UGLY BEAUTY
by George Sparling

Dan drove to the convenience store opposite the county jail, though he had not been in Eureka since his marriage. The backs of his scorched hands hurt but two codeine tablets staunched most of the pain. He bought two pints of Old Crow, asking for separate bags.

Hard liquor took a few chugs getting used to, but Dan drank as he drove through the streets of Old Town. He constantly saw hookers and homeless, as if they might stalk him forever. Finally, too intoxicated to drive anymore, he parked on a dead end street near the bay.

He staggered out of the Toyota, one foot sliding on loose gravel, nearly falling onto his face. A bulbous-nosed man, whip in hand, the driver of a horse and carriage only tourists rode to see the historic sights, gave him a withering stare. Dan walked past an art gallery, and wobbled across the street to a nearby vacant lot. The grassy, weedy area seemed like a free-ranging field to soused Dan. This time of day winds blew off the bay, making him wish he had worn more than a windbreaker. He traipsed upon soggy ground, making his way through knee-high, wet grass. Well-being sheathed him, enshrining his body. He looked down at what appeared to be a low rock or slab, and veered toward it. He could barely walk, and tumbled down butt first.

The earth beneath him tossed violently, and he humped through the air, lurching until his sorry ass sprawled onto a matted, rain-misted clearing. Nearly vomiting from the rough, brusque ride, an arm throttled his neck, and a leg wrapped tightly around his waist. The unknown force pulled him down. Then that awful stench: The Red Dragon�s mouth in the Book of Revelation? But Dan had had enough of evangelicalism. A hand ran a long blade across his neck, grazing his pale Adam�s apple. Maybe his death was particular, debuting with a little missing thyroid cartilage.

�Don�t go messing with my stuff,� a voice warned him.

A head covered with a black poncho bore down on him, Dan too weak for resistance. Inside the folds of hooded raingear, he saw three blue tattoo dots within a sliver circle. Looking upward, a broken nose frightened him, signifying belligerence. His assailant�s knees weighed heavily upon his shoulders, pinning him down. A brief release of pressure, he then slipped free, throwing his arms across his face.

�I don�t want anything,� he shouted, �I just need a place to drink whisky.�

The adversary set him loose, and plopped next to him, their bodies slightly touching. The hood quickly was pulled back: a woman looked at him. She was mean and scared.

�Well, let me have some joy juice too,� she said. He handed her the remaining pint.

Their heads bumped. Close, he smelled halitosis, exhaling before she guzzled from the pint. Giving it back, slobber covered the lip, but he placed his mouth around the opening, and drank. Her pinkie finger missed two digits.

�This your spot?� Dan asked.

�Nah, it�s anybody�s,� she said. �Me and Mickey stay here sometimes, but he�s in the ten-million dollar hotel.� She jerked her thumb in the direction of the jail.

�Is he coming out soon?� Fighting them both at once was unthinkable.

�In a few months,� she said, rearranging the spittle on the bottle. �Just a little redneck cocaine possession was all.�

�You do that?� He was not shocked, more like calculating her danger.

�Yeah. What else you going to do? Gets boring after a while.� She spread her legs apart, a wide gash in her jeans revealing a dark hairy calf. Claire shaved when daylight streamed through the front windows, never missing a follicle.

�You sleep in the rain?� Dan asked.

�No, I stay in that Airstream over there,� again gesturing behind her. She gave him the bottle, and he took two swallows, slowly comprehending the sarcasm.

�I didn�t mean it that way.�

�I know. I sleep sometimes at the mission, or in a room when I�m tricking.� She brushed her sodden hair, watching his reaction. She enjoyed his flinch. It was better than she expected.

�Keeps you out of the rain, tricking,� he said, trying not to falter.

She pulled a small plastic bag from her backpack and held it in front of his eyes.

�Matanuska Thunderfuck,� she said, emphasizing each syllable like a professional newscaster might. �Want some?� She stuck her nose into the open bag. �Mmm,� she hummed, winking at him.

�What�s that?� He finished off the bottle, and then flung it away like a hand grenade.

�I call it that when tourists want to score,� she said, howling with laughter.

�I�m no tourist,� he said. Dan felt indignant: the price of random encounters. �I�ve lived in McKinleyville with a wife and two kids.�

�Married, hey,� she said. �Looks like you�re a street urchin to me.�

�Claire took the kids and left me yesterday.� He wanted to bolt, get into the truck and buy another pint.

�Mighty strong cojones, this weed.� She grinned, then rolled two joints, sucking both in her mouth, handing him one. The Scourge of Satan, marijuana. A church deacon, Dan nevertheless inhaled. After five tokes, he had never gone deeper.

He became aware of her unpleasant face, its acne vulgaris, how she must have compelled johns to savage her residual beauty, to reinvent her. Dan soon found himself plunging between her legs, no different than all the others. He dug into her, she heaving up her wide hips. He felt the damp grass beneath him, its dankness rising between them. Thrusting harder, a vehicle honked and a bunch of teenagers yelped. A breeze tickled his bare buttocks, and he let go, ohhhing. They lay quietly and soppy until sunset.

�Get off me, brother-man,� she said. �How about buying me a meal?� She cleaned herself off with a red bandana. Dan knelt, buckling himself up. His hands hurt again. He looked at them close up. Last night at three A.M., he pushed his hands palms up on the iron top of a smoldering, wood-burning stove. With a Coleman lamp, shadows fluttering off the walls, he observed blisters, both white and red. Dan smiled at his masterpiece.

They entered a coffeehouse. A young goateed guy peered at them as he cleaned the espresso machine. She requested a key to the bathroom. He studied her, then pointed to a hook, the key attached to a ladle. She stayed inside the washroom for fifteen minutes.

Dan watched the clock on the wall. Even Claire never took so long. Then: his turn. He would not gaze into the mirror, though he had done so since high school dating. Had this strange woman dared looking into the mirror? He thought not.

�I�ve got more than the munchies going on,� she said. �Let�s get some real cuisine.�

�Where?� How had she known he had money? Maybe the Tommy Hilfiger jeans Claire bought for him or his turquoise ring set in gold.

She led the way to a fancy Italian restaurant. They sat with candles flickering at a back booth. Before the menus came, she told him her name: Beth. They ordered garlic pepper prawns and Carpaccio, smoked salmon ravioli, veal parmigiana, and Italian rum cake for dessert, plus carafes of house wine.

�Who are you?� she asked. �I mean, what�s your government name?� He told her, then explained what he had done. She saw his hands, the dressings tinged with blood. Gently, Beth peeled each partially off. She touched corrugated flesh. He drew back his hands.

�Third degree burns go under the skin,� he said. �At least that�s what the nurse told me at the clinic.� He adjusted the disturbed wounds.

�Trading war stories time, hey,� she said, throwing her head back, guffawing. �A drunk-ass john said he wanted a quickie, the usual handjob, but he hacks off my pinkie finger, throws $20 on the bed, and leaves.�

�A real chart-topper,� he said. The lost art of scoffing returned.

�That Buck knife I almost skinned you with was his,� Beth said.

�You have real class.� He hated himself for that remark. But it was a nice setup.

�What do you mean?� she asked. Meryl Streep had class. A weed gal, Beth.

�You didn�t say, �What goes around comes around,�� he said.

�I should�ve said awesome,� she responded, �and it wouldn�t be tripping either.�

After finishing their meals, Dan paid with a Visa check card. They walked where the street lights ended, getting into the pickup. She dug around her blue work shirt pocket, retrieving aluminum foil. She unrolled the packet and pulled out a tight, thick joint. Lighting up, it glowed away the night. She inhaled silently, head tilted back, slowly breathing in.

�Try it,� Beth said, placing it in front of his face.

�It smells strange.� Not odor, but style told him that.

�It�s pot and heroin.� He waved it away. �Don�t have to be criminal to do it.� He took a drag, feeling its heat draw her closer to him. And another small hit: his hands hurt no more. Beth took the A-bomb from him, inhaled, and passed it back. He sucked its Zanadu. A fishery shed looked like a blank TV screen through the windshield.

�Feel like Jesus,� he said, either a command or statement, he could not be sure.

The hushed night pried speech from him. Baaba Maal�s music, Spike Lee discussing film, Spaulding Gray�s monologues: he had attended the local university�s theatre many times. He joined a fundamentalist church, leaving that world behind.

�I took art classes there,� she said. �Couldn�t shoot crystal and paint, so I quit.�

�Jesus,� he murmured. They passed the A-bomb back and forth.

Dan rolled down the window, and she turned down hers. They shivered. Right then he cursed the broken dashboard radio: he wanted the volume cranked with music. Beth touched his hands, brought the suppuration to her face, and rubbed it into her skin.

�To find yourself you need the most possible freedom to drift,� Beth stated. Dan started the engine, made a slow U-turn, soon heading north on 101. Afghan heroin scented the cab. They drove past the university exit. Headlights cleaved the darkness.

�How come?� He took a toke. She reached over, dropping the roach down her craw.

�What kind of a question is that?� she asked. �The instructors liked my work, that�s how come.�

�About drifting, I mean,� Dan said.

�Francis Bacon said that.�

�Who�s he?�

�Painter,� she said. �Life�s meaningless. We should make ourselves extraordinary.�

Dan saw Beth pick her cheekbone, pressing a forefinger to stop the pus.

�What did you say?�

�That�s his philosophy. Mine too, I guess.�

�What did he paint?�

�Armchairs of meat,� she said. Dan watched 101 recede in the rear-view mirror. Funny, no traffic came from the north. Where were people tonight?

�We�re alone out here,� he said.

�I�d like to give it another shot,� she said. �Painting, I mean.�

McKinleyville was quiet. He pulled into the dark driveway. Even the usually loud neighbors were still. She grabbed her backpack. They emerged from the truck, and walked into the empty house. He flicked on the overhead light when they entered the living room.

�Look at me,� she said, dropping the pack at her feet. Her arms flopped down at her sides. He stood inches from her face under the glare of three hundred-watt bulbs. He saw every pore.

�You can live and paint here,� he said, curious that clarity arrived with light no less than darkness.

� George Sparling
Reproduced with permission

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