All the parts you shouldn’t know
T Kira Madden
We’ve been drinking so hard my knees are gone. Whiskey sours, cards scattered
all over this joint. Two aces and a queen and the bitch looks so blurry I swear she’s
winking at me in that red, hooded cloak.
Rita Hayworth’s all perfume and lashes on the late night special saying Sure, I’m
decent, I’m decent to Glenn Ford. Johnny’s his name in this picture. The queer. Didn’t
know what he had till she left him to dance with another pair of hands.
That Johnny Farrell’s a queer, I say. Never knew what he had. HA! You know
what I’m saying? Do you? She knows. 4:15 a.m. and my wife’s gone wet-lipped
and senile. I know! I know! Christ! says she. Two fists and a veiny neck, blocking the
screen.
Most of all I hate it when she starts this way before she gets weeping and twisted
looking. I’m not in for that tonight. So I let my wife run around the apartment with
limbs screwed on the wrong way, screaming. I wish I could flick the volume down on
her with my thumb. But she gets into it, her fits and all—puts her whole stomach into
it. Sometimes her eyes water. It’s admirable, really.
She: Shut the goddamn window, you blob of fucking fuck!
I: Get some clothes on, sweetheart. Come watch Rita dance with your old man.
She: I should have left you for the banker.
I: Should have lost weight.
She: Who? The banker? Me?
I: I.
She: You?
I: Who? You’re blocking my—
(Rita dances the Samba)
She: What’s that got to—
I: Whoever. The banker was fit. But poor for a banker. Move away from—
She: I could have lived in the country, you know. I can make a pie or two. You’re
worthless. Like a bran muffin with two legs. Fat, and, and, my mother says you smell
92
All The Parts you shouldn’t know T Kira Madden
like—Get off the couch and close the window and take a goddamn shower and go to
sleep.
I: You’re pretty when you slur.
She: You’re like a cow. I could write a book about it. My Old Grandpa. The Slob,
The Sandbag, The Potato, I’d call it. Old Gramps the Potato Lover!
I: Carl oh Carl oh what a gem, that Carl! A good man! You’d have tongued his
bathroom floor. The poor, poor banker! He probably lives in Brooklyn, your winner
boy.
Rita: Did somebody call my name?
I: Sit on daddy’s lap.
She: It’s a good thing you’re not a father. He’d of hung himself by now. Our child.
I: My father was a cobbler, you know that? Sat between legs all day saying, Let me
get a good look! HA! You’re blocking my view.
She: Or I’d call the book “What Happens When You’re 24 and Married.”
I: I’ll be dead in no time, little sweetheart. You can take my money and move to
Brooklyn.
She: Should’ve knocked me up so I could throw myself down the stairs and say it
was you.
Johnny Farrell: Pardon me, but your husband is showing.
I: And ain’t he!
My wife looks better naked than most. It’s snowing outside and some of it’s flying in. Maria’s afraid of heights, fell off a thoroughbred as a kid, so I know I have this
over her. The panoramic window, 6x8’, the sky I bought her. Thirty-four stories up,
Broadway snaking down to the Finance. The twin towers pulse so pretty from behind
Rita’s hair. A perfect frame. That’s the view. Now my lady gets a running start from
the kitchen and smashes into the back of the couch—tits waving in my face. I turn the
volume up. Rita takes a bow. Maria climbs over the cushions, kicks into my chin till
my teeth clack. She starts going in Spanish, rolling her tongue all over and over like
she does when she’s about to kill me.
This place is all piss and carnations. The deli boy. Can’t believe it. No sweetheart.
No family. No job other than this one. This one right here. Ma would have been real
93
All The Parts you shouldn’t know T Kira Madden
proud. Her Georgie, smart, sweet Georgie—rubber gloved, cutting meat and selling
smokes to village strangers. Faggots and runaways, come to see me after a night of
blow. New York can eat shit. Deli boy, the Deli Boy! Could’ve lived in the country.
Could’ve had a lady with an apron and cookies and a wife-bent-over-the-oven kind of
life. That’s the view.
Almost down for the count. 4:23 a.m., ninety-seven minutes to go. Stay up.
Organize. Rearrange. Tuck your balls back behind your legs and check out how it
looks. No ones coming. A Sunday. No one comes in here this late on a Sunday.
Maybe you don’t want a family life. Think about it, now. There’s something
medieval and horrible about a family man. There’s something sloppy and too sweet to
be a man like that. Maybe you’re the lucky one. A winning ticket.
Stay up. Open the door and get the freeze in your hair. That’ll jolt you good.
Maybe get the old TV going. I like the late night marathons. Mostly spy pictures but
the leading ladies are usually worth a smacking. No one would see. The TV’s behind
the register. Use some of that cheap lotion we sell in back. Put it back when you’re
done. You could get it off real quick. Maybe go twice and race yourself. It’s their
trench coats that kill me. It’s wanting to know what’s under there. All the little parts
you shouldn’t know.
Get up. Move. Count cans. Kernelled Corn, here we go. Spin them around to
match up the labels. Spin them back to bother yourself into fixing them. Almost two
hours since someone came through. Stumbled in from Broadway. Almost yakked on
the floor. Thumbed over $2.50 for a pack of Merits and called me Buddy. Thanks,
Buddy. Hey Buddy, you looking for a fix? Probably going to sleep in one of the luxuries attached to this joint. He looked like my brother. Seven years he’s been gone and
I still can’t swallow it. The meat’s starting to stink it up in here. The walls are an
awful blue, too bright. I wonder if Clive would let me paint. Maybe a mural. Maybe a
landscape. Maybe I should just surprise him one of these days. Stand up. Move. Get
the mop or something.
Hate is a very exciting emotion. Haven’t you noticed? Very exciting. I hate you too, Johnny. I
hate you so much I think I’m going to die from it. Darling. They kiss. They kiss hard. Rita
needs him but it won’t work out. Not in this lifetime.
94
All The Parts you shouldn’t know T Kira Madden
Maria’s launching the cards at me, half the deck between her teeth. She slams our
globe through the glass coffee table, spits the suits at the television. Four feet eleven
and my lady can move, move, move. Careful now, you’re bleeding I say. But she keeps
going, feet pacing over the shards. The bottle’s empty between my thighs so I toss
it into the mess. Here she goes throwing: tubes of paint, a wooden picture frame,
a cocktail shaker, my left shoe, the fishnet lamp, the Remington skywriter, Ernest
Hemingway, a yellow legal pad, a violin, my briefcase, hair curlers, a crystal ball,
the antique dartboard, takeout chopsticks, a Dictaphone, Lightnin’ Hopkin’s Greatest
Hits—some out the window, some against the wall. She tears at the brown paper bag
full of our dinner, fistfuls of General Tso’s in her mouth. You’re an animal, I say. Keep
going.
She fumbles with the soggy box of Lo Mein. Walks it over to the television, hands
about to pour.
Say your prayers, she says.
Now you’ve really done it.
I get up. Go at her. Noodles dripping down the love scene like a closing curtain,
Isn’t it wonderful? Nobody has to apologize, because we were both stinkers, weren’t we? Isn’t
it wonderful! And then there’s a scream.
She’s really coming down out there. Haven’t seen snow like this in years. Maybe you
should run away tonight. Pocket the register. Move to Key West where it’s warm
and simple. Live like Hemingway, cats and bottles, lip cigars under a palm tree
or two.
For example, you used to be bold. Years ago, yous asked Sandy Diez to dance at
homecoming right in front of Jimmy. You weren’t afraid, or tired—you didn’t have
a clue about losing—you were ready. Look at you then. Hair greased and combed.
You smelled good. Sandy’s hand in your back pocket. Jimmy chasing you through the
halls, waving a pocketknife, and you laughed. What ever happened to that suit?
4:58 a.m., 62 minutes to go. Mopped, wrapped, labeled—what now? Batteries.
Maybe you could take some spares. Suck on them and see what happens. Nah. Get the
lotion. The snow’s heavy enough to keep the place empty. Go and go and go till it’s 6.
You’ll sleep like a king after that. Got it. Get behind the counter, here we go. Behind
95
All The Parts you shouldn’t know T Kira Madden
the meat. No belt tonight. Easy. What about the left hand? Gotta’ look busy. Lottery
tickets. Organize. Arrange. Fan through them. Volume down. Start slow.
Red hair. White lace. Rita Hayworth’s mouth. Did somebody call my name? Well
sure, miss. I did. Need directions? An abandoned road. A car. A navy-blue Thunderbird.
Get in. I need some help. I think I can help you better from the backseat. Some fine
leather. White and smooth. What’s that? You broke down? Hours ago now and you
must be real hungry. I’m Georgie. You can call me anything you want. My, my, lady.
It’s summer. Too hot for that pea coat—No, a trench coat. Let me help. Well aren’t you
a gentleman, mister! Anything for a woman in need. She tongues a cigarette from a
soft pack. How will we ever kill the time? Open wide. Let me get a good look. Ankles
crisscross behind my back. Heels still on. Eyes rolling skyward. Her neck’s the curve
of the letter C. She tastes like gold. She’s happy.
Above the car, above Rita’s thighs, above the deli, a woman screams.
Well, well, Mister. What’s all this fuss?
I’m no miracle story. Tomorrow, the headlines will read, Maria Montoño’s Fall to Fame!
They’ll tell you that my heart had weighed 250 grams upon death, how it was structurally normal, the coronary arteries clear.
Meet my husband, Andre. Look at him wave, the bastard. These are the kinds of
things that happen when we get drinking this way. An arm wrestle and some tonguing
around and then somebody has to get killed. 269 feet, 4.19 seconds to go.
He wasn’t always this way, my old man. He used to be a real gentleman. Handsome
and rough. Meaning he looked like a glassy-eyed cowboy with cleaner nails. He picked
me up at seventeen years old. I came to this city to make it big, my face lit up in bulbs,
that kind of thing. All romance and raised eyebrows, we used to be. Then came the
drinking, the letdowns, the diets, the backscratchers, the mother-in-law, the nights
swallowed by nights—all cards on the table. Now it’s bobbing for apples trying to get
his attention when he’s cracked, when he clenches his jaw tight enough he throbs at
the temples.
Falling is better than looking down. The view’s not so shab here at two hundred
feet. Behind the snow, I can see into the windows. Some lights have flicked on from
my screaming. That crazy couple fighting again, call and complain will you, please? Floor
96
All The Parts you shouldn’t know T Kira Madden
twenty-six and I see Lenny Stern with his mistress, Sophie. Lenny’s wife left town
yesterday. I helped with her bags at the door. Now Sophie’s braid is in Lenny’s fist
and she’s a pretty good view from behind. Floor twenty and there’s Meryl Whitman,
sagging and old, pacing in rabbit-lined slippers. Floor eighteen, the glow of a TV.
Floor fourteen, Bruce Newman with binoculars. Floor eleven, morning coffee and a
tie. Floor nine, a poodle, pacing. Floor six, little Gretta Goldberg, pin-straight from a
nightmare, a mother’s kisses hushing her back to sleep.
Thirty-seven stories in this building called The Josephine. The address is 300
Mercy Street on the corner of 8th. The date of my death, February 4th, 1983. Most
people will call it a suicide. A late night drinking game gone awry. Poor husband,
they’ll think. Poor old man, is what they’ll think. He should really move out of that
place. Bad memories. Wife gone mad and took all of him with her when she leapt. He
was probably sleeping when it happened, called for her when he woke up. Made some
eggs, sunny side up, expected her home by now. Maria, oh Maria, where is my girl? Too
young and stubborn. Selfish, the girl. A real bitch. Three brothers and both parents
left behind. Probably other lovers. Venom, the girl. Not a thought in the world outside
herself. Not a thought in the world other than wanting to fly. Too much going for her.
What a shame, a pity. Who’s going to clean up that mess? All pulp and guts but her
teeth survived. New York’s an ugly place. New York turns people cockeyed. He won’t
remarry, no. He’ll stay in the apartment and cry into her pillows. He’ll thumb her
perfume to his face like holy water. He’ll call for his bride till his dying breath, Maria,
baby, come home to me.
I’m almost there, less than one second to go. Remember my name once I’m gone.
Remember the night it snowed down on a drunken corpse—a twisted up angel
tripping tourist feet. Remember the stars tonight. And when my husband blames a
slippery floor or my own capsized heart, know better.
Wave goodbye. Organize. Rearrange. Clean up the mess. They can’t know there was
a fight, no. Sweep up the glass. Mop up the blood. You’re cockeyed, Johnny! All cockeyed!
Turn that off. Scrub the food from the walls, lick it up if you have to. Recite your story
aloud, get it down quick. Maybe go twice and race yourself.
We were just watching a movie, and.
97
All The Parts you shouldn’t know T Kira Madden
I was sound asleep, dreaming up castles, and.
I think she was having an affair with a man named Carl, and.
Not my Maria, such a good, good soul. I can’t find the words. I’m speechless with
grief, sir. Commit me. Tie me up and leave me gagging on salt. Don’t let me follow her
down because I will if you’re not looking. My angel.
Tell them she was sick. Tell them she was jealous. Tell them she was the Eighth
Natural Wonder of the World. Call them crying. Choke on your words. Answer the
door with the bloated pink eyes of a pigeon.
Tell them you’re decent, you’re decent. Promise.
A body. Her body. Maria Montoño’s body, face-up on my floor. Black hair. Naked.
Sugary and ripe as the day she was born.
Plaster and tar and snow swirling down through the skylight she carved. The
blue walls are moving. I know her. She was in a few pictures, years ago. Never the
leading lady. Always the friend, the mistress, the sister.
Get up. Wipe off your hands. Lottery tickets, flying. Run to her. Button your
pants. This was no suicide. Too beautiful. Arms and legs shriveled around like emptied balloons. Collarbone bent as a coat hanger. Call someone. Don’t. Stay with her.
Shout for help. Check her pulse because it’s the right thing to do. Repeat her name
because it’s the right thing to do. Tar under her fingernails. Noodles spilling from the
split of her stomach. Call someone. Don’t. They’ll take her photos, a body next to a
shelf of canned peas on the front page news. Don’t let them. The paper. The butcher
paper. Cover her. That’s it, at least have a blanket. Eyes are open—still, green, happy
looking.
Hold her body in your arms. Wrap her up in white. Know this face, her weight
to the pound. Leave someone else to call. Wait in this spot and do not let go. Let the
snow come down. Freeze to death if you have to. Scream. Touch. Wish you had loved
the girl.
98