, but neither did it verge on falsity), “I think it’s great. You . . . painting again. It’s a positive development. I’m happy for you.”

   “Happy,” said Karen, smiling, looking away; dismissiveness coating the word.

   I shifted my eyes, again smiling, again not in the honest sense. “What? Yes, I’m happy for you.”

   “Do you know why I paint?”

   “Jesus,” I said, placing the newspaper on the countertop. “I’m not looking to . . . provoke a response here. I’m happy you’re painting again. That’s all. Genuinely. I want you to get satisfaction from your art. Maybe you could even make a few bucks from it.”

   Karen shoveled coffee into a French press.

   “You think it’s about making a quick buck?”

   “No,” I raised my hands defensively, “I’m just happy you’re painting again. Art is your true passion.”

   Karen turned away from me and poured boiling water into the French press, giving it a quick stir with a wooden spoon.

   “Things have been a been a little better lately, huh?” she said with her back to me.

   “You mean us? Evan?”

   “Everything.”

   “Yeah, they have,” I said.

   Karen turned to me again.

   “Still, there’s some . . . fatalistic . . . dread within me. A sense of helplessness.”

   “Hey,” I said, standing up, approaching her, placing my hands on her shoulders, “things are good. You’re painting, Evan and you have been talking again. We’re . . . back on track, you know?”

   Karen said, ‘Yes.”

   I kissed the back of her head and returned to the island, and the newspaper, thankful that dramatics had failed to unfold.

   “So, Stephanie will be here this evening. Can you promise you’ll make an effort with her?”

   “When do I not make an effort? Have you asked her the same question?”

   “She has enough to worry about. She’s already contacted a divorce lawyer.”

   I sighed, fixing the newspaper with a rapid whip.

   “Yeah, well, Bill’s down in the dumps. It’s really affected him.”

   “They should’ve had kids,” said Karen, her chin positioned on her knuckles, as if she were striking an elegant pose during a photoshoot.

   “I’m not so sure,” I said.

   “Children give a marriage purpose.”

   “And perennial headaches. Bill isn’t a ‘kids’ kind of guy, you know that.”

   I looked outside at the tire swing. Evan was there, reading, rocking gently back and forth. Severe expression, eyes intently focused on the book in his hand (which, I noted as he passed me by earlier, was called Architecture Through the Ages).

   “Headaches go,” said Karen, picking up the French press.

   “Speaking of headaches,” I said before she left, “what time will Stephanie be here?”

   Karen smiled (not affected, I believe): “Around six.”

   “Great,” I smiled back (nature: genuine), “I’ll prepare myself.”

   Karen’s smile then faded. She placed the French press on the counter, leaning back against it and folding her arms. “I want you to talk to Evan,” she said.

   “About what?”

   “About his sexuality.”

   An internal flutter.

   “What about his – you – you talked to him. He said it wasn’t our business.”

   Karen pushed herself away from the counter and approached the island at which I sat. She leaned on her elbows and looked at me coldly.

   “Honey, you know the type of person I am. You know the causes I’ve supported in my life. But . . . I don’t want my only son to be… that way.”

   I thought to myself: Whoa.

   Karen grew teary eyed. She stood up and pointed towards the maple, towards the tire swing, towards Evan, before saying, quietly, “They can have their parades, they can have their weddings, they can have their equality. But they can’t have my boy.”

   I reached for Karen’s hand, but she pulled it away quickly.

   “Talk to him,” she said firmly, wiping away an escaping tear. “Be a damn father.”

XXX

Later, as I sat in the living room, I picked up my cell phone, opened the browser and entered the name of a pornography website I’d regularly frequented. Before the screen could load, before I was presented with a smorgasbord of smut, I exited the browser and, in a moment of sheer prostration, threw the phone to the floor.

   Sitting on the couch, I took three deep breaths, before rising and retrieving the phone from where it had landed, the cracked screen evidence of my assault. As I stood up straight, I noticed Evan looking at me from outside: expression dull, apathetic. He pushed himself from the tire swing and disappeared from the frame of the floor-to-ceiling window.

   Against Lillard’s advice, having topped up my balance, I dialed the Hartmann Hotline:

   The German voice greeted me:

   In today’s world, mental exhaustion, mental despair, and mental weakness are widespread. From global interconnectedness to absurd obsessions with the lives of others, overconsumption of weightless entertainment to social media sepsis, our minds are under daily attack.

   One can remedy this malaise by taking a few simple steps:

1. Stop. Sit alone, away from technology.
2. Breathe. The average relaxed person breathes seven to ten times per minute. Inhale for six seconds, hold the breath for two seconds, and release for eight. Feel the negative energy exit your body. Repeat.
3. Act well. Every action is an act. It is impossible to not act. But action can be inaction: choosing to not pick up your smart phone or turn on your television is an act. Act well, more often.
4. Kill Alfie. B Lee. Disembowel the pornographic perversion: slice open his eyeballs, feed him his intestines, shatter his esophagus, sever the snake’s head. Only then will you be free from your hedonistic hell, Lukas Lazaruk. Kill Alfie.

   What followed was, I believe, a yelp, omitted from by body, and, once again, I threw the phone away from me. What had I just heard? My body began to tremble, sweat oozed from my pores, my breathing increased to an uncomfortable speed.

   I stumbled my way to the kitchen, opened the pantry and reached for the Ativan. Two pills were worked down my throat, without the help of water. With my back against the wall, I slid to the floor on the verge of tears.

XXX

Later, an event in my life which I had never envisioned: A miniature camel was seated at the dining table. Also present were Karen, Evan, Stephanie and me. Numerous candles were lighted, adding additional warmth to the room. On the kitchen table was a large, half-consumed bowl of spaghetti and meatballs, a plate of sliced ciabatta, small bowls housing olives and parmesan cheese, and a glass bottle of extra virgin olive oil. The table was mid-meal; plates were occupied, and food had been consumed.

   I watched Evan who was the only one who’d failed to touch the food on his plate.  Instead of eating, he sat staring at the retarded monkey that rested on a fluffy pillow placed on one of the chairs. Evan’s expression mirrored disgust. For a second, I thought he might vomit.

   “What does it do?” asked Evan.

   Stephanie, pulling apart the ciabatta in her hand, smiled broadly. “He doesn’t do much . . . He’s a companion. He doesn’t have to do much. Just be there.” Stephanie looked at Karen. “If men were like miniature camels, the world would be a better place.”

   I performed an eye roll.

   “How was Santa Monica?” asked Karen.

   “It was hot. So hot. God, I could live there for the rest of my days. I sent you the photos, Karen. Beachfront house with pool. Glorious! And the stores – Karen, I had to chop up my credit cards to stop myself from spending!”

   I looked at Evan, anticipating an eye roll from him, but my son was still staring at the miniature camel, which sat with its skinny neck drooped, a moronic expression on its face, its sinewy legs resting under its clumsy body. Its tiny hump was decorated with a shimmering pink sash that had been applied by Stephanie.

   Suddenly, the creature whined.

   I thought to myself: Is it saying, ‘Kill me, please!’?

  Evan grimaced and pushed his plate away from him. “I’m done. May I be excused?” The question was mere perfunctory politeness, for he’d already stood up and left the table.

   “Evan, stay.” Said Karen.

   Evan turned to the table. “I’m not a dog,” he said as he looked at the miniature camel. “Or one of mankind’s travesties.”

   “Evan,” called Karen. But our son was already climbing the stairs.

   “Well, Stephanie,” I said, “have you spoken with Bill?”

   This was not a welcomed question.

   Stephanie’s eyes fluttered, Karen’s seemed to do the same thing at the same time: that scanning activity.

   “Lukas,” said Karen, “Steph just got here.”

   I held up my hands, “Sure.”

   “That’s typical, isn’t it?” said Stephanie. “I spend time away, recuperating. Restoring my worth as a woman. And as soon as I get here you ask me about Bill, as if he’s the one thing on my mind. As if I’ve nothing else to expend my energy on. I’ve read about phallogocentrism, Lukas.”

   I looked at Karen, eager to not upset her. Stephanie, on the other hand . . .

   “Oh, honey,” said Karen as she placed a reassuring hand on her sister’s arm, “Lukas didn’t mean it that way.”

   Stephanie’s eyes hadn’t left mine since she’d spoken. She held in her hand a piece of ciabatta which dangled above her plate. “I’ve decided,” she said, turning her attention to Karen, “that I’m going to return to my writing. I’m going to write my novels again.”

   “That’s great, Stephanie,” I smiled. She could sense my insincerity from a mile away. I was sure I heard the retarded monkey break wind, but then I couldn’t be sure if flatulence occurred in all mammals.

   “I even wrote a few chapters while holidaying.”

   “That’s really great, Stephanie,” said Karen. “Really. That’ll be so good for you. Especially during all of this.”

   Stephanie dropped the piece of ciabatta onto her plate and placed her head in her hand, her voice warbled: “I am so . . . sick of men.”

   I smiled, placing a piece of sauce-covered ciabatta into my mouth and chewing widely. Stephanie turned to Karen.

   “You know Bill never cared about me reaching orgasm?”

   This prompted an involuntary muscular contraction in my mouth, resulting in the piece of bread finding its way down to, and lodging itself in, my esophagus.

   I coughed a number of times in an attempt at dislodging it.

   “Oh, typical,” said Stephanie as I struggled to clear my throat.

   Karen looked at me as, I was sure, the panic in my eyes was palpable.

   “Another example of phallogocentrism, Karen; Lukas wants to make all of this about him.”

   Karen rose from her seat. Stephanie stared.

   “Oh my God,” she said, “Lukas?”

   Thunderous slaps struck my upper back and I struggled to breathe.

   “Jesus, Lukas!” Karen said, repeatedly striking my back again as I looked to the floor emitting awful noises created by attempted throat-clearing and breath-catching: suffocation was imminent.

   I thought to myself: This is how I die, next to a misandrist and a laboratory abomination, both of which are staring at me?

   Then, success: the piece of bread was dislodged. I swallowed and gasped for air.

   “Jesus!” said Karen as she rubbed my back. Stephanie still looked at me; I was certain there was disappointment in her expression.

   As I managed to return to a normal breathing pattern, Karen slid back into her seat and glanced in my direction, releasing a relieved breath.

   “Drink some water,” she said.

   I did.

   Then, I looked at Stephanie.

   “So, Stephanie, you were saying?”

XXX

The chill of the night air enveloped me as I stood in the back yard, looking up at the starless sky. I’d left Karen and Stephanie talking in the living room, accompanied by the miniature camel, which had taken my favorite seat. The wall-mounted sensor light illuminated my presence like the all-encompassing beam from a UFO. Nocturnal conversations between insects disrupted the otherwise silent closing of the day.

   Beyond the fencing surrounding the backyard, I heard a car start, and then its engine rest in a continuous low grumble. A strange sensation – a feeling of being watched – descended over me. I looked around, all senses on full alert.

   “Mom says you’re travelling next week.”

   Evan’s voice startled me. I turned my head and looked up to his bedroom window, which he was leaning out of, one hand on the windowsill. He looked like he always looked: stolid, handsome, intelligent, unsympathetic.

   “I’ve that interview, for my next article. Out west. California.”

   “Your timing is admirable.”

   The corner of Evan’s mouth softly extended, presenting something of a smirk. It would not be an exaggeration to say that this expression of comradery rendered me internally emotional; a vortex within me swirled.

   “Alfie B. Lee,” Evan slowly enunciated.

   I turned fully towards the window now, so that my whole body was facing it, and my son.

   “How did you know that?”

   “I overheard your conversation with that detective who called here.”

   “So, you were here.”

   “Why are you interviewing him?”

   “Do you know who he is?”

   “To not know who Alfie B. Lee is would render one far removed from American culture. And, considering my geographical predicament, that’s an impossibility.”

   I heard a combination of voices between my ears: Hartmann, Lillard, me. This amalgamation was reasoning with me that this conversation was a scionic overture; there was some intent at bonding here. Was it the presence of Stephanie and the retarded monkey that had suddenly rendered Evan and me allies? (Aside: I’d always intended on reading Cosby’s book on parenting, but then it was revealed that those hands that wrote the book were also busy in other ways. Can a serial rapist be a good father? This was not the kind of question that kept me up at night, although perhaps it should’ve been.)

   “He’s a controversial figure. Controversial figures always make for interesting interviews. Plus, they sell magazines.”

   Evan nodded; the smirk faded.

   “Are you happy with your life?”

   I thought to myself: Jesus.

   “What kind of question is that?”

   In his usual way, Evan stared at me unblinkingly.

   “What do you want me to say?”

   “It’s a simple question,” he said.

   “It’s a silly question, and you know that. You know life isn’t like that.”

   “Do you feel your existence on this planet has had a utilitarian quality?”

   I shook my head; the muscles in my face arranging themselves to form a twisted smile.

   “What the hell kind of question is that?”

   “You write gossip in magazines.”

   “I should’ve won a Pulitzer, you little shit!”

   Silence.

   Evan didn’t flinch.

   “What is this? Why are you always provoking me?”

   Evan’s expression suddenly changed, his features contorting into a look that rarely found itself on Evan’s face: confusion (strike one).

   “I’m having an honest conversation,” he faltered (strike two).

   “You mock me, and you mock everything about everyday life.”

   There followed another silence, as I matched Evan’s stare. But then another unusual development: Evan grew teary-eyed (strike three).

   “All I ever am is honest,” he said. “Would you rather I lie?” Now there was a hint of anger in his voice.

   “Everyone lies, Evan. You have to lie to navigate the realities of everyday life. Jesus Christ. You need to not be so . . . heavy.”

   “Heavy?” More tears edging toward the precipice, more frustration in his voice. I moved to disarm the situation.

   “Evan . . . purists suffer.”

   “What do you know about suffering?” he barked.

   I sighed, placing my hands on my hips instinctively, looking to the ground: A worm writhed in the grass next to my feet. I looked up at Evan again; a tear or two had escaped and were descending his cheeks.

   “I know it’s a game,” I said. “I know it seems absurd to you right now. But we either play it, or we drown, Evan.”

   My son reached for the window handle and gripped it.

   “So play it,” he said.

21. The psychologist | Capote’s chest. . .

AFTER KAREN AND Stephanie had left the next morning, and after searching the house for Evan who was also absent, I sat down at my computer and returned to work on the Alfie article.

   This was often how I approached my articles: beginning them before the centerpiece – the interview – had taken place. Far from a popcorn article, the Alfie piece was a penetration into the mind of a pornographic actor, surrounded by a red, white, and blue frame of the mundane, everyday American life, and how Lee’s industry had permeated daily lives of normal people, especially since the advent of the internet. Before the Le Ché murder, I had intended on this being an apolitical article. And despite certain rumors and revelations, I intended to keep it that way.

   My vibrating cell phone took my attention away from work.

   “Hello?”

   “Ah, almost a foreign voice, my boy,” said Bill.

   “Bill, how are you?”

   “Well, so fresh the days are no more,” he said. “But one must continue his march, because to stop is to stand still. To stand still is to die. And the deep sleep isn’t my conquest, not just yet.”

   I could almost smell the brandy through the phone.

   “It’s a little early to be imbibing, Bill.”

   “What maniac told you you could speak to me that way, boy?”

   “I’m merely concerned for your well-being, Bill.”

   “Concern yourself with yourself. I’m none of your concern,” he replied. A long exhale followed, like the whistling wind during a storm.

   “What can I do for you, Bill?”

   “It’s not what you can do, but what you can see.”

   “Meaning . . .”

   “Stephanie. She’s with you?”

   “She arrived yesterday. With that . . . thing . . . She’s out with Karen right now. If you want to speak with her-”

   “No, boy. What can you see in her? What are her eyes telling you?”

   “Bill, this is-“

   “Pathetic?”

   “I was going to say silly, but we can use your word if you like.”

   A short silence followed, during which I typed a few notes.

   “A man can withstand a beating, a bullet, a barrage against one’s reputation. But loneliness will cripple the greatest of them.”

   “Bill, why don’t you arrange to speak with Stephanie? I’m sure the two of you can still work things out-“

   “No heir, Lukas . . . It’s not something I haven’t reflected on. You, on the other hand. Your boy. Brilliant, you’ve said.”

   “Evan’s a smart kid. Too smart for his own good.”

   “How rich that must make a man.”

   “Well . . .” I said, trailing off.

   “Enough of this pathetic babbling,” he said. I imagined him rising to his feet, “I trust our private conversations are just that, Lukas.”

   “I still value the sanctity of private conversation, Bill.”

   “One of the remaining few,” said Bill. “Now listen: For your Alfie Lee article. I have been ruminating on the piece. I believe, with the addition of the rent boy’s murder, this could be a journalistic triumph for you, Lukas, boy. This could be your In Cold Blood. How does a serialization of a non-fiction novel in America’s greatest magazine sound to you?”

   Words were genuinely lost, momentarily.

   “Bill . . . I . . .”

   “Your Venezuela piece . . .”

   Stomach churning.

   “Your Venezuela piece certainly warranted more accolades, Lukas. For that, I’ve despaired for you. So, this is your opportunity to be a household name in the literary and journalistic worlds. This is an opportunity for you to rescue journalism from its absurdist descent. I’ll give you a non-fiction novel, boy. All you need to do it write it.”

   “But Bill-”

   “You’ll speak truth, Lukas. You’ll uncover what’s to be uncovered. And you’ll be remembered for it,” he said. “So bloody well write it.”

   The line went dead. Almost immediately after Bill had hung up, the old flip phone in my pocket vibrated. I answered.

   “Yeah?”

   “Lukas,” arrived Broadford’s husky voice. I imagined a food-stained face illuminated by a computer screen; potato-chip scraps trapped in his beard which had evolved from stubble, as Broadford consumed the latest piece of unsubstantiated information from the rumor mill. “I’ll be brief.”

   “Please, do,” I said.

   “Next week. In LA.,” he said. “Keep an eye out for a Porsche.”

   “Wouldn’t LA have a million Porsches?”

   Another line, dead.

   I returned to the laptop. I typed ‘In Cold Blood’ and ‘Porsche’. After that I entered the name of my most-frequented porn site, but almost as quickly I closed the tab and shut down the computer.

XXX

Lillard tapped the arms of his chair as he looked at me without speaking. I took in the books and the furniture, the immersive shades of brown enveloping me as if I were in a chocolate factory. Suddenly I experienced a sugar craving. The ticking clock on the wall, however, was a constant reminder of reality.

   “Lukas,” said Lillard. I looked at him.

   “Yes?”

   “Are we going to discuss anything today?”

   “I don’t know,” I said. “I’m . . . not sure this is helping.”

   “You said it’s been more than two weeks since you consumed pornographic material. Wouldn’t you consider that progress?”

   I picked at the arm of the chair, much to Lillard’s annoyance, judging by his gaze.

   “Pornography has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. I saw my first porno mag when I was eleven, in my friend Dominic Cullen’s house. So I recently took to watching it more often than I had since I was a kid. Maybe it’s not such a big deal. Maybe stopping now isn’t such a big deal.”

   “Of course.”

   “You agree?”

   “You’re not here because of your consumption of pornographic material, Lukas.” Lillard’s eyes narrowed. “We both know that.’ He smiled oddly, like he was trying to contain derisive laughter. “We’ve discussed this, okay?”

   “So what is it we’re supposed to do then?”

   Lillard’s twisted smile morphed into a frown.

   “That’s your decision.”

   “It’s my decision?”

   Lillard, the fiend, leaned forward and looked at me with an expression I hadn’t seen since my high-school years.

   “You know why you come here. You know why you suffer anxiety attacks. You know why you retreat into pornographic material, okay? You know the source of your problems, Lukas. But unless you share that source with me, I can’t do any more than help you sweep dust under a rug. And if that’s enough for you, that’s enough for me. All of this is your decision.”

   I nodded, envisioning in my mind ripping off Lillard’s head and spooning out the contents within onto the wood flooring.

   I thought to myself: Man is competitive. Man is violent. Man is doomed.

   “Karen,” I said, “she’s been happier lately. No crying . . . she’s got that spark again.”

   “That’s good,” said Lillard.

   “She’s been spending a lot of time with Evan.”

   Lillard nodded.

   “But then the other day, she said she wants to me talk to Evan.”

   “Talk to Evan about what?”

   I shifted in my chair.

   “About his sexuality . . . Karen wants me to . . . talk him round.”

   “Karen wants you to perform some form of, er, conversion therapy?”

   “I think she’s worried about optics. Opinions. Keeping up appearances. That kind of thing.”

   Lillard scribbled a note in his diary (or was it a doodle?).

   “Do you think it’s possible that Karen is unwilling to accept Evan’s sexuality because of her desire to be a grandmother in the future?”

   I pondered the question for a beat, not without giving away my mental strain in the form of a grimace.

   “I don’t know. I don’t feel like I understand her like I used to . . . like when we were younger. I mean, she’s always been pro-this, pro-that. She’s a live-and-let-live kind of person.”

   “Live and let live can be different when it comes to your personal life. Karen may support that kind of existence on a, er, societal level. But in her own life, perhaps she seeks control, okay? She wishes to live her life as she chooses, and it’s possible that a homosexual child contradicts that vision.”

   I mentally awarded Lillard a gold star: a rare occurrence. Then I smiled against any better judgement, like you might smile at a funeral.

   “He’s fourteen,’ I said warmly: the words popped, hot like bread from a toaster. “He’s a fourteen-year-old kid. This is all . . . Why can’t he just be a normal fourteen-year-old boy?”

   “Gifted children are different; that’s a given. Academically gifted children often feel out of place amongst their peers, okay? They tend to gravitate towards older students who are more mature intellectually. At home, the role of child can be suffocating to them. Of course, without, er, speaking with Evan, I can merely speculate based on what you’ve told me.”

   “Please, speculate,” I said as I reminded myself how much The Cutter was paying for my time with this guy.

   “Completely based on what you’ve told me about your son, I would argue that Evan feels he has no need for his parents. That’s not wholly unusual in children of course. They, er, rebel, they feel smothered by their parents. But there is always a deeper dependency, and there is always an emotional attachment. With gifted children, which admittedly isn’t my area of expertise, this feeling of displacement, of isolation, of, er, alienation, can be more intensely experienced, okay? A deep interest in societal issues is often present . . . The literature is clear on this. I would speculate that Evan doesn’t feel at ease anywhere, and thus doesn’t feel comforted in your presence.”

   “And what about the gay thing?”

   “It’s not unusual for gifted children to grasp their sexuality early on.”

   “But maybe . . . it’s a phase? He’s so young. He’s still figuring things out.”

   “Of course, that is certainly a possibility.”

   “So should I talk to him? Should I do what Karen wants?”

   “A conversation about sex is something every father will encounter at some point in their child’s life. Why should Evan be any different?”

   I shifted in my chair again.

   “Because he is, though . . . Evan’s different.”

   Lillard brought his fingers to his lips as if pointing at them, waiting for me to elaborate. I sighed, not wanting to divulge the information I was on the verge of sharing.

   “When I walked into his room the other day, he was watching a porno movie. You know, when I was a kid, if my parents walked in while I was looking at snuff, I’d jump up and start singing Sinatra if it meant they didn’t know what I’d been doing.”

   “And Evan’s response to your walking in on him?”

   “That’s the thing: I didn’t walk in on him. I knocked, he paused the video and told me to come in. It was on the screen the whole time.”

   “And did you challenge him on this?”

   “I told him he shouldn’t watch it. He said he was researching.”

   “Do you believe that?”

   “Absolutely,” I said. “But why leave it on the screen in the first place?”

   Lillard tapped his pen against his notepad, uncrossing his legs, then crossing them again.

   “A challenge. Rebellion. Evan may be gifted but he is still a child. Mentally, perhaps, Evan’s a few years advanced in terms of maturity. Intellectually, probably as much as any adult, judging by what you’ve told me about him. By presenting to you something so provocative, in such a nonchalant manner, Evan’s goal is likely an attempt to antagonize you. Feeling alienated by his surroundings at school and at home results in his quest for, er, provocation. He wants to challenge and to be challenged.”

   “But I don’t know what to do with that-”

   “Of course,” Lillard continued, seemingly ignoring my comment, “it’s also possible that what you’ve told me about Evan is inaccurate.”

   “What do you mean?”

   Lillard sat forward once again, placing the pen on top of the pad resting on his lap.

   “Well, are you competing with Evan’s mind, or your own? Evan may be incredibly bright but is he as brilliant as you’ve made him out to be? Or is this a manifestation of your own insecurities? Is it possible that you fear Evan because you’re afraid you can’t be a good father to him? Could it be that you’re not afraid of Evan – but rather you’re afraid of yourself?”

22. The detective | Stranger than fiction . . .

DETECTIVE GLASS’S EYES rested on my being. The right eye was slightly lazy  – something I’d failed to notice on his previous visit – drooping so his expression suggested that he was half bored, half interested in whatever conversation he was engaged in (or not).

   I handed him a cup of hot cocoa, and he smiled upon receipt. I sat down on the couch with a glass of water in hand, noticing a mild tremor in the hand holding the glass.

   I thought to myself: That feeling of impending doom.

   “I was wondering when you’d call,” I said.

   “Well,” smiled Glass warmly, his deep, head-cold voice filling the room, “I suppose a word of warning would have been polite. For the lack of such a courtesy, I apologize.”

   I reached over to the lamp and switched it on, having noticed the light fading outside and the room darken.

   “It’s funny,” he said, “we haven’t been able to locate Alfie, and then out of nowhere he turns up on The Cindy Fox Show. Isn’t that something?”

   “I saw that. With Jane Fuller.”

   “The white knight,” said Glass, before shaking his head. “Excuse me; I’m not usually one to get political.”

   “She’s tenacious, I’ll give her that.”

   “Lukas, if I were to say our failure to locate Lee hasn’t frustrated me, I would be lying. I would also be telling tales if I told you it didn’t upset me that, undoubtedly, you know where the man is since you’ll be interviewing him in a matter of days.”

   “That’s not entirely accurate-”

   “Don’t worry,” smiled Glass, “I’m not asking you to divulge that information.” The detective sat back into the couch; so broad he was that he almost took up half of it. “When I visited last, I told you that you could help us crack this case. And I still believe this to be true. Assuming you’re willing to cooperate?”

   “I can’t say I’m entirely comfortable with that . . . from an ethical perspective.”

   Glass’s smile was still a smile, only now it was upside down as he nodded.

   “I respect that,” he said, “I completely understand; I’ve read the Five Principles of Ethical Journalism.”

   “This goes beyond journalistic standards,” I said.

   Glass nodded once again and drank from the mug, which in his enormous hand could’ve been mistaken for an espresso cup.

   “So, no wire, no spying, nothing of the sort. But what I will ask you, Lukas Lazaruk, is this,” Glass stood up and finished his cocoa, and as he lowered his cup his expression darkened. “If Lee should divulge any information relative to the Le Ché  case, I expect you to tell me. It is your duty as a citizen of this county. The kid deserves justice, and I intend to deliver it.”

   A response wasn’t required. I stood up and walked Glass to the front door, which opened as we approached it, revealing Evan is his furry blue trapper hat. His nose – like a warning signal for anyone thinking of venturing outside – was red from the cold. In one of his gloved hands he held a book which I believe was called Rogue Nation.

   Glass pointed at the book and smiled at Evan, who looked at him, as expected, sans expression.

   “You know my old man used to say a kid with a book is the most dangerous weapon in America.”

   This, to my immense shock, produced a wide smile from Evan, who, I’m certain, also blushed.

   Glass continued nasally: “Keep that weapon loaded,” he smiled again, all teeth and gums.

   Evan pulled off his hat and ran his hand over his flattened hair.

   “Are you investigating the Le Ché murder?” my son asked, with more inflection in his voice than usual. In fact, I almost detected excitement in his voice.

   A residual smile remained on Glass’s face as he replied, “Yes I am, son.”

   “I read that he’d accessed data from US intelligence agencies, and that’s why he was murdered.”

   Glass looked at me, produced his big smile again, before directing his gaze back to Evan.

   “My old man also used to say never believe what you read in the newspapers. If he were alive today, I’m sure he’d believe that’s applicable to the internet.”

   Evan squeezed his hat with both hands, applying an agreeable expression to his face, lips pursed, a slight nod of his head. “People are credulous, hence their malleability,” he said as he began to climb the stairs. Before he reached halfway up to the steps, I’m sure he said, “My life’s goal is to be in a state of constant incredulity.” The sound of Evan’s door closing behind him prompted Glass to turn to me once again.

   “Bright kid,” he said.

   “I know,” I said, not with an expression of pride.

   “My old man also said intelligence nurtured is a work of art.”

   “I’d be interested in hearing my wife’s thoughts on that.”

   Glass anticipated elaboration.

   “She’s an arts major. She’s an artist. She has . . . lots of theories.”

   Glass nodded.

   “I’m something of a collector,” he said. “Not that I know anything about art. I merely enjoy the mental curiosities it tends to provoke.”

   “Well, Karen’s working on new material. Maybe she’ll be able to tempt you.”

   Glass smiled and looked to the floor, “That’s what I like about art,” he said, looking up at me, “it tends to dazzle while at the same time revealing truth.”

   Glass kept his stare on me. 

   I thought to myself: What do you know?

   “Good day, Lukas. I wish you a fruitful interview with the porn star,” he said as he exited the house. I closed the door behind him, thankful for the expulsion of the cool air. I stood at the bottom of the stairs looking up towards Evan’s room, as I experienced that ever-familiar sinking feeling.

   In the kitchen I poured myself a tumbler of bourbon – neat – and I opened the pantry door and reached for the top shelf, revisiting the diary entries Le Ché had written which I’d already consumed a half dozen times.

XXX

Diary of an enfant terrible – June 19

A quick entry today, as I’m shooting a scene with Eric Warhol and Shelly Spears in approximately twenty minutes . . .

   Today’s entry is a note on literature. I always read. I’m a voracious reader. Because, as no one told me, if one doesn’t read, one is left in darkness. And in darkness all you’ll find is your primal instincts which will eventually get you nowhere apart from off.

   I’ve made a vow to encourage these literary leanings in others. In fact, when the day arrives, I will makeover the shambolic American education system to one which educates. (Remember what Vidal said: Education has destroyed more American authors than alcohol. I would amend this to say state-enforced education has destroyed man’s ability to think.)

   In books we find the key to evolution and enlightenment. In books we find escape from the absurdities of the day. In them we find almost all the answers, apart from the answer. In them you’ll find sheer madness and absolute tranquility and everything else you need to experience vicariously to become truly balanced.

   But not modern books.

   People talk about book sales booming once again: The millennials and Gen Zers are reading – praise Jesus, Allah, and Buddha! But the books they’re reading? Ils sont laid! The Great American Novel was dead long before Vidal proclaimed it in the opening lines of Breckinridge, only for it to be resuscitated for a brief period by a few scribes over the subsequent decades; a pertinacious splash in the dead sea here and there. But nowadays? Now childless adults queue up for hours anticipating the release of children’s books! Now the author rather than the work is the prime consideration for publishers and readers alike; the intersectional sabotage of the written word continues its hideous march. Perhaps there’ll be one final resurrection of the American novel; a Lazarus raised by the few remaining purists. But once that Lazarus wanders into the misty darkness you may consider that to be the final chapter, the last paragraph, the closing lines: cometh the hour, cometh the end.

   I would’ve liked to have been a writer. A writer of fiction. But I was devoid of that ‘something’ – what I call The Hitchens Theory. I firmly believe Christopher was on to something. The writers – the fiction writers – possess a musicality. Without that, there’s no magic to their words. Without it they’re mere essayists. And I suppose I am without it, and in some way, I’m something of an essayist. This journal – with it I exercise my writing demons on the page, while on camera I exercise my phallus, which requires much less skill, but far greater confidence and dedication: To write a work of seventy or eighty-thousand words, or to maintain an erection for four hours in a roomful of people without the need for medicinal assistance? I’m certain Gore would approve.

           P.S. He held his truth above all things and against all men.

23. The flashback | Canvas confessions . . .

I’M IN CARACAS.

   A hand drops a machete. I look at the boy’s face. Fifteen, maybe. He gasps. Blood begins to seep through his white vest. His legs lose strength and buckle beneath his weight, like a newborn springbok. I help him to the ground. The boy looks at me, confused, teary eyed, pale faced. His breathing is rapid, panicked, desperate. I’m frozen, expressionless, nauseous. The boy slumps onto his side as blood spools through and under his vest onto the floor. He makes an awful noise: a groan, a gargled moan. I gather my things and leave the room and the demonic noises emitting from the dying child.

XXX

The sweat had seeped into the bedsheets. As I awoke in darkness, strangely calm, the sudden recollection of the dream – of the dying boy – induced a racing heart and a feeling of nausea. I got out of bed and, using the light from my phone, quietly stepped out to the bathroom down the hall.

   As I sat on the icy toilet seat on the verge of a panic attack, I entered the word “porn” into the search engine. I hit ‘images’ and began to scroll the results that greeted me, before I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and released, slowly, the calming air which had filled my lungs. And as my lungs deflated, so did the southernly blood withdraw, causing a simultaneous deflation, and my heartbeat returned to a reasonable rate. I quickly closed the tab in the browser and cleared the search history.

   Making my way back to the bedroom, I noticed at the end of the hall light emitting from under the door of Karen’s studio. That single strip of gold was enough to draw the moth, and I quietly walked towards the door, careful to make as little noise as possible. I reached for the door handle and, to my surprise, found that it was unlocked. A moment of deliberation occurred, as I debated whether to open the door fully, reach in a hand, and turn off the light switch, or to enter the room and betray Karen’s trust: She’d never allowed me into her studio uninvited, as she had told me that it’s like hacking into someone’s mind; accessing their innermost thoughts without their consent.

   I stood at the door, an indecisive intruder. Behind me the other bedroom doors were closed. It was the middle of the night; Karen and Evan were asleep. What prompted my transgression, I couldn’t be sure, but as I stood in the hallway, outside the door, I felt an urge as primal as any sexual impulse to invade Karen’s space without her approval.

   I twisted the handle, careful to deny any audible upset of the quiet scene.

   As the door opened, so did Karen’s mind. As I entered the room, so did I penetrate my wife’s consciousness and subconsciousness. As I took in the canvases before me – as I engaged in an egregious breach of trust and propriety – my brain attempted to assess the colorful displays: phallus after phallus on canvases, of various sizes and shapes, shades and complexities. All around me were soft and hard pricks, some fervent in their arousal, some pathetic in their flaccidity. In front of me were displays of orgiastic eruption and weeping post-climactic shrinkage. In some instances, aggressive, rigid lines as if drawn in a state of lust; in others the drooping flesh of post-coitus or masturbatory relief. As I took all of this in, I heard Karen’s distressed pleas (“Stop…”), her panicked reasoning (“Lukas, I said… stop, please, don’t do this…”), her emotional unraveling at the realization of what was happening to her (“No, don’t, no, please…”). And my mind assessed these sketches and paintings and determined they were created during the time Karen and I were physically despondent.

   “I would say amateurish, but that would be disagreeable to amateurs.”

   Evan stood by the door wearing only his pajama bottoms, displaying his skinny but athletic build for one so young.

   “Jesus,” I whispered, “be quiet.”

   Evan lowered his voice, although not to a whisper: “You have to wonder,” he said, “what the diagnosis is for something like this.”

   “You shouldn’t be in here,” I said.

   “Me?” replied my son. “Sure.” He walked slowly around the room. “What are you thinking? Do you think she desires other men? Other cocks?”

   My face, I’m sure, twitched in some way.

   “Don’t,” I said, raising my finger. “No games, Evan.”

   Evan appeared to ignore my comment as he shook his head, taking in canvas after canvas.

   “My immediate diagnosis is sexual frustration, and a distinct lack of sexual satisfaction.”

   “Shut it,” I said.

   “It must be strange,” he whispered, “to see your wife paint such things.” Evan turned to me. “To lust after other men.”

   “Listen. Not a word-”

   “Although ghastly is an appropriate word,” he said, turning his attention back to the paintings. “This is what she spends her days doing. It’s . . .  tragic.”

   “Evan, go to your room. This stays between us. I heard a noise; I came to investigate.”

   “I’m sure you did,’ said Evan, sans expression. He began walking to the door, and said, “the more shitty and transgressive the art is, the more it defines the tolerance of a liberal society.” He turned to me before he left the room. “Jake Chapman.”

   I thought to myself: Who?

   Then I thought: Who cares.

   I took in the forest of art that surrounded me one last time, and then I left the room, thus exiting Karen (“How could you do this?”), closing the door behind me.

   I returned to bed and lay down next to my wife, who was sleeping. I placed my hand on her hair and rubbed her forehead, encouraging awakening. But it didn’t come, and with thoughts of her state of mind and the apparent canvas confessions I’d discovered, I soon drifted, thankfully, into a dreamless sleep.

XXX

The following morning the newly formed family sat around the table enjoying breakfast. Thankfully, there was no mention of the previous night’s transgression. Karen, Evan, Stephanie, the miniature camel, and me – all of us partook in a Brady Bunch scene of polite exchanges and witty remarks. Stephanie and I even shared a joke, which prompted what I believe was an expression of unbridled pride on Karen’s face.

   Soon, however, it was all to come crashing down.

   “So, are you all set for your trip out west, Lukas?” asked Stephanie.

   “About as prepared as anyone who dares to venture to L.A. can be.”

   “Evan has been excelling in school,” said Karen with an understandable conversational non-sequitur: she didn’t approve of the article, and thus the interview.

   “It’s difficult not to,” said Even in a dejected rather than boastful tone.  

   “I’m not surprised. Goodness, your mother told me there’s already been talk of you graduating a couple years early.”

   Stephanie placed her hand on Evan’s cheek, prompting a flinch from the latter.

   “My brilliant nephew. You’ll be attending Harvard by the time you’re fifteen. Brilliance runs in the family, after all. Just don’t get complacent. That was my biggest mistake.”

   As if on cue, the miniature camel seated between Stephanie and Evan released a high-pitched bleat. Everyone but Evan laughed; the little monstrosity was cute after all. Then, as it turned towards Evan, an unexpected turn of events followed: it suddenly spit at him.

   A shocked silence descended on the table. Evan looked at the miniature camel square in the eye and to my immense surprise (and hidden delight), he returned a saliva missile back at the creature’s face.

   “Evan!”

   Stephanie reached for a napkin to clean her pet, as Evan continued to stare at it with palpable enmity.

   “The little mutant spit at me first.”

   “Would you spit at a baby if it threw up on you? It’s like a baby, Evan,” said Stephanie.

   “No, it’s not,” said Evan, rising from his chair and leaving the table.

   “Evan, come back here,” called Karen.

   Evan stopped as he ascended the stairs, turning his gaze on me.

   “After California, everything will be different.”

   I turned to Karen, who returned an equally baffled stare.

   Stephanie continued to clean the retarded monkey’s face.

   I sipped my coffee, and within me stirred a crippling anxiousness.

Diary of an enfant terrible – June 24

Another quick entry: My scene with Devon Deep begins in thirty minutes, and, as Devon’s last name suggests, preparation for working with him is nothing if not wise . . .

   Leonard Cohen spoke of Democracy coming to the USA. What did he mean by this, you may wonder? He meant what I’m about to divulge, because Leighton Le Ché never keeps anything hidden – be it physicality or information; Leighton Le Ché never tells a lie. Leighton Le Ché is truth, and truth is always naked, pure, liberating.

   The reason democracy doesn’t exist in the USA is because in order to launch any meaningful presidential campaign, one must receive very large sums of money. Major bribes, or, “donations”, are required to propel a candidate into the limelight. Even if a candidate is already in the public eye, like yours truly, it is still necessary that he be bolstered by piles of filthy dollar bills.

   But I’m a porn star, and soon I will conquer Hollywood; horny teens and cinema queens will adore me in equal measure. I won’t be lacking in financial backing for I will rest my naked backside on my own dollar bills every night I sleep. So, my campaign will be launched in the public eye, with clean (if there is such a thing) fiat money.

   And when I ride the liberating wave to the White House, I will deliver what Cohen spoke of: Leighton Le Ché will set this country free. I will deliver natural democracy in all its naked glory, and behind me will be a trail of clothed liars, cowards, crooks, and manipulators!

   Politics, you see, in its essence, is absurd. And thus, the best politician is the absurdist. For a country to be truly free, they must embrace the absurdity of the political realm, and consequently diminish the role of politicians in the nation. They must cut invasive government down to size: from a 10-ich shlong to a withering 2-inch winkle. Then, whatever remains of democracy shall flourish.

24. The psychologist | crossing the Rubicon . . .

“WHAT YOU PERCIEVE as hostility may in fact be a cry for help. Evan’s continued provocations – as you see them – could signal his yearning for more understanding from you.”

   Lillard’s tone was not impassioned; this, I felt, was mere box ticking on his part. Accompanying his voice was the grating sound of a power drill from the room above us. I tried my best to ignore the regular interruptions: at that moment, the power tool seemed like the perfect metaphor for life.

   “He’s suggested that Karen is lusting for other men. What kind of fourteen-year-old kid says something like that to his father?”

   “A brilliant one? A demanding one?” Predictable Dr. Lillard crossed his legs and laced his fingers. “Lukas, Evan – from how you’ve explained him to me – is too bright to resort to mere name calling and goading, okay? Could it be that, er, he’s challenging you? That he has high expectations for his father, like many a father has for his son?”

   “Yes,” I said. “Yes, that’s something I’ve observed. Sure. But this is different. This is deep. It’s dark psychology, doc. He’s not challenging me . . . He’s purposely provoking me.”

   “Or testing you. Children push the boundaries of how far they can go all the time. It, er, begins at a young age, okay? A very bright child like Evan will push the parent-child relationship to its limits. He’ll seek to rebel and to destroy; this is textbook teenage behavior.”

   “No, no. This isn’t just normal rebellious behavior. . .”

   “Didn’t you say yourself that Evan is wise beyond his years?”

   “No, this isn’t about maturity. There’s something sinister within him. The things he says . . . No matter what I try, it always come back to this.”

   The drilling continued.

   Lillard stared at me silently. This was his usual way of extracting more information from me, the fiend.

   “Karen,” I said. “I . . . betrayed her trust.”

   “In what way?”

   “Her studio . . . She never lets anyone in there unless she gives them permission. She’s been very strict about this over the years when she’s painted. Last night while she was asleep, I went inside.”

   “Do you have an issue with what you found there?”

   I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

   “Do you want to share that information with me? I appreciate it might be . . . especially private. Karen’s not here to fend for herself.”

   “If I told you, you’d come up with some Freudian theory. And maybe you’d be right. I just . . . It’s not what she’s painted, but what I did.”

   “You entered her studio.”

   More drilling, more unpleasant sounds.

   “I couldn’t stop myself. Like when I’d watch porno . . . I couldn’t really control it. I’d get the idea and then there was no stopping me; I was like grandpa on Viagra.”

   “Pornography has been a crutch for you. The anxiety attacks, the uncertainty, the strain on your marriage; these are products of something deeper within, okay? Adult entertainment is simply a distraction: it’s an escape from reality. Until you confront what’s within, you’ll continue on this course.”

   “But I was porno free.”

   “You were?”

   “I had a dream, a kind of flashback dream. It’s been a recurring thing.”

   “What did you dream about?”

   I looked at Lillard, like I was in the middle of a showdown.

   “That doesn’t matter. I woke up, I felt anxious. I felt that I was going to have an anxiety attack. And when I visited a porn site, it went away – the panic.”

   “As I said, a distraction.”

   “So, what’s this whole Alfie B. Lee interview about? I’ve been trying to distract myself since Venezuela, and it’s been porn, porn, porn, until Karen and I make love again . . . So, during all of that I set up this interview for my next piece in the Cutter. Is that all just . . . a symptom of that?”

   Dr. Lillard uncrossed his legs and sat forward, resting his elbow on his thighs, and letting his hands hang in the chasm.

   “What happened in Venezuela, Lukas?”

   He stared at me, encouraging me with his eyes.

   “Evan,” I said, ignoring the question. “Evan said that everything would be different after California.”

   “Does that concern you?”

   “It does. I’ve a feeling he’s going to run away. I’ve been expecting it.”

   “And what about you? Are you worried about how you’ll feel after California?”

   “California is just . . . an interview.”

   “Lukas, you summarized things fairly well moments ago. Putting your profession aside, there was likely an ulterior motive for chasing an interview with Alfie Lee. And while you’ve made progress recently, it would seem to me that entering Alfie’s world represents the final step in your escape.”

   I took in the room once again, all that brown. Whenever I’d take a shit, I would forever think of Lillard.

   “So what are you saying?”

   “I’m saying remember reality, Lukas. You’ve done well, okay? While there are untapped issues here, you have made progress. Remember when you go to California: you no longer need that escape. Do not let Alfie’s world consume you.”

XXX

My goodbye to Karen was made up of a soft kiss, and a quiet whisper to watch out for the camel. This prompted a smile from her, and then she whispered in my ear “Remember to talk to Evan”. Stephanie held the miniature camel’s paw (do camels have paws?) in her hand and waved at me (the camel, it seemed, had softened Stephanie’s exterior – to a degree). Evan was in the backyard, seated on the tire swing. He had waved me off with a book in his hand and an air of apathy surrounding him.

As I rode in the taxi, I was surprised to find myself feeling strangely calm. There wasn’t a hint of anxiety within me. In fact, the feelings I experienced were those of excitement and joy: Lillard was right, this was an escape. But so long as I remembered reality, surely, I could at least enjoy a period of respite in my escapism.