The Little
A short story from my forthcoming novel “The Desert Road of Night.”
This is part one of chapter 23, The It Girl, from the novel The Desert Road of Night.
April 12, 1997
Sylvia was hesitant to leave her apartment, but the clutter and the smell of what now felt like a cramped cell pushed her out the door to face the specter of death.
She was hesitant to make that walk in the cold drizzle to the memorial service, where her agent had pressed her to attend without an invite. The agent told Sylvia, “No one calls anyone out at these things, anyway. So just remember: always smile and act like you know—like you belong.”
To get her agent to continue returning her calls, Sylvia had to do as she was told and act like she knew Irwin Goldbook—the Departed—who had passed away a week earlier. She had to act like she wasn’t disgusted by the Departed’s personal life—his personal stances—despite admiring his work and the bravery it took for him to live a life that seemed to have left him with no regrets. But still, Sylvia wondered at what point his chicken-hawk1 ways would rightfully overshadow his work, so that instead of being known as the man who, through his poems, challenged censorship laws in the 1950s, he would be known more for being a member of NAMBLA.2
Sylvia wanted to turn back and return to her cell of a room—where she could play her cassette tape, worn down by years of replaying the songs recorded on it—to listen to Pat Benatar, over and over on loop, sing the lyrics to Hell Is for Children. While singing along, Sylvia would strip naked, take the knife she kept beneath her mattress, and drag it across the surface of her body, marred with the invisible scars all children who have been through hell carry in silence.
In the cell of her room, where the clutter no longer felt like the bars of a prison but the armor that protected her—surrounding her like the shell of her beloved dead turtle, Kalpa—Sylvia would listen to the song and toy with the knife until something in her no longer felt the fear she had carried since she was a little girl. That same fear had her hiding in the dark corner of a foster home until Constance the Matriarch came through and slayed the monsters who had become her captors, scooping Sylvia up—baby doll still in hand—and racing out of there.
Sylvia would play another song from a worn-down cassette she had made in college, comprised solely of the ticking clock, the drums, and the chimes in the intro to Time by Pink Floyd. She would grab that same baby doll—the one that had been cared for by her best friend, Reginald Superstar, while Sylvia had been in the blur at the peak of her addiction—and hug the doll like it was her child who had just turned thirty years old. Then, Sylvia would throw herself against her books, strewn across the floor, and cry. And cry. And cry.
So, to avoid that—to not go back to her apartment, to not see Kalpa’s tank—its emptiness a glaring example of death but also a reminder, just as Kalpa had been for years a reminder of the rarity of life—Sylvia kept walking along East 10th Street.
As she continued her walk under the bleak skies, beneath the drizzle that dotted her hair and became drops clinging to the clumps of her blowout like dew on stalks, Sylvia began to repeat to herself over and over: “I am the miracle. I am the miracle. I am the miracle. I’m meant to be here. I’m meant for more.”
Because of the hundreds of times she had walked from her apartment with Andrés to Strand Books on Broadway—near where the memorial service was being held—she continued walking along East 10th Street with her eyes closed. It was at Strand Books that they would spend hours browsing books together in a silence that would make her, at that moment, whisper to herself, “Shantith.”
It was a peace she missed.
It was a familiarity that made her feel safe; to have him home, in bed, meant she didn’t need the knife under her bed because Andrés would be there, always ready to fight—to protect—to defend what she had made his: her soul.
It was that hunger to feel oneness, borne out of silence, that almost made her keep walking toward Strand Books instead of stepping into the front courtyard of St. Mark’s Church-in-the-Bowery, crowded with people heading into the event.
Her agent, standing under a red umbrella in the drizzle, rushed up to Sylvia and yelled, “You’re late.”
Before Sylvia could respond, the agent grabbed her by the hand and yanked her into the crowd moving inside. She sat next to the agent as the memorial began. Each speaker came to the podium and shared a story or memory about the Departed before sitting back down. To Sylvia, it felt intrusive—like she was violating something sacred within the circle of friends who took turns speaking. She didn’t understand how this memorial was supposed to be the networking opportunity her agent had claimed it would be, not until the last speaker left the podium and people began milling about. They laughed and talked about their work. For those who shared a connection to the Departed but didn’t know each other well, they exchanged business cards and numbers, saying, “Let’s collab.”
Something about that made Sylvia want to burst into tears.
Would her death, whenever that comes, be just another excuse for people to get together, make small talk, and exchange numbers—all to set up collaborations that would lead to more attention for their creative work?
No!
Sylvia vowed to herself that when the moment of her death comes—crossing that boundary between the Land of the Alive and the Land of the Not-Alive—she will have already stipulated in her will, as her last wishes, that there should be no service, no funeral, no memorial. For all she cared, her ashes could be tossed off a bridge into the deep, so that any river below could take what’s left of her and make it part of the Earth. Her body would live on that way—as sediment among the rocks beneath the cool waters, flowing from the source to the depths of the ocean.
The agent snapped a finger in Sylvia’s face, bringing her back to the moment. “Wait here… I see someone I need to say hi to.”
Before Sylvia could respond, the agent shot up from her chair and raced over to an older man, whom Sylvia recognized as someone well-known in New York’s literary scene. He wore a dark blue blazer and slacks with an open-collar white dress shirt, signaling to the crowd that he was wealthy, whereas others were merely rich. He had power, whereas others had influence. He was someone who could open doors for anyone, and after the agent pointed Sylvia out to him, he sauntered over and grabbed her thigh, squeezing hard as he lowered his old-man body into the seat next to her. His old-man whiskers protruded from his ears, and age spots dotted his wrinkled, translucent, soft hands that felt like they had never worked a day in his life—hands that now squeezed her thigh, uninvited.
Sylvia shot up, crying and screaming. She ran into the courtyard. The agent followed, grabbing Sylvia’s shoulder from behind. Sylvia swung around, punched her, knocking her to the ground. She knelt, coming face-to-face with the agent, who looked back like a terrified little mouse.
“You’re trying to pimp me out?” Sylvia yelled, hitting her again. “I’m not the fucking one.”
And with one last punch to the nose, Sylvia terminated her contract with the agent. She raced out of the courtyard and across the street to a coffee house. She rushed in with her face to the floor, acting like she was just another person coming in for a cup of coffee. The more she tried calming down, the more her mind raced with intrusive thoughts, trying to convince her—after having been fondled—that maybe sobriety wasn’t such a big deal.
She had been happier high because, at least in the midst of heroin bliss, she was numb. She wouldn’t know about the monsters who could make not just men, but anyone with a semblance of power, abuse it—because they were weak. Because they knew nothing of respect, of trust, of the Dance, where the charm of a lover—the songs of an Orpheus—could help bring out the Little still hidden in the dark corner of her being. Coaxing her from her hiding spot to show her true self, to give herself in a trust so deep—in a love so powerful, so strong—that she would surrender her knife and ask her one and only to drag it lightly across her body, so that something in her was no longer scared.
That’s when the tapping of a microphone in the corner of the coffee house made her look up, finally aware of her surroundings, and see her One standing there:
Andrés.
In that moment of the long stare, with her mind constantly moving and racing, she understood: what once seemed impossible now made sense. If they were truly each other’s one, surely fate would conspire for them to meet again.
It was written in the stars.
Recognizing what could possibly be at play, she buried every intrusive thought; she mustered everything in her to hold back the Little in her that wanted to run up to him, tell him everything that happened across the street, and point out the monsters that tried taking advantage of her. She wanted to watch how the Big in Andrés would dispense justice, the same way she suspected he had with Caleb years before.1
If this was fate at play, she had to bury everything and act like all was well. Smile. Smile with everything she had—tap into the joy of what could be the day of their ultimate union—the return to her Purple Room—the launch into Space3—the bliss found in the posture where her heart would meld into his, and his face would press against her chest, and they would become One.
Yes.
On what could be the day remembered as the turning point of her life—changing it—she would not want it to end before it began, with an old man being carried on a stretcher into an ambulance and Andrés hauled away in handcuffs because he had to protect what the Little in Sylvia made his.
Her everything.
Want more? My Instagram isn’t where I write, but it’s where I share the images, music, and moments that shape the stories I tell. If you’re into the culture, the vibe, and the history behind these worlds, follow me @viktor.e.mares.
Also, my novel The Desert Road of Night, which explores many of the themes in my short stories, poems, and personal essays like this one, is available for preorder on Amazon.
Chicken hawks are older gay men who prey on upon younger, more vulnerable, gay men.
This has been documented and is undoubtedly true.
Referring to the Subspace experienced by those who have consented to act out scenes within their play, the exchange of power typically induces a trance-like euphoria of overtly intense emotions. To get there, there must be an established level of trust between lovers that goes beyond the ordinary, and it shouldn't be attempted by anyone who is ruled by anger and ego.