Miriam H. Beerman’s Hail, from the series Plague (1986)

HARD NASTY FAST CURE

I’m a sexless marriage, an unloaded gun, a slow idiot.
The truth doesn’t run in my family.
I sell drugs.
My family?
My parents?
My little brother?
Don't want to talk about my parents.
Want to respect their privacy.
Don't want to talk about my little brother, but don't respect his privacy.
My auntie, uncle, and cousin?
Sure, I’ll bite.
My auntie hears the meanest voices.
The hospital is her real home.
She's on her way there right now.
She's scared to leave the house.
She keeps the windows closed all the time.
She worries very much that the government has sent mosquitoes to spy on her.
She's so pale.
She’s a master seamstress.
My auntie was a drop-dead gorgeous woman once.
My uncle is borderline diabetic.
He says he’s surrounded by dumb faggots at work.
His words, never mine!
He’s a construction worker.
Wait—does he work at a nuclear power plant?
Where the heck does the prick work?
My cousin, their son, a real sicko, is in prison.
We exchange letters.
His letters are written in bright magic marker.
My cousin says he was young, dumb, and full of cum when he did harm to those people.
His victims were a boyfriend called Henry and a girlfriend called Maggie, and they had their whole lives ahead of them, and it’s such a horribly nasty world sometimes.
My cousin says the white power skinheads get so angry, the veins in their heads make swastikas.
After all the booty, bloodshed, and time spent behind bars, my cousin is still the same filthy animal.
Wish I had a girlfriend.
My ex-girlfriend is a missing person.
She looked like Paris Hilton—right down to the nose.
The lips, too.
My ex was a manic depressive.
She required lots of therapy and medication.
I am not a suspect in her disappearance.
But did someone like my cousin get his hands on my ex?
I once got so high on mushrooms, I forgot my name.
As hard as I tried, I could not remember my name.
I once got so high on mushrooms, I completely forgot about commodities.
As hard as I tried, I could not understand the concept of commodities.
I once got so high on mushrooms, I met myself, and I did not like him.
Summer’s almost here.
It's time for parents all around the world to start thinking about summer camps.
Know for a fact my parents enjoy a sexless marriage.
Wait—stop.
Don't want to talk about my parents.
Want to respect their privacy.
My dream is to work for the Food and Drug Administration.
I cannot stand animal cruelty.
When I die, I want to die from a heart attack in my sleep.
When I live, I want to make nine thousand dollars an hour.
When I was little, I thought my parents were billionaires.
I got so angry when I found out they weren’t.
I get so angry when I don’t respect their privacy.
I want to make a million dollars this summer.
A cold, smooth million.
And, if all goes well, I think I can.
Got some really exciting stuff in the works.
My ex used to be my million dollars.
If she was in front of me right now, I would tell her I’m sorry.
I would apologize.
Like some freaking freak apologizer.
Even though I don't know what I did wrong.
It was a long-term relationship.
Seven years.
For two years, it was a long-distance relationship.
I was here, doing my thing, making money, and she was in Austin, getting her master's degree.
One night, a few months ago, after she came back, she said, “Stop trying to pretend like everything is fine.”
She said, “Everything is not fine.”
She said, “I have nothing to live for anymore.”
She said, “Nothing.”
A couple seconds later, she threw a loaded ice cube tray at my head.
Then I threw the phone book at her.
I wanted her to look me up.
I wanted her to remember my name.
Then I said, “Later, skater,” and haven’t seen her since.
We had some pretty nasty weather yesterday, and well into the night.
Last night, in the parking lot outside my apartment building, I met someone.
I met a young man who’d never had a choice.
I met a young man on a road trip.
I met George.
Long story short, we did drugs in his car, and I let him blow my junk.
He asked.
He had no money for the drugs.
I said sure.
I said why not.
I've been through worse before.
I’ve done a favor or two before.
And George is bisexual.
Because of George’s eyes, he’s spent most of his life with people thinking he’s retarded.
His car was a playpen.
It was a torrential downpour outside.
George was crouching on the driver’s seat.
George’s mother died from a type of leukemia that completes itself instantly.
Before you can even say cure.
When she was alive, George’s mother jumped down his throat at every intersection.
George’s brother died from carbon monoxide poisoning.
George’s brother brewed the best LSD in the state of Georgia.
George’s brother used to drop LSD in George’s cereal.
George’s spaghetti, too.
George doesn’t call what his brother did to them sexual abuse.
George’s sister calls what their brother did to them sexual abuse.
George just calls it “kinky.”
Cure!
You know, George’s grandfather on his father’s side was a dust bowl survivor.
George’s grandfather on his mother's side was an obstetrician and an important Klansman.
Grand Dragon of Georgia.
George, Georgia.
Georgia, George.
Anyway, George blew my junk like there was no tomorrow.
I had nothing to lose.
I had my eyes shut tight.
Not my finest hour?
While George blew me, I thought: Wow, I have really got to get my affairs in order.
I thought: I am very much under the influence of the lamest condition.
And: My childhood was such a wild ride.
And: I am not sure how I got through my childhood.
But: I had a better childhood than George.
And: Right now, my father is probably thinking about the day I was born.
I thought: His 60th birthday is rapidly approaching.
And: I think I was an accident.
I also thought about French people.
And about French people pardoning my French all over the place, in France.
And: my ex-girlfriend.
And: her bipolar disorder.
And I thought about missing persons all over the world.
But mostly, I thought about her.
We had a running joke: I would beg her for anal sex, and she would say, “No chance in France!”
Actually, it's not funny, and maybe never was…
Last night, after I rezipped myself, George asked me if I knew about the disappearances.
The disappearances going on in the next town over.
Told him I was aware.
Young people, girls and boys, are disappearing the next town over.
My ex was last seen leaving a concert the next town over.
My ex used to tell me I was emotionally unavailable in every direction.
I used to tell her she was always building rooms that didn’t need to exist.
Last night, I asked George, “Are you responsible for her disappearance?”
Last night, I asked George, “Did you kill her?”
George said, “No, I am not.”
George said, “No, I did not.”
I believed George.
I thought: George is not like my magic-marker cousin.
His response felt very sincere at the time.
Cure!
Very sincere.
“We should maybe try to go searching for her?” George proposed.
And then I was all like, “Really? George? You think so?”
He shrugged.
A red 1999 Saab pulled out of the parking lot, and George started exclaiming.
He was pointing.
He was bouncing in his seat.
He was totally out of control.
He went, “That’s the killer! We gotta follow the killer!”
I didn’t believe George, I didn't move a muscle, I only moved my eyes to make sure the passenger-side door was not locked.
“I like your air freshener,” I said to George.
While George had been blowing my junk, I was thinking about ancient civilizations.
I thought about jungle children dancing around a roaring campfire.
I thought about nailing red flags to barn doors.
Because, that would be a great job to have.
But mostly, I thought about nothing, and George swallowed me up real good.
Golly, George’s mouth was a full service car wash.
For the record: I’m straight as an arrow, I’m not immune to boredom, and George’s car was filthy.
After we talked about the disappearances, George showed me a video on his cellphone.
It was a little boy receiving chemotherapy.
A nurse applied some jelly to his neck.
Then she stuck a needle in it.
The boy was crying so hard.
George was laughing so hard.
George wants to be a comedian.
That’s his dream job.
Last night, George told me some jokes.
He went, “What’s the difference between a garbage man and a gynecologist?”
I said, “I don’t know—what’s the difference?”
“Nothing,” he said.
He went, “Why did the Mexican throw his wife off the building?”
I said, “I don’t know—why?”
“Tequila,” he said.
He went, “What do you call a pig with three eyes?”
I said, “What?”
He went, “A piiig.”
Cure!
I told George I think a good joke is just a lie told over and over again.
And because I knew I’d never see George ever again, I admitted to him that I’m a bad person.
Don’t think he heard me though.
He was too busy picking his skin.
He was too busy staring off into the nasty weather.
Maybe I'm not a bad person?
And you know what?
If I’m being honest?
George gave me the creeps.
His smile was toothy, domineering.
His eyes and dirty teeth and facial tics didn’t help.
His ripped, muddy jeans didn’t help.
The nasty weather didn’t help.
His stories were sad and scary.
His stories didn’t help.
George is a crazy fucker.
George is not my friend.
I never want to see George again.
Cure!
But my ex was my friend.
But my ex’s smile was perfect.
But my ex’s eyes were brown meets green.
But the funny thing is that, with George, I didn’t really feel like a sexless marriage, an unloaded gun, a slow idiot.
Anyhow, I got out of his car, and into the nasty weather.
I said, “Later, skater.”
I so meant it.

Myles Zavelo’s writing has appeared in New World Writing Quarterly, The Southampton Review, New York Tyrant Magazine, Berfrois, Joyland Magazine, Muumuu House, Maudlin House, The Harvard Advocate, and Hobart Pulp.