THE TIDE OF MY MOUNTING SYMPATHY

But get thee back, my soul is too much charg’d
With Blood of thine already.
—Macbeth, Act V sc. 7

My friend Karen walks in, out of breath and wearing one shoe.

“Your fucking friend just attacked me,” she says.

She was in my basement music room so no one heard her yelling through the egg-crate covered walls. I’m hosting a Hawaiian-themed party. Ukuleles were blaring until I turned them down to hear her out. Apparently, Karen was playing guitar when John flipped the light switch off, grabbed her leg, and yanked off her sandal, which was strapped around her ankle. Her ankle’s turning purple!

“What’s wrong with him?” she asks.

“Why did he want your shoe?” I ask.

“He tried to rub my calf. Then I started yelling and he wouldn’t let me leave,” she says.

We can hear someone hurling in the bathroom.

I feel so ashamed it’s like I stole the shoe. Then Charlie, a man I barely know, tells us he’s going downstairs to “throw the creep out.” That creep used to be my friend. I didn’t invite him tonight, but he heard about it somehow and came anyway. Charlie brings John through the kitchen, where I’m watching Karen rub her ankle.

“You have to leave,” I say to him.

“What did I do?” he asks.

“You attacked Karen,” I say. “Get out. Don’t come back.”

Karen stands behind me. “Give me my shoe,” she says. John pulls it from the back of his pants. What a freak.

John walks down the street, cussing the whole way. My house is on Macbeth Street. That’s the main reason I moved in. Macbeth is my favorite Shakespeare play. I attribute violent outbreaks to the street name. I’m careful to eliminate weapon-like items from my list of belongings because one day I might go crazy and start chopping people up like in the Polanski film. I would’ve made Macbeth a gorefest too if my wife had just been stabbed to death by Mansons.

One time, John grabbed me and tried to kiss me. Another time, he stole my camera that had pictures of my girlfriends and me in bathing suits. At my old house, he used to sit on my porch waiting for me to come out. Every couple hours I’d crack the door open and ask him to leave. “I don’t want to talk to you,” I’d say. He’d sweat, telling me he had to see me. When I asked him why, he’d mumble something about my socks, or say, “Hey, I like those jeans you’re wearing,” and I’d shut the door in his face. He kept escaping from the mental hospital. He had taken too much acid and started stalking girls during his first semester of college. He’d hang around the dorms even after being expelled, following girls to class then waiting outside their classrooms. I felt sorry for him; he had restraining orders against him, and doctors said he was schizophrenic. I never called the police when he bothered me. He was tripping out on female beauty. I wasn’t flattered, but I suppose I was glad he didn’t think I was repulsive. He didn’t seem dangerous, just fetishistic. He’d show up now and then, and I’d wonder how he got my phone number or address.

I read werewolf books to comprehend how a person can be so attracted to someone that he wants to devour them. Lycorexia is a canine desire that manifests in humans as a need to stuff oneself with human flesh. But werewolves crave putrid meat. John wants live women. Sometimes I imagine what he would do to me if I let him trip out all the way. Would he eat me? He’s hairy. I think he would bite. The time he tried to kiss me, he pulled my head toward his mouth and clumsily pressed my lips hard against his teeth, as if I were a ripe peach he was biting into. His hand clutched the back of my head. To gain control, I had to peel his hand off with both of mine. Are his teeth sharp? Does he get vicious at night? Does he howl? Does he have two personalities?

The next morning, we wake up from our drunken stupors. The house reeks of piss because someone took a leak on the couch. Karen and I drag the cushions out to the curb, then the frame. I’ll get a new sofa. That one was only $25 at the thrift store. There are seven people who never made it home. One guy puts coffee on, and Karen and I talk about John some more.

“You should stay away from him,” she says.

“I try, but he finds me,” I say. “He’s not going to hurt anyone, he’s just gross.”

“What if you’re alone though?” she asks. “He’s weird.”

“Barf Man was weird,” I say.

Barf Man was Joshua, another grody guy who used to bug me. I literally had to move across the state to get rid of him. He’d give girls heroin if they’d never used it so they would get high and barf. Once you got used to getting high, he’d lose interest because you weren’t barfing enough for him to get off. He was six feet tall, had long black hair down to his butt, and always wore a shiny black trenchcoat and hat. He had a Glock collection.

“Want to see my new gun?” he asked me.

“Sure,” I said.

We were alone in my dorm room. It was my sophomore year of college, about 2 a.m. I had a history test the next day, but I decided I’d rather look at a weird man’s gun than study Mesopotamia. Joshua put a bundle on my bed and unwrapped his Glock, a handgun of some sort. I don’t know about guns, except that some are ugly and some are elegant. This one was slender, had a comfortable handle, and looked like a gun James Bond would use.

“It’s pretty,” I said.

“Let’s go to the beach,” he said. He looked down at the floor, sad and resolved. I had no idea what he was sad about.

We drove an hour out to the beach, over windy roads through farmland. He told me he was bringing his loaded gun to protect us. We parked his beat-up old Volvo station wagon, smoked some heroin, and then he asked me to climb into the back end with him. I realized maybe he had been sad back in my room because he thought he was going to kill me. I figured it was better to make out with him than to die. He was a moody dude. He’d come into my room sometimes and start bawling, crying so hard he couldn’t even tell me what was wrong.

When he tried to roll on top of me, I had to think of something quick. I told him I felt sick. He perked up and grew sympathetic, like I was his baby bird and he was going to feed me a worm. He walked me to the end of the pier where I bent over and made myself puke into the water. That’s the only time I’ve been able to barf on command. My legs felt rubbery, and Joshua was clearly into this. He stooped beside me, looking up through my legs at my spewing mouth.

“Sit down. I’ll hold your hair back,” he said.

I got down on my knees. He pulled my hair back in this romantic way, kind of brushing it with his fingers and rubbing the side of my face. Then he leaned over my shoulder so he could see me barf.

“Don’t watch,” I said.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” he said. “I know how you feel.”

Whatever, freak, I thought. The word freak played repeatedly in my head. Freakiest scene ever. What a total freak. I am such a freak for barfing off a pier for some freakish man who has a loaded gun in his pocket. I’m tired of freaks. Get away, freak. What a freakin’ mess. This is freaky. What a fucking freak. Freaky, man. I can’t even deal with this freak.

“I finished barfing and he drove me home,” I tell Karen.

“Did you talk to him after that?” she asks.

“A little, until one night I caught him helping my roommate barf into our toilet,” I say.

Everyone has their favorite body parts. I like shoulders, arms, and hands. Karen likes feet. She gets custom shoes made: ones that imitate that high 1940s heel on those round-toed pumps. Joshua liked seeing mouths make wrong shapes. Werewolves like hair. They like hairy women because they know hair’s sexual potential. Hair equals sex for werewolves. Pictures of werewolves often show women fallen backwards in the wolf’s arms. The unconscious woman’s hair dangles down, her mouth open. Sometimes her face is shown. Sometimes her hair covers it. I prefer it when the girl’s awake and you can compare her look of terror to the wolf’s rage and hunger. I understand why the wolf’s so into that. He likes to dominate. Barf turns wolves on too, I’m sure. When my dog was a puppy, he used to lick up my cat’s barf until I taught him not to. He stops to smell barf when we’re walking, and I yank on his leash to keep him moving. He likes getting his leash yanked while he smells barf. Just kidding! Even my dog isn’t as sick as the freaks who pester me.

John’s in the hospital again. He calls from the pay phone asking me to come visit. I decide to go because I know no one else will. Plus, he wants cigarettes. I feel so bad for people who are locked up and can’t smoke. I take cigarettes to both friends and exfriends. I make exceptions. I feel bad enough for John because his main pleasure happens to be one that bothers other people. I try so hard to find pleasures I can keep to myself. Even things you do alone, like getting drunk, can rub people the wrong way. It’s just a matter of how far you take it.

John’s hospital room is the same one another friend of mine stayed in. It’s so fucked. The room is too tiny. I ask John to walk out into the hall with me, but he won’t get off the bed. He keeps asking me to sit down. I tell him I’d rather stand. Finally, I just sit so he’ll talk about other things. We stare at the walls together, and I wonder what pills he’s taking. He’s still obsessing over me, but he’s not shouting or cussing. He blinks a lot, like his eyes are dried out. He reaches over and puts his hand on my leg.

“Don’t,” I say.

He takes his hand away. His meds are working. Before, it was like he was deaf. He’s still freaking out, but not in such an oblivious way. I hate this hospital.

“How long do you have to be in here?” I ask.

His eyes open wide. “What do you want from me?” he asks.

“Nothing, I just came to give you smokes and say hi.”

“Why are you asking me so many questions?” he asks.

“I only asked one,” I say. It feels so great that we’re having a real conversation, a linear one with Q & A. I like arguing when the argument makes sense.

“Are you allowed to go outside?” I ask.

“Hey, I like your tits,” he says. He looks sadly at the floor, already knowing what will happen next.