Interior Monologue (Part 1)
Dark.
The gentle scent of a woman's perfume still hangs in the warm, quiet air.
Satin pillow cool under my head.
I think: my problem is I have too many lives. There's Ron Evans, Marcie's husband, father of Robbie, Becky, and Ron Junior, and king of the Woodbury barbecue. He's pretty close to Ronald Evans, VP-Sales for The Hogan Group's DynaTech division, and the top-notch deal-maker you want in your corner when the chips are down. From him it's not too much further to R.P. Evans, Boss From Hell, the mean sonofabitch the salesmen joke about when they think I'm not listening. (Morons. Don't they realize the intercom system works both ways?)
The one I don't understand is Ron. Just Ron.
He starts out normal enough — Ronald Evans on a sales trip, really — but put two toy Bacardi bottles under his belt and some Frequent Flyer miles on his soul and he's The Lonely Guy, a good provider whose fat frigid wife doesn't understand that a man has needs. Two more drinks in the hotel bar and he's Mister Party, who's got a gold card and a rental car and wants to know where a fella can find some fun in this town.
Two last drinks and he's The Desperate Soul, whose balls are a pair of ticking time bombs that'll kill him if he doesn't get laid.
I wonder: that perfume seems vaguely familiar. Should I open my eyes, see who she is? No, I decide, not yet.
I already know what she looks like.
I like them young, skinny, and blonde. Straight hair, hint of a curl, teased a little on top, like a dandelion. Pale white skin, perky little tits, tight little ass that fits my hand; and long, long, skinny legs that go all the way up. I like them in my place, her place, hotel rooms, parked cars, dark alleys out back of the bar. I like the way you can stand there deep kissing a skinny one, and grab her ass with both hands, and she'll sort of jump up and wrap her thighs around you and you can take her right then, right there, nail her against the wall. I like short, slinky dresses, nylons with garters, and no underwear. I hate pantyhose, condoms, and anything else that gets in my way.
I hate complicated relationships. I tell them my name is Ron. Just Ron. They tell me their names, but I call them all "Honey" and lie that I love them.
I hate night sweats.
And thinning hair. And arthritic joints. And chronic diarrhea. And open sores. And the tight, bloated feeling of swollen lymph nodes in the neck, armpits, groin.
I hate the doctor at the anonymous free clinic in St. Louis. "I'm afraid it's bad news, Mister—"
"Ron," I say.
"Your T-cell count is in the cellar; your antibody count is through the roof. There is no mistake. You have AIDS."
I take a month to get my financials squared away, check out my health insurance, put all my ducks in a row. Then I get tested by my family doctor and break the news to Marcie, my wife. "I swear to God, honey, I don't know how I caught it. It must have been that transfusion after my surgery in '83."
She stands by me. Supports me, sympathizes with me, tests negative herself, even holds my hand as we break the news to the neighbors. Two weeks later Tawni, my perky little blonde secretary, tests positive and files a lawsuit the size of the national debt. DynaTech fires me before she's finished talking.
Marcie has the restraining order in hand before I pull into the driveway.
I take an apartment down in Loring Park, where people talk about AIDS the way suburban parents talk about chicken pox. The AZT makes me puke, so I start experimenting with street cures. Garlic enemas, Diachlorazine, CBT, RCS, MIC for the HIV; my bloodstream becomes an alphabet soup.
I feel: soft, cool satin, under my fingertips. There's no fragrant warmth beside me; she must have left me alone. Still, the trace of her perfume lingers.
They come to know me in Loring Park. The shambling, dying guy who used to be someone important. The gullible chump with a fat wallet who'll buy anything that offers a ghost of a hint of a chance.
He's black. He's tall. He steps out of the deep shadows one sultry July night, his eyes hidden, his smiling teeth shining like old yellow ivory in the pale starlight. "Come with me, Ron. I got what you want." I follow him out of the park, to a second-floor loft in the old warehouse district.
The girl who answers the door is pale, blonde, delicate and perfect. She tells me her name, but I forget it. The black man leaves; she takes me inside and introduces me to Butch, who's all languid sleek muscles and spiky red hair like Woody Woodpecker. The room is straight out of a tacky hot-sheets motel, with white satin and red vinyl everywhere. "We have HIV," she says.
"Great," I say. "Did I ask for a support group?"
"Not AIDS, asshole. Human Immortality Virus."
"Right. Thanks." I start for the door.
She touches me. It's been ages since a woman touched me like that. I stay, to listen.
"Call it kitchen-sink genetic engineering," she explains gently. "Someone at Mayo cobbled it up as a possible AIDS cure. The Feds killed the project — one undesirable side-effect — but someone from ACT-UP smuggled a culture out. This virus triggers a massive infection that rewires your entire body on the DNA level. Afterwards, you've got regenerative powers you wouldn't believe and an immune system that can handle anything."
I look at her. I look deep, deep into those clear green eyes. She parts her lips slightly, licks her lips; her breath is sweet. Her small, hard nipples show through the fabric of her clingy white dress.
I find my voice. "And just how do I acquire this immortality virus?"
She steps closer, and runs her slim, perfect hands across my chest. She answers in a husky whisper. "You exchange bodily fluids with me."
My hands ache for her. I start to reach —
I turn to Butch. "And what do you get out of all this?"
He smiles, stretches, and yawns. Impossibly wide. Showing all his teeth.
"I get to feed."
...to be continued...
The gentle scent of a woman's perfume still hangs in the warm, quiet air.
Satin pillow cool under my head.
I think: my problem is I have too many lives. There's Ron Evans, Marcie's husband, father of Robbie, Becky, and Ron Junior, and king of the Woodbury barbecue. He's pretty close to Ronald Evans, VP-Sales for The Hogan Group's DynaTech division, and the top-notch deal-maker you want in your corner when the chips are down. From him it's not too much further to R.P. Evans, Boss From Hell, the mean sonofabitch the salesmen joke about when they think I'm not listening. (Morons. Don't they realize the intercom system works both ways?)
The one I don't understand is Ron. Just Ron.
He starts out normal enough — Ronald Evans on a sales trip, really — but put two toy Bacardi bottles under his belt and some Frequent Flyer miles on his soul and he's The Lonely Guy, a good provider whose fat frigid wife doesn't understand that a man has needs. Two more drinks in the hotel bar and he's Mister Party, who's got a gold card and a rental car and wants to know where a fella can find some fun in this town.
Two last drinks and he's The Desperate Soul, whose balls are a pair of ticking time bombs that'll kill him if he doesn't get laid.
I wonder: that perfume seems vaguely familiar. Should I open my eyes, see who she is? No, I decide, not yet.
I already know what she looks like.
I like them young, skinny, and blonde. Straight hair, hint of a curl, teased a little on top, like a dandelion. Pale white skin, perky little tits, tight little ass that fits my hand; and long, long, skinny legs that go all the way up. I like them in my place, her place, hotel rooms, parked cars, dark alleys out back of the bar. I like the way you can stand there deep kissing a skinny one, and grab her ass with both hands, and she'll sort of jump up and wrap her thighs around you and you can take her right then, right there, nail her against the wall. I like short, slinky dresses, nylons with garters, and no underwear. I hate pantyhose, condoms, and anything else that gets in my way.
I hate complicated relationships. I tell them my name is Ron. Just Ron. They tell me their names, but I call them all "Honey" and lie that I love them.
I hate night sweats.
And thinning hair. And arthritic joints. And chronic diarrhea. And open sores. And the tight, bloated feeling of swollen lymph nodes in the neck, armpits, groin.
I hate the doctor at the anonymous free clinic in St. Louis. "I'm afraid it's bad news, Mister—"
"Ron," I say.
"Your T-cell count is in the cellar; your antibody count is through the roof. There is no mistake. You have AIDS."
I take a month to get my financials squared away, check out my health insurance, put all my ducks in a row. Then I get tested by my family doctor and break the news to Marcie, my wife. "I swear to God, honey, I don't know how I caught it. It must have been that transfusion after my surgery in '83."
She stands by me. Supports me, sympathizes with me, tests negative herself, even holds my hand as we break the news to the neighbors. Two weeks later Tawni, my perky little blonde secretary, tests positive and files a lawsuit the size of the national debt. DynaTech fires me before she's finished talking.
Marcie has the restraining order in hand before I pull into the driveway.
I take an apartment down in Loring Park, where people talk about AIDS the way suburban parents talk about chicken pox. The AZT makes me puke, so I start experimenting with street cures. Garlic enemas, Diachlorazine, CBT, RCS, MIC for the HIV; my bloodstream becomes an alphabet soup.
I feel: soft, cool satin, under my fingertips. There's no fragrant warmth beside me; she must have left me alone. Still, the trace of her perfume lingers.
They come to know me in Loring Park. The shambling, dying guy who used to be someone important. The gullible chump with a fat wallet who'll buy anything that offers a ghost of a hint of a chance.
He's black. He's tall. He steps out of the deep shadows one sultry July night, his eyes hidden, his smiling teeth shining like old yellow ivory in the pale starlight. "Come with me, Ron. I got what you want." I follow him out of the park, to a second-floor loft in the old warehouse district.
The girl who answers the door is pale, blonde, delicate and perfect. She tells me her name, but I forget it. The black man leaves; she takes me inside and introduces me to Butch, who's all languid sleek muscles and spiky red hair like Woody Woodpecker. The room is straight out of a tacky hot-sheets motel, with white satin and red vinyl everywhere. "We have HIV," she says.
"Great," I say. "Did I ask for a support group?"
"Not AIDS, asshole. Human Immortality Virus."
"Right. Thanks." I start for the door.
She touches me. It's been ages since a woman touched me like that. I stay, to listen.
"Call it kitchen-sink genetic engineering," she explains gently. "Someone at Mayo cobbled it up as a possible AIDS cure. The Feds killed the project — one undesirable side-effect — but someone from ACT-UP smuggled a culture out. This virus triggers a massive infection that rewires your entire body on the DNA level. Afterwards, you've got regenerative powers you wouldn't believe and an immune system that can handle anything."
I look at her. I look deep, deep into those clear green eyes. She parts her lips slightly, licks her lips; her breath is sweet. Her small, hard nipples show through the fabric of her clingy white dress.
I find my voice. "And just how do I acquire this immortality virus?"
She steps closer, and runs her slim, perfect hands across my chest. She answers in a husky whisper. "You exchange bodily fluids with me."
My hands ache for her. I start to reach —
I turn to Butch. "And what do you get out of all this?"
He smiles, stretches, and yawns. Impossibly wide. Showing all his teeth.
"I get to feed."
...to be continued...
posted by ~brb at 7:00 AM
