6

Another note from Pinko today.

It’s been a while since the first one. So long, actually, that until today I’d written that one off as a fluke, or a prank that Dave had lost interest in. I wouldn’t at all put it past him to have gotten a sample of my handwriting and found a way to Photoshop it to the purpose.

The pink paper (a pointed choice, I think) has Dave’s sophomoric sense of humor written all over it. He’s always thought that a guy who wears anything but earth tones is a flamer, and ever since my college rose period, he’s never ceased giving me shit about my wardrobe. Not that I’ve stopped wearing the finer shades now and again, mind you. I wouldn’t let the jibes of the behemoth who shopeth at Big and Tall dampen my palette any.

But, having given it more thought, I’ve pretty much scratched the prankster Dave theory, mostly because Dave couldn’t write a poem—not even a serial killer’s paean to suburbia as slaughterhouse—if his useless lifestyle depended on it.

He could have cribbed the lines from somewhere, true, but I don’t think he’d even know where to look. Plagiarism does take some finesse with a search engine, which cuts Dave out of the running as surely as a rock-solid alibi. I mean, we’re talking about the guy who honestly believed for most of his adult life that the winged goddess of victory got her name from the sporting goods company, and not the other way around.

I found the latest poem in the mailbox, again on pink paper, mixed in with all the other junk mail: the Valpak of supermarket coupons, a preapproved offer for a credit card from Sinkhole Bank, a J.Crew catalog (surprise, surprise), and a solicitation from Taurus magazine, telling me I’m only ten weeks (and five human growth hormone injections) away from my dream torso.

This latest installment of the lost verses was hidden among all that pulp, and I might have missed it and tossed it, had it not been wrapped around the one and only envelope I search for every week.

Yes, indeed. That would be the thin one with the perforated tabs and the parent company logo that looks more like a parking ticket than a paycheck, and practically shouts: “Cash me, ya broke fuck, and for the love of God, buy some toilet paper!”

There it was. A measly four hundred and seventy-five bucks, and this—God, what can you call it?—this sick-making, pedophiliac’s scrawl. This is really not funny anymore. I don’t know what to think, unless this is somebody’s payback for my spying. Maybe one of the nabes found a camera and somehow traced it back to me. But who? Who would do this? Who could?

There’s always Jonathan Katz, I suppose, but that’s a long shot. He and his wife, Dorris, were living across the street next to the Blooms, but they split up about two years ago, and now it’s just Dorris and the brats in situ, Miriam, ten, and Isaac, twelve. I’ve had cameras in there for a while now, predivorce and after, but even if Dorris finally noticed one of them and made the connection (highly unlikely), I still don’t see either of the Katzes as the type to plot or pull off Pinko’s style.

Dorris is far too stupid, for starters, a prime specimen of what they used to call the Jewish American Princess, or what the JAPs themselves called a Kugel, as in pudding, as in tasty dish, but brain like a warm dessert.

Jonathan, meanwhile, a pediatric neurosurgeon, poor bastard, is so bitter about the size of his alimony and child support payments (think GNP of Burundi and you’re probably in the ballpark) that I bet he’d love the idea of someone posting “Keyhole Exploits of a Divorcée” on XTube. (When I do share my footage, by the way, which isn’t that often, as a legal precaution I blur out the faces and any singular household items. But still. You never know who might recognize that cluster of three moles just below Dorris’s left armpit.)

Even so, as the TV detectives say, I don’t like Dr. Katz for this one. He just doesn’t have the motivation. Besides, how many neurosurgeons do you know who have the time, much less the chops, to toss off the likes of “Childe Bride: Bluebeard’s Last Seduction”—or whatever you wanna call this “material” I’m getting?

Okay, sure, it’s possible, remotely, that Katz is the William Carlos Williams of the criminally insane, but I’m gonna take the under on that. Call it a hunch.

He’s since moved to greener stomping grounds, anyway—Twin Pines, wouldn’t ya know—and now resides not far from Dave. I’m sure he’s rolling in his newfound bachelorhood, happy as happy gets.

And yet, boy, does that man have a pair of lungs. Whoa. And a tongue to match. I’ll say that for him. And her, too. I had my cameras in that house for the whole last year plus of their trip down the nuptial toilet—one in the family room, one in the bedroom, and one in the en suite bath—and, Jesus, talk about scenes from a fucking marriage. Holy crap.

You get a couple of Sephardic Jews going at it with all the wrath of the old religion behind them and the pitchfork of the gender wars out front, and it gets nasty in ways that the less ethnic peoples among us just can’t wrap our vanilla minds around. Let’s just say that, when it comes to spousal abuse, the silent treatment never made it past the Alps, and a good old-fashioned Mediterranean beat down is for the birds when you’ve got the right vocabulary.

Sticks and stones would have been a relief and, I’m here to tell you, names can definitely hurt you. Not a word went unshouted between these two. Shrieked, actually, at a pitch that isn’t even human anymore. My ears are still ringing with it.

I can’t believe it lasted as long as it did. I was exhausted just watching. He’d be standing there in nothing but his golf shoes and a jock strap and she, completely starkers (as usual), would be sitting at her dressing table screaming the laundry list of his failings in high C and gesticulating so wildly with a hairbrush that it made me clench my jaw and the cheeks of my ass until they cramped.

Scary, scary shit.

That ended, finally, with him fishtailing so furiously out of the driveway in the white Caddy at three a.m. that there were skid marks halfway down the block. They left the rest to the lawyers, I’m assuming, or the good folks at AT&T, because I never saw the Escalade with the MD plates in the driveway again, though I was privy to a few choice hang-ups on the bedroom extension.

Yeah. I was well wired for them when that action went down, and as with Dave, I came to mostly regret my intrusion. But I stuck to it nonetheless because, like I said before, even all those years after Mom and Dad’s deaths, it was still the only thing on offer that was louder than the voices in my head, and I needed it.

I rigged the Katzes the way I rigged everyone after Dave and, ironically enough, under the fiscal auspices of Dave as well. He paid for most of my equipment, unknowingly, of course, but uninquisitively, too, so I can’t really feel that bad about fleecing him.

Turns out that liquidity and the good sense (or density, I can’t decide which) not to ask questions are possibly Tubbo’s only two virtues, and I made efficient use of both. He’s the silent partner behind my network.

But he doesn’t ever miss a few thou here and there, so who’s stealing? Hell, he forks it over willingly, practically foists it on me, because he feels soooo sorry for me, the inert, emotional pygmy of his childhood acquaintance who’s, yep, broke again.

He says he’s come to love me like a brother. Brothers in death till death, he calls us.

Fucking ’tard.

The technology has evolved a lot since I placed my first Trojan horses at Dave’s, so the cameras I have at Dorris’s place are the size of ballpoint pens, and the mics are even smaller.

For the install I hired an underworld techie I met through my drug contact Jazmin. You remember her? The dumb cunt who can’t even spell her own pseudonym but who gets me the pills that can tame me? Yeah, her.

Anyway, this guy Damian does stash-house surveillance for Jazmin’s kingpin connection, and he’ll do spy cam plants for anyone else who can afford it. His day job is doing service calls for the local cable and satellite TV company, so he can get access to pretty much anyone’s house without arousing suspicion, and he’s willing to rig whatever you want while he’s there.

That’s how I’ve done all my rig-ups in the past seven years, and that’s why I say it’d be pretty damn unlikely that anyone would locate my equipment. This guy’s a pro. Precision stealth motherfucker. He could just about slip a camera into your molar while he was Frenching you, and you’d be none the wiser. He’s that good.

I doubt I could even find my own equipment.

Dorris the porous hasn’t got a chance.

The woman really is the bimbo to beat all bimbos.

She’s good-looking, I’ll grant, in an Anne Bancroft in The Graduate kind of way, but she’s not blessed with the sultry voice. She’s a Trotsky, no mistaking, and a trophy wife of a certain tarnished class raised up by a subspecialist’s income to sit in the catbird seat. She was maybe one step above someone you’d have found at Jack Gordon’s with her thong in a tree, except she married well.

And she does have a body, true enough, albeit one with a sell-by date that’s coming up fast. She’s forty-two or -threeish by now if she’s a day, and not taking the best care of her skin.

She slathers herself with baby oil and cooks herself into a prune on her back patio every afternoon between Easter and Halloween, or any other time it’s even vaguely warm enough to bare her nipples to the elements.

Like I said, the lady isn’t a big fan of clothing when she’s at home.

And that no one needs cameras to see. Every horny kid in the neighborhood has peeked through her hedges on a dare and lathered himself blind at the sight of those dugs.

And why not, I guess.

As Dorris herself likes to say, “If you got it, show it.”

And she means it in more ways than one, because much the same could be said for her temper.

Those poor kids are like pound puppies, cowering and practically piddling themselves whenever they spill a glass of milk or grind a corn chip between the sofa cushions or commit whatever other victimless crime kids are prone to. The slightest misstep and Mommy Dearest blows her top like a tone-deaf Wagnerian having her fingernails extracted. Your average shrew is a lap cat by comparison.

Fucking hell, what a noise.

Now that Jonathan is gone, I guess she’s got no one else to vent her jilted harpy’s spleen on, so the kids take the brunt of it and tiptoe around her as best they can, taking refuge at the worst of times in a makeshift hedge fort they’ve built at the end of the yard.

If Dorris is in glass-shattering high dudgeon over something—say, a piece of expressionist artwork splattered on the coffee table with a paintball gun—those kids will hide outside even when the weather’s fucking Siberian.

I’ve seen them there on single-digit days crouched and bundled, bouncing on their haunches and blowing on their hands like a couple of street urchins.

I feel sorry for the little varmints. I mean, it’d be downright Dickensian if this weren’t Shangri-La La Land and they weren’t wearing Dolce down jackets and Bollé ski goggles while playing miniature billiards or whatever other obscenely overpriced novelty game they’ve managed to cadge out of Jonathan because he left them.

Honestly, can they really take you seriously at Child Protective Services if you make the call from your iPhone while riding around your front yard in your motorized miniature MG?

Still, I’m half tempted to intercept them on their walks home from school and shove them each a pair of earplugs and some Vicodin.

“Here,” I’d say, “these are for you. Crush up the pills with the back of a spoon and slip ’em in her Slim-Fast every morning. Put the squishy things in your ears and wait. That should turn down the volume considerably.”

But they’re surprisingly resilient, as kids so often are. They seem to bounce back and laugh and go on bumbling around, doing the same boneheaded things that threw Dorris over the edge in the first place.

And the parental guilt? Wow. Presents keep rolling in, one upon the next, as if the ongoing storm of the divorce could be drowned out by a bribe.

Which, I guess, to a point, it can.

Except nobody’s greasing Dorris. Or not as far as she’s concerned anyway. Sure, she buys herself some goodies for the odd night on the town, when she can get a babysitter and when she can wind herself up enough for another turn as a would-be mantrap. But the rest goes to the upkeep of the house and the kids, both of whom are in private school. That’s near on thirty grand a pop right there, per annum.

But even if Dorris did have a slush fund for purses and jewelry, I don’t think she’s really in party mode anyway. She’s looking at a pretty leathery, lonely old age if she doesn’t turn things around soon, and that’s not the kind of pressure that puts you at your best on the singles scene.

I’ve seen her at the Swan with all the other desperate cougars trying to snag another benefactor for the long, slow slide into retirement. Otherwise, in a few more years, when the alimony payments expire and her face has gone the way of all pumpkins, she’ll be working as a hostess at the Capital Grille just to make ends meet.

Time’s a-wastin’.

She tried the hard sell on me one night by the bar when she was so drunk that English had become a second language and I was so drunk that I actually leaned in to take her up on her offer. Thank God I pulled back at the last second, having caught an unmistakable, gorge-rising whiff of Eau de Early Old Lady. It was just the barest hint, but, man, I couldn’t do it. It was like some primitive species-propagating voice in my head was saying, “Dead ovaries. Dead ovaries. Plow elsewhere.”

But I feel sorry for Dorris, too. I really do. I can’t help it. Because when she’s not yelling at the kids or tying herself to the bed frame so she won’t raid the fridge in her Ambiened sleep, she’s sitting at that vanity naked doing soliloquies that would tear the heart out of a cyclops.

It’s really sad.

Before she married she’d been an aspiring actress. She’d made a few toothpaste commercials, or maybe voiced-over one of those animated ads for feminine hygiene products, but she’d never done anything more serious than community theater. Still, the love of it hasn’t died in her, and she’s doing her best work, even if it is just to a plate of glass.

Glass, that is, with a camera in it. Or near it.

I think Damian somehow put it in the frame and tilted its angle of sight, because it’s a straight-on shot on my monitor. It’s now the second camera I have in there. Originally, I just had a wide angle for the whole bedroom, but when I saw her start the mirror monologues a while after the divorce, I had Damian make a courtesy call and rig me a better setup. Now it’s like a Bergman movie in there for real.

---

But look, putting aside all the bile in me, I mean this.

Dorris Katz is in pain. Real pain. And who am I to say that it’s any less legitimate than mine, or less debilitating just because it springs from a less newsworthy source? I’m not a big believer in the calculus of suffering. I don’t think there’s a scale with genocide survivors at the top and washed-up celebrities at the bottom. Not that I don’t think you can legitimately say to a person, “Get over yourself, honey, it’s a hangnail,” or whatever, but I do think that suffering is suffering and is, by definition, subjective, no matter what the cause.

What’s more—and maybe this is the Catholic in me, though I’m pretty sure the Buddha would back me up on this—I believe that suffering unites us. The one thing I did get from catechism, the one message that made its way through and stuck, was the idea that Christ was not to be revered because he suffered for our sins or because he suffered more than most—he didn’t—but because he suffered as we do.

His suffering isn’t what made him special. It’s what made him just like everybody else. It made him understand what it was to live on the earth as one of us and, so the argument goes, that’s why he could not forgo it. It wasn’t the final exam, the last push before apotheosis. It was the whole show. The point. This is life, my friend, and welcome to it. He was just lucky it didn’t last longer than it did.

He got a taste of this shithole at its worst, and subjectively he suffered, just like—exactly like—Dorris Katz. And the likeness goes both ways. Sitting in front of that mirror sobbing her heart out and shouting up to the angels—Is anybody there?—or to God—Why have you abandoned me?—Dorris—okay, I’m going out on a less than orthodox limb here, but I think I’m right—Dorris reenacts the Crucifixion. She is Christ. Again. And so is every other sorry sad sack sitting in his room suffering immeasurably in his mind.

In her monologues, as I’ve heard them, Dorris herself is making these same links, links to other people’s suffering, though like most of the rest of us she tends to compare pains relatively and berate herself for dealing less well than, say, Mrs. Bloom, or me, with what she believed was a far less tragic fate.

Dorris, like everybody in the neighborhood, whether they’ve just moved in or were around for the actual events, knows about my parents and the Blooms, about Karen’s death and Robin’s disappearance. It is part of the lore of our subdivision, something the real estate agents still avoid discussing but which has found its way nonetheless into the ears of every person who has bought property or lived in the vicinity since 1997.

Dorris looks at Isaac, who is now the same age as Robin was when she disappeared, and at Miriam, who is younger and just as vulnerable a little girl, and she asks herself why she can’t love them more, or love them better, when she knows that they, too, could be lost on the streets somewhere or in captivity being repeatedly raped and impregnated by some jackal of a man. She knows they could be dead, and that to some tortured parents thinking your kid is probably dead is a relief given the alternatives. She knows all these things all too well, and has made them part of her punishment, further evidence of failure at the one and only thing she feels she was groomed to be: a mother.

She looks searchingly into her own tearful eyes and she asks herself why she could not have made her marriage work, if only for the sake of the children, and to spare them seeing her deflate like this, like the Wicked Witch of the West, cursing and hissing the whole way down into a heap.

So, you see, I do her a grave injustice to say that she’s a bimbo or a fleshpot or anything else wholly pejorative, because there is more to her. A lot more. But who would ever know it? People are only themselves when they’re alone, when there’s no one there to see it. And sometimes, as with Dave, that’s a good thing, because it’s the only thing keeping them out of prison or the psych ward.

But with a lot of people, it’s just beautiful. Breathtaking. So delicate and subtle and original that you think it might just redeem the whole species. And it’s all hidden or reserved, kept in the speeches we make to ourselves in the middle of the night or the excruciatingly long empty afternoons in lonely houses when the pain is so bad that we’re on the verge of killing ourselves, but can’t. That’s the good stuff. The best stuff. The truth. And the only way I’ve been able to see it is through a lie. A deception. An unconscionable intrusion into someone else’s private hell.

Monica’s the only person I know or have ever known who’s like this all the time. Real, I mean. And she pays, has paid, a high price for it, no doubt. But even she isn’t without some pretense. She can’t be.

When we’re in the presence of another person, there’s always a mask, even if that mask is our face. There’s no escaping it. And so the vast majority of what we say to each other, whether it’s to our spouses, our family, our confessor, or perfect strangers, amounts to cocktail party chitchat all the same, or, at best, a crack audition for that juiciest of all parts we’re literally dying to play: ourselves.

But alone.

Fuckin’-A.

Alone, we’re genius.

Onstage doing Our Town with the other avocational thespians, or in the studio hocking fluoride whiteners and panty liners, Dorris is as Dorris does: a Trotsky Kugel no-talent who-uh, as they say in Brooklyn, whose best asset was always and ever her cooz.

But damn.

Alone, Dorris Katz is Antigone. Actually, Medea is probably the more appropriate choice, because, let’s face it, she’s thought about killing her kids, or being rid of them at least. Who hasn’t? And she’s thought a million times about how to save them, too, about what motherhood is, in all its triangulated affections, running between father and child and back again. She’s thought, too—aloud—about what motherhood is but shouldn’t be: the only love you never get over.

She knows a lot, Dorris, and she’s wrestling.

She’s in there fighting the hardest, timeless human fights that any pretentious patron of the arts ever goes to Euripides or Sophocles to purge himself of in the abstract.

Those tragedies are paper cutouts compared to the source.

Try sobbing until you vomit and going on with the monologue anyway, or cutting your thighs with a dull paring knife because it’s the only way to leech out the poison in your underrated soul.

Dorris.

She and Dave inhabit the same world. The same five square miles, give or take. Can you believe that? They’ve even had a go at it in the sack, which is like something the laws of metaphysics should prohibit, or the voice of an overheated droid should warn you about.

Danger, Mrs. Robinson.

They met through me, of course. At the Swan. And the D-man, being the turkey vulture he is, took up the roadkill I declined.

I can’t even talk about what they’ve done together or how bad she’s felt about it afterward, or the fact that she’s repeated the encounter anyway. It’s enough to give you posttraumatic stress disorder. It has me. Thinking about it is like an abuse flashback. Makes me go clammy all over and want to shower.

I know, I know. You’re saying: He’s your friend, bro. Your best friend if, and I quote, “time wasted together is any indication.”