youngster supposedly escaped from a kiddie porn ring.
"You know," Pierre says. "I was about that kid's age when I made ... well, I think they're calling it Summer Camp now, but it was a super-eight loop at the time. I thought the man wanted sex, period, which was scary enough. Then, suddenly, there's this other man holding a camera ... Now I'm glad it's on record. I look so alive in it, so sharp. The way that man's gobbling my ass and I'm just going, 'Huh?"'
"Bullshit," Marv says quietly. "You looked terrified. And so does this kid. Watch." He leans forward, turns up the TV even louder. "... so my dad," the kid's mumbling, "wouldn't give up on me." "And I won't!" shouts the dad. The kid rolls his eyes in embarrassment. Reporters guffaw. The kid blows a little kiss to the assembled. The dad smacks the kid's head. "God," Marv groans, hurriedly turns down the volume.
"Terrified?" Pierre sniffs, and kicks Marv, not hard enough to hurt. Marv leans way, way forward, spaces out on the screen, or pretends to. A Hyundai commercial. Pierre turns on his side, spaces out on the wall, a little haunted by Summer Camp, specifically by the thought of his skinny legs waving around in the air on either side of a man's bald head like antennae.
"But it's weird, Marv," he whispers, "I mean in that Summer Camp thing, how amazed I look." Marv doesn't flinch. "If anything from my childhood influenced my adulthood," he continues, "it was that afternoon. To have an older man so completely, insanely worked up over me, like if I was where someone had buried some sort of treasure or antidote to something malignant in him.
"Because, you know, it's supposed to be people succeed in life depending on how many skills they have or lack. But in that loop, what's so great about me has shit to do with any skill. My behavior and ideas and so on are in the way, if anything. Which is insane, right? So what did that man see in me? I sure don't see anything great about my stupid little creepy self."
The bed jiggles. Pierre rolls over, squints. Marv's on his feet again. "We've discussed this before," he says. "And I don't know what you're going on about. I'm gonna adjust the temperature of the oven." He splits, slams the door. Typical. Pierre rolls over onto his other side, watches the curtains billow up and deflate around an overcast sky X'ed with telephone wires. He tries to sob, can't.
Eventually he gets up, traipses down the hall. Marv's sitting at the kitchen table reading my letter. Pierre takes some cranberry juice from the fridge, sits down opposite. The stove reeks of broiling chicken. That blends curiously with the taste of the juice. He sips, sniffs, sips, sniffs in quick succession a few times. The combination's, uh, Middle Eastern in some vague way. Oh, so what?
Marv's reading the letter, eyes bugging, brows arched, forehead crumpled. "Any new developments out Amsterdam way?" Pierre asks. Marv shakes his head. "Same old apocalyptic porno. Maybe a little more detailed. The part I'm on now, the victim's real young. Here." He holds it out. "No." Pierre slugs some juice. "I'm so over that sex-and-death stuff. When you're through with it, toss."
Pierre tips his chair back, sips. Marv reads on. His face does its pseudo-shocked vaudeville act. That's the problem, Pierre thinks. You can get used to anything. Then you stop feeling, you just respond, your brain reduces the world to ... whatever ... comedy? He sniffs. Hmm. What's burning? "Marv, what's ... ?" His lover tosses my letter down, flies at the stove with his hand out.
NUMB
1989
Dear Julian,
Maybe you remember. In the early to mid-'70s we used to fuck and hang out for a few years, then you moved to Paris. Years later I ran into you at a club called The Open Grave in New York when I'd renamed myself Spit. We wound up fucking in your hotel. For the record, my first name is Dennis again. Spit was a really brief thing. He existed for maybe a year at most. I'm writing because I suspect you're
"You know," Pierre says. "I was about that kid's age when I made ... well, I think they're calling it Summer Camp now, but it was a super-eight loop at the time. I thought the man wanted sex, period, which was scary enough. Then, suddenly, there's this other man holding a camera ... Now I'm glad it's on record. I look so alive in it, so sharp. The way that man's gobbling my ass and I'm just going, 'Huh?"'
"Bullshit," Marv says quietly. "You looked terrified. And so does this kid. Watch." He leans forward, turns up the TV even louder. "... so my dad," the kid's mumbling, "wouldn't give up on me." "And I won't!" shouts the dad. The kid rolls his eyes in embarrassment. Reporters guffaw. The kid blows a little kiss to the assembled. The dad smacks the kid's head. "God," Marv groans, hurriedly turns down the volume.
"Terrified?" Pierre sniffs, and kicks Marv, not hard enough to hurt. Marv leans way, way forward, spaces out on the screen, or pretends to. A Hyundai commercial. Pierre turns on his side, spaces out on the wall, a little haunted by Summer Camp, specifically by the thought of his skinny legs waving around in the air on either side of a man's bald head like antennae.
"But it's weird, Marv," he whispers, "I mean in that Summer Camp thing, how amazed I look." Marv doesn't flinch. "If anything from my childhood influenced my adulthood," he continues, "it was that afternoon. To have an older man so completely, insanely worked up over me, like if I was where someone had buried some sort of treasure or antidote to something malignant in him.
"Because, you know, it's supposed to be people succeed in life depending on how many skills they have or lack. But in that loop, what's so great about me has shit to do with any skill. My behavior and ideas and so on are in the way, if anything. Which is insane, right? So what did that man see in me? I sure don't see anything great about my stupid little creepy self."
The bed jiggles. Pierre rolls over, squints. Marv's on his feet again. "We've discussed this before," he says. "And I don't know what you're going on about. I'm gonna adjust the temperature of the oven." He splits, slams the door. Typical. Pierre rolls over onto his other side, watches the curtains billow up and deflate around an overcast sky X'ed with telephone wires. He tries to sob, can't.
Eventually he gets up, traipses down the hall. Marv's sitting at the kitchen table reading my letter. Pierre takes some cranberry juice from the fridge, sits down opposite. The stove reeks of broiling chicken. That blends curiously with the taste of the juice. He sips, sniffs, sips, sniffs in quick succession a few times. The combination's, uh, Middle Eastern in some vague way. Oh, so what?
Marv's reading the letter, eyes bugging, brows arched, forehead crumpled. "Any new developments out Amsterdam way?" Pierre asks. Marv shakes his head. "Same old apocalyptic porno. Maybe a little more detailed. The part I'm on now, the victim's real young. Here." He holds it out. "No." Pierre slugs some juice. "I'm so over that sex-and-death stuff. When you're through with it, toss."
Pierre tips his chair back, sips. Marv reads on. His face does its pseudo-shocked vaudeville act. That's the problem, Pierre thinks. You can get used to anything. Then you stop feeling, you just respond, your brain reduces the world to ... whatever ... comedy? He sniffs. Hmm. What's burning? "Marv, what's ... ?" His lover tosses my letter down, flies at the stove with his hand out.
NUMB
1989
Dear Julian,
Maybe you remember. In the early to mid-'70s we used to fuck and hang out for a few years, then you moved to Paris. Years later I ran into you at a club called The Open Grave in New York when I'd renamed myself Spit. We wound up fucking in your hotel. For the record, my first name is Dennis again. Spit was a really brief thing. He existed for maybe a year at most. I'm writing because I suspect you're
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